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Here's a short excerpt from the first story in my recently published collection of short stories “From Dusk to Dawn.” Thunder rumbled solemnly in the distance. The ashen clouds overhead briefly flickered to life as foreboding silhouettes of pending doom. These dreadful omens punctuated the fleeting moments of their final days, with the last flecks of sand draining from eternity’s hourglass.
The family huddled together, clinging to what little warmth the dying embers of their fire still provided them, as the sky itself seemed to voice displeasure at the outcome of human affairs. Those lightly flickering cinders were all that remained of a fallen civilization. The world itself crumbled slowly around them, and still, they clung to one another as fractured pillars, themselves fated to crumble.
The nations of the world cast their lots in the days leading up to this. They fought for control, each justified in their cause, until not but a cascade of destruction lingered in their wake. This penultimate climax spread worldwide, reaching the shores of every continent until even Mother Nature herself turned traitor. What remained thereafter were the scorched remains of countless civilizations, churned out by their own double-edged sword.
Now, look upon this one meager and powerless family, with the clock ticking ever closer to their final moments. The light and warmth fades from the ashes strewn before them, and so too are their own souls laid barren as empty husks without reason. These bystanders played no role of importance in the falsehoods that brought them over that precipice, and yet they share the same fate as those generals, marching their troops along the blood-soaked trenches of the final crusade.
Time and time again, through the history of the human condition, the people of the world find themselves bound by a thin strand of fate. Now, those fibers grow thin and tattered. This end, long foreshadowed, belongs to all who walk beneath that shared sky. None will escape this loosely bound disparity.
The dying flame lit upon the face of a father who knows the truth. His two children sit on either side of him, shivering and desperate for the days of warmth.
Henry was alone with the children now. His wife, Meredith, drew her last breath seven days prior. She contracted what they regarded as “The Sickness.” He could see her still, in his mind’s eye, as her body convulsed and twisted in ways that seemed humanly impossible. The memory of her screams lingered with him even in the face of his own impending death.
The pollution that spread, as the final wave of the last great battle drew to a close, carried The Sickness in its wake. Those in the vicinity of the booming concerto that ushered the fall of man contracted The Sickness before the greater populace grew wary of its looming threat. Soon, a murky miasma reached even peaceful shores, and a relentless spree of suffer-ing befell those most susceptible to the toxin. Those afflicted were ravaged by painful fits, and their bodies contorted and disintegrated in on themselves. They always welcomed death’s cold embrace in the end.
(For more of this story, and thirteen others just like it, check out "From Dusk to Dawn," and I'm open for any feedback you have to offer.)
Mod
I would like to read the book sometime. Would you like to be featured on our site next June? Do PM me for more details.
Hi fellow New Authors. My next free verse poetry memoir - The New Asylum - will be released towards the end of the year. This one will journey through childhood interactions with the mental hospital in the town, through student psychiatric nursing, acute psychiatry, management, and back to long term rehabilitation.
It's quite a tale, I think.
I'm wondering if there are any bloggers or interviewers in other media who might be interested in hosting an interview or some discussion with me about the collection as it comes closer to publication time?
I don't think you are likely to encounter anything quite like this anywhere else, and I'd be delighted to participate by contributing to your work, in turn.
Any interest in ARC copies for review is, of course, also welcome.
Please PM me if interested.
Mod
We miss your Haiku Frank. Do keep posting them for us.
Hi Frank. Really good to see you.Bernard does post the occasional poem for us. We appreciate rhymes at all times.
Bradley wrote: "We miss your Haiku Frank. Do keep posting them for us."It's good of you to say so, bradley. Not really haiku. Just meant to keep a 17 syllable, 3 line structure.
Glad you enjoyed them. My personal preference is for free-form 17 syllable pieces, rather than mimicking haiku, but sometimes we need to stick to the familiar.
Grasshopper wrote: "That's a very interesting concept Frank. I'm sure you would find interested parties. Could you elaborate more on the interview blog? Is it text or video? We could appreciate it if you could post a ..."It's interesting, GB. In my Blog travels I have encountered quite a few authors and bloggers who either host guest bloggers to write an article on their site, or who coordinate an online interview. Not dissimilar to the interviews you conduct here from time to time.
I will be participating in a number of these in coming months, I think, but am always keen to encounter new hosts and new audiences, to allow them to get to know me, and ultimately my work.
For my own blog, I'm cleaning up a recorded 'live reading' that I did at a Library appearance a few days ago and may post the session there in 2 or 3 pieces (it runs over an hour).
I also am thinking of posting a series of informational articles, I suppose you'd call them, about mental institution life as a lead up to releasing the poetry collection.
