Tag Archives: fiction

Othersiders: Arts of the Necromancer – Pt. 8

Posted on by under Fiction, Othersiders Series, Young Adult SF/Fantasy

*Image courtesy of weekinweird.com*

Evelyn strode into Raith’s Miscellany, Oddities and Curiosity Shoppe with her shoulders back and her eyes straight ahead.  Finian followed behind her with his hands stuffed firmly into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched and his eyes darting all over the place.  Every step the two friends took along their journey only firmed Evelyn’s resolve while simultaneously chipping away at Finian’s.  Still, as much as he wished to run for the hills, Finian would never abandon Evelyn.  Even if following her was a non stop dance with danger. 

Raith’s shop gave every indication of being as horrible as Alice King’s home had been, and the place was strange to say the least.  There were marble busts of people with bulging eyes and outstretched tongues — like they were being hung at the moment of creation.  There were rats, spiders, and bats swimming about in glass jars, dead animals that had been stuffed and hung from the walls, glass balls, tarot cards, hundreds of ticking clocks —all set to different times, an entire shelf of left sided clothing: shoes, gloves, socks, and all of it was covered in a thin film of dust.  There was a large section of magic objects and talismans from all over the world, and so much bric a brac was strewn about on the floors and the shelves that it was impossible to focus on any one thing before your eyes became distracted by another thing.  Walking through the shop itself was also a task in careful stepping so as not to knock something over or step on the merchandise.

Evelyn blew past it all without even seeing it.  She wanted to speak with Raith about necromancy.  She had read all she could on the subject, learning that necromancy was a kind of magic and one often associated with communicating with the dead.  In Evelyn’s mind that meant this man knew ways of speaking with people who had passed into another world.  She did not believe in an afterlife, as much as she believed in spirits and ghosts, but reading about necromancy flipped a switch in her mind.  It was not the dead these necromancers were speaking to, but the people who had been taken over to the other side by the spirits, like those that had stolen away her brother and Finian’s family.  Raith had the answers she needed.

Finian peeled off when Evelyn reached the main counter.  She slammed her hand down on the service bell and Finian began browsing, trying to look for all the world like he had not come in with her.  Evelyn’s tendency to go on the attack from the get go made Finian a bit nervous. 

Evelyn made to slam her hand down on the bell again when a tall man with a lean face and angular features reached his thin hand out and grabbed Evelyn by the wrist.

“I heard you the first time, girl,” said the shop keeper in a slow, smooth voice that gave the impression he had sung the words.  The man was of medium height but his presence was enormous.  Staring coldly into Evelyn’s eyes with his white blonde hair hanging down to frame his face, his pale skin and ice blue eyes amplified by his all white suit and his delicate features, she could not help but feel that the man was beautiful in a way that men should not be.  

Finian stood puzzling, how he keeps those clothes as immaculately white as they are in this shop is magic in and of itself.  He tried to fight off the feeling that they had just come face to face with an angel but could not quite get past it. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” the shop keeper asked.

Evelyn did not respond for several moments.  She was lost in the trance of the shop keeper’s beauty and Finian had to cough several times before she was able to shake herself free.

“Yes,” she began, returning to herself in a flash.  “We were sent here by a woman named Alice King.  She said that you could teach us about necromancy.” 

The shop keeper smiled a faint smile and clasped his pale hands before his breast. 

“I am not sure what that is to mean, but I can promise you that I know nothing about necromancy.” 

Finian was ready to take his word for it if it meant getting out of that shop.  He was walking past a row of bottled insects when a scorpion lunged at him from inside its liquid prison. Finian jumped, letting out a high pitched squeak, and fell into a pile of books.  There was several moments of ruckus as Finian broke various objects in an attempt to stay erect, only to fall back into the shelf housing the scorpion. 

The shop keeper’s smile broadened a bit but he never took his piercing eyes off of Evelyn. 

“You are Raith, aren’t you?” Evelyn asked.

“I am,” he said in a low whisper. 

Finian managed to raise himself off the floor and began trying to piece things back together.

“We’re good over here, nothing broken.  Well, nothing of mine broken.  This, uh… hey!  Is this a magic eight ball?” Finian shook it and then read the result, mumbling a string of obscenities under his breath.  Luckily no one was listening to him.

“Then you’re the man I’m looking for.  Alice King told us you wouldn’t want to help.”

“I am afraid I do not know any Alice King,” Raith said, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

“Yes, you do.  You also know about the arts of the necromancer and you’re going to help us.”

Evelyn placed both hands on the counter and drew her eyebrows down.  The muscles in her arms tensed and she flexed her jaw.  She was not going to be brushed aside. 

Raith licked his lips slowly and then held his hands out in mock surrender.

“I am a seller of odd things, this much is true, and many times I have been mistaken for something I am not.  This Alice King of yours would not be the first to have erred.”

“Hey,” Finian broke in again, “is this a picture of Ozzy Osborne?  Ah, no, that’s Lindsey Lohan.  Sorry.” 

“That is a portrait of Nikola Tesla, my young friend, and can be had for a very reasonable price.”