The collection is still a few months away from being in book form, but I am creating my ARC list now and would be happy to include folk from here that are interested in reading/reviewing when it's ready.
Catherine wrote: "Welcome back Frank."Cheers, Catherine. never far away.
Busy as, though.
Beatrice wrote: "Hi Frank. Really good to see you.Bernard does post the occasional poem for us. We appreciate rhymes at all times."
Hi Beatrice. I'm not much of a rhymer, I'm afraid. Very much free verse storytelling from me.
I've been writing in response to photographic images a lot, lately and don't feel inclined to post without access to the picture. Plenty of them at my blog, though, as I post at least daily. Currently pursuing a poem-A-Day as a project. The last one project of the sort went 15 months and I'm still happy with the work that resulted, so it's a worthwhile exercise, I think.
An excerpt from Devil In The Wind. This is a fair representation of my writing style, I think.Callignee Butterflies
butterflies have always lived
in our meadow
you can see them moving
everywhere you turn
in little flits
out of the corner of your eye
on this land we cleared
to make our home
they’re as much a part
of every small thing
as we are
on black saturday
we might have gone
or might have stayed
there was nothing
to give us advice
better than our eyes
fixed on the thick smoke
at the back
of the hill
when the air turned still
around us
it could have meant anything
in that eerie silence
who would know
but ten tiny wraiths
fluttered to the floor
of our lounge room
looking for safety
down as low as they could get
and when the emptiness
started to roar we knew
we’d better start running
it was time to go
~
This is an excerpt from my first title, Through the Psyche of Ambrosia. Cheers!"In the garden I stand amongst the trees and the flowers. Bare back as laid out upon the grassy knoll she awaits there for me now. Atop a bed of lotus blossoms, within a wall of roses and violets held she waits. A light breeze settles in against the angle of my naked continuity, and I am whole as one inside.
So she rolls her body round, like some delicate feather blown on the wind, to conceal the gentle back contour and reveal a frontal nudity that would make beauty itself ache with the need, thick within the throes of jealously for having to so unwillingly surrender over the crown.
It is in there that you find paradise, and it seems she too knows me by name of a gaze gaping, and notwithstanding but a single care towards the awareness of my steady on-looking fixation. It is the stare sewing in the seeds of an awestruck wonder for what the mystics deemed necessary, and the melody of majesty aligned in plenary ordinance; a precious passing moment of collective cornucopia & blessed union of soul where all planetary constellation come together to marvel around the bringing of such a fair existence about.
And what combination was that of the raw material splendour used to create this mould casting gone asunder beyond its one successful flight attempt to seize hold the sky and bottle it, never to be used again? Beholding it is to clasp the all consuming essence of longing in your pass, to wield command over the power of the cosmos with the skilled hands of lovers’ chaste holding. It is that which instills a life, a capture of Elysia off the edge of insanity refined, and that’s brilliance bled out by any design."
Through the Psyche of Ambrosia: Part I
Through the Psyche of Ambrosia: Part II
PM me if interested in getting a free copy in exchange for an honest review!
Mod
Mod
Callignee Butterflies
butterflies have always lived
in our meadow
you can see them moving
everywher..."
I have marked your book as to be read ages ago Frank. Good to see the excerpt too.
This is a great idea, thanks, Grasshopper. Personally, I find the whole review gathering process quite nebulous. The following excerpt is from my crime-thriller, Pigs, published by the Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency.https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1...
The big bad wolf wore a navy single-breasted suit and black tie. His line of work tended to get messy, so he avoided the more formal double-breasted suits in favour of off-the-rack tailoring. The disposable surgical gloves stretched taut over his strong slender fingers had originally been white; now they were stained with red and black poppies. One hand wielded a pair of fiendishly painful pliers, the other daintily held the freshly pulled fingernail of Lou MacKinnon’s right ring finger.
‘Give me the names,’ the wolf repeated, his deep baritone voice patient and neutral behind the mask of latex and black faux fur. ‘Who else was involved in that job? Who set it up?’
Huffing and panting from the ongoing ordeal, MacKinnon watched his brutaliser stand there in the harsh light of the barn through two swollen eyes, and once again attempted to dodge the question by feigning confusion and ignorance. He was now down to seven fingernails, or so he guessed. It had become difficult to distinguish the blistering heat of each sensory outrage at this point, and he had become lost in a confusing, pulsing throb of pain, the current tally of misery consisting of two plier-pried incisors, his right canine, multiple bodily contusions and various shallow, stinging cuts that cried out with every thump of his stressed heart. Behind this stranger with the rubbery snarl stood a line of similarly cheap-suited men, wearing rubber pig masks with some truly gruesome detail, a militant army of slaughtered swine led by their toothy apex executioner.
The wolf-headed inquisitor, unsatisfied with his subject’s stubbornness, leaned in close, his shoulder blocking MacKinnon’s view. MacKinnon’s uncooperative attitude was crumbling proportionately with the systematic ravaging of his body, and yet his blood-engorged tongue, quivering behind his remaining crimson teeth, only surrendered an indeterminate plea which morphed into another screech of agony, bouncing off the weathered brick walls and timber beams of the empty cattle barn.
Silently, the wolf backed away softly, and through tear-filled eyes MacKinnon noticed that he held something up like it was some important clue. It was his own right index finger, severed at the first knuckle. It would never pull another trigger, never caress a hot piece of ass or skim through a bundle of green backs. Unsurprisingly, he noted, there were some physical traumas which could still rise above his more comparatively trifling wounds, his missing nails and teeth briefly forgotten whilst his stump gushed. The wolf tossed the crooked digit into the bucket of slowly accumulating bloody pieces.
McKinnon thrashed against the coarse ropes binding him to the rough wooden chair’s armrests, blanching a shade below bleached bone as he watched another warm, rhythmic jet spritz from his knuckle stump, barely missing the wolf’s polished black leather shoes. He was done – he couldn’t hold out any longer macabrely wondering how much of him would fit in that pail. It was amazing he had lasted this long. He was a part-time thief, not one of the hardened leg-breakers he regularly rubbed shoulders with, but when the only true deterrent against spilling secrets is the threat of violence, it quickly loses its power in the presence of actual violence.
‘Okay,’ he begged, his naked body hot and sweating profusely in its agonies, so much so that the nightly chill sinking deep into his bones was incapable of offering any further discomfort. Gagging on his own copper-zinged blood, he gobbed it out like thick red wine. ‘I’ll give you the names.’ Between his racking sobs and pouring tooth sockets, speech was messy work. ‘I’m dead either way.’
The wolf nodded quietly, dispassionately, at the captive’s accurate assessment of his situation.
Afterwards he speed-dialled a number whilst one of the slain pigs in suits placed the cold muzzle of a semi-automatic pistol against the base of MacKinnon’s skull and splashed his dreams, fears and any other secrets he harboured across the hay-strewn muddy concrete.
‘He sang, sir. We have the names.’ The wolf obediently listened to his following orders then hung up.
It was feeding time.
Mod
Hi C.A. Nice excerpt.Sounds like a family saga. Have marked as to be read✓
Mod
Thanks Daniel. I find getting reviews tiring and vague too. However, they are a necessary evil and must be borne.😅 review to follow...
Mod
Unusual excerpt Daniel. We haven't had such detailed violent descriptions here before. Hope your book has a non PG rating! I have marked your book as to be read for its sensational quality.
Here's an excerpt from my book,His Name Was Zach, I hope you enjoy it!“Hey, look!” Abby whispered, pointing down the street at a gas station with a mini-mart. “I bet they’ve got some stuff,” she said.
They quickly but quietly made their way into the parking lot of the gas station and peered through the big, broken windows of the convenience store.
“Wait here,” said Zach as he entered through the broken front door, rifle at the ready and the safety disengaged. He glided over to the checkout counter and checked behind it. Nothing. He moved to a door marked ‘Employees only’ and pushed it open. Nothing. He checked the bathroom next. Nothing. Finally, he moved to the last door, but this ended up being a back door out of the mini-mart. He waved Abby inside.
“Looks like there’s a fair amount of stuff in here,” Zach said quietly, daring to speak a little louder now. “Let’s just grab the essentials, and then we can leave.” They split up as Zach carefully lifted up one of the fallen shelves. He managed to find three cans of Bush’s Baked Beans underneath it. He set his ruck down and stuffed these into it. Abby had wandered into the ‘Employees only’ area, looking for anything useful in there.
Zach went into the next aisle over, the last one before the wall of refrigerators, and found himself looking at the magazine section of the store. The shelves had the usual assortment of periodicals: news, sports, gossip, health, cars. Zach picked up an old Sports Illustrated and thumbed through it. He felt a wave of nostalgia, looking at those pictures: a running back cradling the ball in one hand while stiff-arming a defender with the other, a golfer dramatically pumping his fist after sinking a difficult chip shot for an eagle, and a basketball player contorting his body in mid-air to avoid the defenders as he tries to make a lay-up.
He slid this magazine back where it belonged, but his eyes caught a familiar, tantalizing title: Playboy. He glanced over his shoulders to make sure Abby wasn’t near him and then grabbed the magazine. The cover featured a gorgeous red-headed woman wearing a pair of skimpy black panties. She was holding her bra teasingly in one hand while covering her breasts with her other. He opened the magazine to the first page and found the gorgeous red-head was now taking no such modest precautions regarding her breasts. As he flipped through page after page of erotic pictures, he had a rather morbid thought. “I wonder if any of these girls ended up as zombies,” he asked himself.
“Just the essentials, huh?” Abby asked with an accusatory tone of voice. Zach looked up suddenly to see her standing next to him, arms folded across her chest.
“Oh, uh, I was just, uh-” he stammered. Abby just looked at him with one eyebrow raised, not saying anything. Zach finally shrugged his shoulders in defeat and said, “Come on. I’m just a guy.”
Abby smirked and shook her head. “I know. I’m just teasing. I don’t care if that’s really what you want to bring,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“No, I was just looking at it,” Zach replied.
“Mhmm,” Abby said.
Mod
I recently published the second book of my trilogy, The Uncrowned Queen, and those who have read it so far have all told me they fell in love with the foul-mouthed unicorn, who was briefly mentioned in the first book. So, I thought I'd share her introduction in this book.“What the vacking bloody hell are you arseheads shyting on about?” The voice was deep and grumbling, and came from behind the crowd. “Vacking move, would you? Bootlicking mothervackers.”
Doyle groaned as the crowd parted, several of them grinning, to reveal a unicorn unlike any Jen had seen in movies. Jen blinked in surprise; this must be Hisaar. Doyle had told her about the unicorn who served as the Tayamu historian and combat trainer, and how he’d learned to swear from her, but this was about the last thing Jen would have ever expected a unicorn to look like.
Aside from the horse-like body and long, shimmering horn protruding from the forehead, nothing else about Hisaar fit Hollywood’s idea of a unicorn. Her body wasn’t white at all, nor was it the black sometimes used in fantasy novels. It was striped like a zebra’s, but the color combination was bright and garish: purple and yellow. The stripes on her body slowly changed colors, going to a mixture of greens and browns.
Ellie gasped. “Am I seeing things, or is that a rainbow-colored unicorn walking towards us?”
“That must be Hisaar,” Jen replied, “the Tayamu historian and combat trainer.”
Ellie raised her eyebrows. “I’ve heard about Hisaar, but nobody said anything about her being a unicorn! How did you know that and I didn’t?”
“Ali told me, back before we left Groverton.”
Ellie glared at him. “You told her about the unicorn, but you didn’t think to tell me?”
Jen shoved her shoulder. “Don’t even go there! How many things did you know before I did?”
“Exactly!” Ellie said, flinging her hands up. “He broke the streak!”
Hisaar was only a few feet away when she stopped walking. She stared at Doyle and Seaile, who stopped glaring at one another. Hisaar held her glare for several moments, and then spoke. “Now what the vack is your vacking problem, Seaile? Alistair did what he said he would do, and you’re vacking angry about it? And why the vack did Bar Truga suddenly drop the bloody vacking temperature on the vacking beach? Turn it the vack up, Bar Truga!” She stomped a hoof on the ground. “Welcome back, by the way, Alistair, you vacking arsehole. Hasn’t been the vacking
same without you around.”
Jen heard Jerry’s whisper to his wife. “Is vacking what I think it is?”
Kira sighed rather reluctantly. “Yes,” she said quietly. “It is the Kiamadan equivalent of that vile word you were once so fond of using.”
Jerry’s mouth broke into a wide grin. “I think I have a new favorite animal!” Kira elbowed him, and he chuckled.
Doyle inclined his head. “Hisaar. I’ve actually almost missed you. Rather like missing a hole in my head, but still missing you, right?”
The unicorn rolled her eyes and tossed her mane to the side. “Vack off.” Her mouth curled up at the corner. “Well, Seaile? Are you going to vacking tell me what all this vacking tension is about?”
Seaile held her hand out. “May I?” she asked. Hisaar tilted her head.
“Well, this shyte’s about to get interesting,” she said. “Go ahead.”
Seaile placed her hand on Hisaar’s forehead and stood quietly, her eyes closed. After a minute or so, she stepped away. Hisaar blinked once and exhaled. Jen watched in fascination as a light in the unicorn’s horn suddenly pulsed, then raced up and down for a moment before vanishing.
“Oh, you stupid vacking CHILDREN,” Hisaar said. She jabbed her horn in Seaile’s direction. “He vacking told you nine vacking years ago that he didn’t vacking love you, and you didn’t vacking believe him. That’s not his vacking fault, you vacking, arseheaded IDIOT!”
Jen glanced at Kira and Jerry and saw Kira’s mouth tighten. She remembered that Kira hadn’t liked Doyle swearing like Hisaar.
Jerry, however, had an expression of outright glee on his face. He looked like the proverbial child in a candy store, with unlimited funds and a bag of infinite space.
Hisaar spoke again. “You’ve had a poor vacking soul pining over you for vacking years, Seaile, but you were too vacking shyte-faced over Alistair leaving to pay any attention. Wake up, you arseheaded toddler!”
Doyle smiled, but the grin vanished when the unicorn wheeled on him. “And you, you vacking, rude, inconsiderate ARSEHOLE.” She kicked a leg at him, catching him in the shin. He flinched, but otherwise didn’t react. “You couldn’t find five vacking minutes to take Seaile aside and privately speak with her, instead of vacking humiliating her in front of her apprentice and the queen-sister?” Hisaar stomped her front hooves on the ground, rapidly switching back and forth. “I trained your vacking sorry arse better than that, didn’t I? Vack! Makes me want to stick my vacking horn up your vacking arse and rotate it!”
Thanks for sharing it with us Ben. Have marked this book as to be read.
Hi everyone, here is an excerpt from my novel on the life on Eastern European immigrants. I would be happy to send you a free copy for review, if you like what you see below. https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3...
1000 words excerpt from the novel:
Meanwhile, the dynamics of life in our household were evolving fast. Nansen hadn’t paid his rent for six weeks, having had no luck finding a job. For ages, he had fed himself from the fridge shelf of the kind-hearted Krasko brothers but the repatriation of his sponsors forced him to make new arrangements. His initial plan, just to carry on as before without the Kraskos, fell through after Lillian complained in front of everybody else that Nansen had been eating the dumplings from her lunchbox. So, about a week or so after Rahima moved in, he tried to seduce her, failed, and then realized all he could do was man up and save on the rent money (which he didn’t have anyway). The situation was saved when good old Armand found him a labourer’s position in a stroika on the far northern outskirts of London. Nansen spent his first week’s pay on a tent and some corned beef, and settled down in a park next to the site among the squirrels and birds. The job was literally on his doorstep and, most importantly, he had no rent to pay. Heaven on Earth. Our Nansen had become an eco-tramp or, as he liked to call himself in French, a clauchard.
One thing he hadn’t taken into account in calculating this perfect equation was the absence of easily accessible fresh running water, which was in direct ratio to the inevitability of getting mighty fragrant during the course of doing heavy construction work. On top of this, England is very well known to be a place where it rains on a frequent basis – and sometimes so fiercely that the natives have invented the scary expression ‘horizontal rain’ to describe it. This occurs when a downpour is driven horizontally by the wind so that the rain appears to be coming from the side, not from above. The tent, the sleeping bag, and eventually Nansen himself were all soon being seriously challenged by the rainstorms, damp, and varied microorganisms of Epping Forest. All he could do by way of fighting back was to visit friends who owned showers and washing machines.
While Nansen was camping and getting closer to nature, our little house on Lea Bridge Road witnessed another plot development. Vlad, one of the Ukrainians we shared with – a huge bloke somewhat akin to a gigantic baby with such big blue eyes that their childish stare was simply irritating – decided to be next to try to seduce Rahima.
He forged a plan that featured me in a big, I dare to say crucial, role. According to this plan, I had to find Vlad a job on my stroika in Baker Street, where he could master both the English language and the carpenter’s trade. His improved language skills would allow him to approach his beloved in a manner she understood, while the improved salary he earned with his trade skills would give him the financial means to impress her. In return, he promised to stay grateful to me to the end of his days. He would also take me to the pub at his expense.
The casual observer might detect a few vulnerable points in this plan. Vlad, for instance, had never so much as touched a hammer in his life. But let’s not forget, this is London and hey!, the whole of life is just a freaky poker game where kismet often prefers to deal different crap instead of fours and royals. And when you are an eastern European just trying to survive, your best approach is often to play for high stakes, even if kismet takes a piss and deals you chess pieces instead of cards in a pool tournament and according to backgammon rules. That’s how adaptive you have to be. To elaborate the point, I could also mention that in reality kismet almost never looks our way at all. When we show somebody our casino chips, they turn out to be photocopied, dog-eared, with fatty stains, won in the Russian national game gorodki, and rejectable by most standards.
Anyways... Vlad had asked for help, and I didn’t really see any reason to refuse him. If you really thought about it, there were no obstacles to Vlad becoming the same as me.
Or were there? Vlad was Vlad to me and to his mum, when he phoned back home. On the site, though, our Vlad magically transformed into Audis Boozerkevicus. This magical change was a consequence of the feeble attempts of the United Kingdom to keep Ukrainians, Russians, and other hungry folk away from their bulging lunchbox. Citizens of the Baltic States are currently leaders in this race for survival; at the moment we are allowed to work legally in most European countries, while those in countries further to the east stand holding onto the barbed wire fences, salivating. Those who lack the courage, that is. The bravehearts like Vlad sneak into Lotusland on tourist or student visas and then a) get married to somebody with the right citizenship (standard market price three thousand pounds); b) buy a Latvian or Lithuanian passport (cheaper, but illegal); or c) simply don’t give a crap and just do their best, hoping that their lack of language skills will prevent any unfortunate incidents. Vlad had chosen b). He had bought a Lithuanian passport in the name Audis Boozerkevicus and paid for it a sum which he refused to make known to the wider public.
It wasn’t easy to be a Boozerkevicus, since the photo wasn’t exactly like him. It wasn’t that the original Boozerkevicus was ugly or anything – our Vlad had bought only somebody’s passport, without changing the photo. On the day of purchase, he had convinced himself that he and the original owner looked so similar they could have been twins. However, when a real-life situation turned up in which the passport was to be used, he started to falter and wished he had paid the extra to get his own photo inserted, as it only cost extra fifty quid.
Your book and characters sound really interesting.
Mod
Thank you! Although larger than life, they are at least partially rooted in observable reality.
Thanks! If it doesn't keep you happy throughout, do tell me on what page you stopped, for quality monitoring purposes.
An excerpt from the first chapter of my novel, The Art of the Hunt. (https://www.goodreads.com/story/show/...)"Why is it so dark in here?"
Officer Henries makes a sour face. His nose shrivels up and his brow furrows like I have just insulted his pride and joy, of which I technically have. I've never seen Henries out of his office, apart from the cove and his patrol car, but his office suited him; dreary, weirdly decorated and oddly damp.
Cracks ran through the painted bricks on the walls, the empty fish tank chugging and making a group of small china pigs rattle as they sit on top of an empty fish tank. You can tell he cleans where he can reach, mould and spiderwebs draping down from the ceiling, and covering Henries offers me an old dining chair with termite-eaten legs, dropping into one of his own on the other side of a hardwood desk. His stomach spews from his waist and sags down the cliffs of his knees, crumbs from his shirt clattering down like rain onto the floor.
"Also, can I take the handcuffs off now? My wrists are getting sore."
---------------------------------------------------------+++---------------------------------------------------------
Aiming is always the most annoying part of shooting birds.
Pointing a destructive piece of metal at a small flying thing on the horizon demands the type of concentration that I have never had enough of. My mind will wander; down to the grains of coarse sand digging into my legs, up into the afternoon sky and its dog pile of setting colours. They wander past the sludge in the sea, they wander past the wattles on the bank, and then suddenly the sparrow is out my of sight before I can even pull the trigger.
But this time, I'm dead focused. This time, I'm ready.
My hands are white with calluses as I silently wait for the black silhouette to disappear behind the line of my rifle. I close my eyes tightly shut and pull back as a sharp bang ricochets off the sea breeze. The sparrow stops suddenly in mid air, as if life had been knocked out of each and every one of its feathers, and it tumbles down, down, down into the waves with a splash.
Burying my rifle in the sand, I wade into the waters to collect my prize. It isn't wriggling when I pick it up, a good sign that I won't need to do anything too ugly. My shot must be getting better. I hold the bird by its legs, wringing it out like a towel to rid of any bleeding. The emerald-blue turns a deep shade of red at my feet, swirling and curdling like an obscure kind of poison.
That's when she starts to squeal.
A girl my age had been fearfully watching from the top of the ramp the whole time, eyes glued to the bird as it fell down, down, down. I kick the bloody mess until the mixture evens out through the current, and thrash through the water to reach her. Her hair is a dark mass of curls that wave about like the 'after' picture of a shampoo commercial, her eyes a similar brown to her complexion. She's wearing the most ridiculous beach attire I've seen in my fifteen long years; Long, acid-wash jeans, a cropped hoodie covered in rhinestones and glittery pink sneakers. But for some reason, she seems far more horrified of me, my t-shirt and my bike shorts.
Maybe the lethal weapon was a bad touch.
"Evan?" she tilts her head, loosening her grip on the phone held to her ear. I suddenly remember her at the sound of her voice; her name is Isla Malika, and she's the head of charity for my grade. A quiet girl, but popular, smart and the most morale-driven person you could possibly be while surrounded by a school of petty, hormonal monkeys. She definitely has Officer Henries on speed dial.
"Its not what you think it is, Isla, I-"
"So you weren't just shooting defenseless animals with a potentially harmful, unlicensed weapon on public property?" She stares at my hands and wrinkles her nose in disgust.
"You think I don't have a license after that performance?" I reply, dropping the very unhappy bird headfirst into the sand, reaching into my backpack and handing her a small plastic card, my name in bold letters next to an emblem.
"Well its a bit late for that. I've called the local services, they're sending a cop down here now. He said he was on his lunch break. Very unhappy man."
This is the part where I would start insulting those ridiculous shoes of hers, but I've seen her in taekwondo posters around the school. I bet pink glitter is a ridiculously hard thing to wash out of your ass, so I keep my mouth shut as she kicks the carcass into a dense bush, slumping into a rusty iron bench.
Silence wafts through the air.
"I'm sorry about that Evan, I really am. The law is the law, so no hard feelings."
"Another word and I shoot you in the face"
"Got it" She replies, and we sit and wait for the sound of Officer Henries' van chugging into the Stanley Cove carpark.
Mod
That is one scary character description, and I've been hitting the gym ever since!
Congratulations on making me do what no man has ever done in while! ;)
Marking as to be read👌
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From my debut novel: The Dragon's Rising
Falkier pulled the sword from its scabbard, the weight foreign to his hand. If it really was a sword meant for him as the dream said, shouldn’t it be more comfortable to hold? The knuckle-bow on the thumb side of the hilt seemed out of place and close to unnecessary. Why make them bladed to begin with? The only time a bladed knuckle-bow would make sense is if you were hitting someone with it, and isn’t the point of a sword to keep a little more distance from your opponent?
Falkier would have other times to question how functional his Ancient-given weapon was for him, as the mustached man swung his sword at Falkier’s feet, causing him to step back out of the way, barely blocking the follow-up swing. He swung at the man, who easily parried and struck at Falkier’s leg. Clearly, he’d been trained in swordsmanship.
Falkier winced as the blade sliced across his thigh, blood soaking the leg of his trousers. He struck back, stabbing at the man’s stomach. The mustached man moved the blade out of the way with a flick of the wrist and smacked Falkier’s wrist with the flat of his blade. Falkier’s grip faltered for a second, but he recovered enough to pull his sword back in front of him. All the while, the mustached man watched him, smirking. Was he playing with Falkier? The man blocked Falkier’s next couple swings with ease, retaliating with a few nicks on Falkier’s arms and legs. This is pointless. He could kill me without breaking a sweat. He must need to take me in alive, so he’s just letting me wear myself out.
Falkier looked at the longsword in his hands, a supposed gift from heaven he was destined to wield. He was no great warrior, how could he ever do anything with this piece of metal. He couldn’t even find a comfortable way to hold it.
Touch the black gem in the pommel and say ‘Vatinp, yqab’ , a voice growled in his head. It was the voice from the woods before he blacked out.
Falkier obeyed, putting the fingers of his right hand on the pommel. Despite the freezing air around it, the gem felt slightly warm. “Vah-tinp, ee-cob?” Falkier said, the words feeling odd in his mouth. Whatever was supposed to happen, didn’t.
No! ‘Vatinp yqab!’ Say it with more confidence!
Falkier took a breath and focused. “Vatinp, yqab!”
Warmth flooded through Falkier’s body, and his wounds stopped bleeding. He watched in amazement as the sword transformed in his hand. The leather of the hilt took on a scaled appearance. The blade broadened into that of a falchion, the end becoming rounder and the top edge becoming blunted. The thumb-side knuckle-bow disappeared, while a hook grew downward from the hilt over the blunt edge. The hook bore a jagged edge that gave it an appearance resembling the jaw of some sort of carnivorous beast when paired with a matching adornment that extended along the bladed edge. Falkier’s eyes and mouth felt strange, almost like they were also going through some sort of transformation.
The mustached man’s eyes widened in terror. “Are you some sort of demon?” His stance quickly became more aggressive as he began striking at Falkier.
The newly-transformed sword felt easier to handle, and Falkier was able to protect himself, catching the man’s blade across the blunt edge. After a few more swings, Falkier managed to hook the man’s blade. He twisted his wrist and wrenched the sword out of the man’s hands. The sword clattered to the ground, and Falkier rushed him, punching the knuckle-bow that still remained on the bladed side of his sword into the man’s throat. The man wheezed as he collapsed to the ground. Falkier put the point of his sword to the man’s throat.
“So this is how you managed to kill six men on your own,” the man croaked. “Demon magic.”
“I was not alo-“
The man spat at Falkier. “Kill me, you worthless cheat. I would rather die than listen to you try to corrupt my ears with your lies.”
Falkier drew the sword back to deliver the final blow and stopped. He’d never killed anyone before. Swagin and Jofalk had already finished the other two men off and were rummaging through their possessions. He looked into the man’s eyes, defiant and prepared for what was to come. The sword descended, opening the man’s throat. Watching the man’s body collapse in a pool of blood, Falkier ran his tongue across his teeth and was surprised to find all of them sharp and pointed. He raised his sword and looked at himself in the blade’s reflection. His eyes were the color of polished brass with slits for pupils. Smiling confirmed that his teeth had all grown to sharp points. I really do look like a demon.
Not a demon, the voice growled, a dragon. Touch the black gem again before your comrades can see.
Falkier obeyed, and the warmth rushed out of his muscles. The sword remained a falchion, but the leather hilt lost its scaliness and the hook lost its jagged edge. Falkier looked at his reflection on the blade again and was relieved to see that his eyes and teeth had returned to normal as well. What is going on? What happened? Who are you? There came no response.
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HEROESJohn Jack and Jesse were in a daze after their encounter with a large monster that deflected objects.
They were now going to a lab with a scientist named Larry that could tell them everything about the monster.
It all started when the three of them were watching the local news and they saw a report about a large creature that was causing chaos in the city and even worse, IT WAS COMING TOWARDS THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD!
“What do we do?” Jesse asked
“We can’t let it destroy the city. “
John said while preparing to leave.
“Are you sure we have a chance at fighting that thing?” Jesse asked
“Yeah that thing looks monstrous” said Jack
“We have a choice to either fight it or surrender and I’ve made my choice.” John said while leaving with Jack and Jesse following behind him.
Hello GB and friends.
Herja, Devastation
What a busy time.
I'm delighted to let you know that an Australian colleague (Goodreads Author Cage Dunn) and I have just published a grand experiment in the form of Herja, Devastation - a story of a Valkyrie and her mortal assassin/associate. The story is narrated by the assassin and combines free verse poetry (by myself) and prose (by Cage Dunn).
The book is original in its concept and currently sits as the #1 new release for Poetry in Australia and Oceania (always a lovely moment to get a picture of. Here is the opening poem, but more can be seen via the 'look Inside' function at Amazon:
service
I was a man
once
never forget it
what sort of man?
.
.
.
.
not much
I don’t suppose
but still . . .
I stood
and I stood
alone
needed no one
wanted nothing
at all
except my wits
I always had
my wits
about me
it was my wits
that kept me sharp
it was
my wits
that kept me
ahead
of others
even when I knew
it was
all up
for me
with nowhere to go
and no way of escaping
even then
I knew that I had done
everything
one man could do
with wit
I didn’t ask for her
to save me
I did not
once
raise my eyes
in a plea
but
she came
like a fire from the gods
she came
like nemesis
singing
and wit?
I’d no wit
at all
no mind
no brain
only addle
she took me
she claimed me
and my wit
is nothing
now
but another word
for service
~
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John Jack and Jesse were in a daze after their encounter with a large monster that deflected objects.
They were now going to a lab with a scientist named Larry that could tell them everyt..."
Thanks for excerpt Vexiyek. Could you also post your book link? Or is this an entry to the short story competition in the group?
Grasshopper wrote: "Thanks for the excerpt Frank. Cage Dunn is a member of our group too. We had featured her recently. Glad to have you both back.Great initiative. Have marked the book as to be read."Good-o, GB. Hope you enjoy it when you get a look.
Would you be interested in an ARC copy?
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Herja, Devastation
I'm delighted to share the first review in for Herja, Devastation, right here on Goodreads.
Thank you, Cassandra.
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
If anyone would like a review copy of my upcoming book VIVID GREENE as PDF, feel free to PM me.Vivid Greene: and other unusual stories
John Jack and Jesse were in a daze after their encounter with a large monster that deflected objects. They were now going to a lab with a scientist named Larry that could tell them everything about the monster. It all started when the three of them were watching the local news and they saw a report about a large creature that was causing chaos in the city and even worse, IT WAS COMING TOWARDS THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD!“What do we do?” Jesse asked
“We can’t let it destroy the city. “
John said while preparing to leave.
“Are you sure we have a chance at fighting that thing?” Jesse asked
“Yeah that thing looks monstrous” said Jack
“We have a choice to either fight it or surrender and I’ve made my choice.” John said while leaving with Jack and Jesse following behind him.
Mod
Vivid Greene: and other unusual stories"
Jacob we have a separate folder for book promotions. Would appreciate it if you could repost this there.
Mod
Vexiyek, could you please specify what it is that you are posting. It's very unclear now if this is part of a book or an entry to the short story competition.
Grasshopper wrote: "Vexiyek wrote: "John Jack and Jesse were in a daze after their encounter with a large monster that deflected objects. They were now going to a lab with a scientist named Larry that could tell them ..."Part of a book
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