“Yeah,” Finian said, running his fingers through his rust coloured hair, “I think I might have bought enough already.”

“The broken items are of no consequence.  I can sell them just as easily now as before you entered.” 

Finian cocked an eyebrow at Raith and began looking around him at the mess he had made.  Then he took another look at the rest of the shop and realised that a man who ran a shop like this would probably prefer his items broken up a bit.

Raith turned back to Evelyn to find that she had not moved an inch or taken her eyes off Raith for a moment.  He sighed and reached for the telephone at his side.  He held the receiver end out to her and said in a voice that betrayed the underlying threat.

“I must ask you to leave.  You have come in to my shop seeking wares I do not sell, your friend has destroyed my merchandise, and this line of questioning is beginning to border upon harassment.  If you are unwilling to go I will have no choice but to phone the authorities.”

“You said the broken things didn’t matter!” Evelyn shouted.

“My willingness to forgive your friend’s accident has been altered by your stubbornness.  If you will consent to leave I shall let bygones be bygones.  If you insist on staying I will seek full remuneration.” 

Finian started stumbling about and there was a mad shuffle behind Evelyn.  Raith was denying her just like Alice King told Finian he would.  Evelyn bit her bottom lip and growled deep in her throat.  He had what she needed and he was not going to give it to her.  If Finian had only been able to keep his feet she would still have room to pressure him, but that option was off the table the moment Finian did what he always did, fumble around and mess things up.

He came up behind Evelyn and pulled on her arm. 

“We’ll go, gladly.  So sorry again for everything.  We wish you a wonderful selling venture here and I know now where I will be coming when my dryer eats a sock.”

Finian pried Evelyn from the the counter and she tore her arm from his grasp.  She struck the door hard on their way out and Finian was certain the glass would shatter.  Luckily it held but Finian had to jog to keep up with Evelyn’s furious pace.  Her face was bright red and her mouth was pursed.  Finian had mucked up her chance to learn something from Raith and she was going to blow up at him at any moment.  Finian knew he had to make things right quick if he did not want her to hate him. 

Finian placed his hand on Evelyn’s shoulder and she spun on him with lightning flashing in her eyes.  She could have burned a whole forest down with all the hate radiating off of her.  She shoved her pointer finger in Finian’s face and sucked in a deep breath but was stopped short.  Finian was holding up a book, a really old, worn out book and the title cooled her rage in an instant.  Evelyn stared at the book for a long moment and then laughed.  She shook her head and then crushed Finian to her chest.  Finian tensed and his face flushed.  It was a rare occasion that he earned physical contact. 

“Every time I start to doubt you, you find a way to prove that my first instincts about you were totally right,” Evelyn said into Finian’s ear.  Evelyn’s breath was hot on his neck and the strength of her embrace was incredible.  Finian stood frozen in place, too cowardly to reciprocate the hug and too weak to fight it off.

Evelyn finally pulled away and Finian realised he had been holding his breath.  Looking at the book, Evelyn smiled. 

“The History and Practice of Necromancy,” she whispered.  “Finn, you are my hero.” 

“Well, I’d love to say I broke all his crap on purpose, but the truth is I just sort of fell into that book.  Literally.” 

Evelyn’s smile broadened and she clapped Finian on the shoulder. 

“Let’s go see what Raith was hiding from us.” 

All it took was that one sentence to reignite all the nerves in Finian’s stomach.  He was certain that he would be the first teenager to die of ulcers, but how could he say no to Evelyn?  She would step in front of a moving train for him, he was certain of it.  So, whatever the danger, they were in it together. 

At least he told himself that.

The Othersiders is a weekly ongoing series that will be published every Wednesday.  Please look forward to next week’s edition where Finian and Evelyn learn their first bit of necromancy.

Othersiders: Arts of the Necromancer Pt.7

Posted on by under Fiction, Othersiders Series, Young Adult SF/Fantasy

Finian was shouting at three people. 

Well, two people and whatever the thing could be called that continued hurling things in his direction.  He was imploring Evelyn to wake up, demanding Alice King put the lid back on whatever insanity they had cut loose, and cursing the being throwing objects at his head with the force and precision of a professional pitcher.

Alice King for her part was fighting to do what Finian asked, but it was much harder than he presumed.  Her green eyes flashed with electricity and her leathery skin was pulled taunt over her skeleton as she began waving her hand back and forth before her.  Then she closed her eyes and her hair blew back from her shoulders.  The room filled with electricity and the hairs all over Finian’s body began to stand on end. 

Alice King brought her hand to a stop on her throat and she spoke in a deep, grave voice.

“Vishuddha.” 

The tips of her fingers began to glow blue and a painful stillness weighted Finian to the ground.  He tried to stand, to fight the force that threatened to crush him, but it was pointless.

Alice King’s eyes flared open and she spoke again.

“Manipura,” she said, and the blue light that flowed down her hand mixed with yellow.  “Sahasrara.”  As she spoke the last words a violet light erupted from the crown of Alice King’s head.  She took her hand from her throat and drew a triangle in the air, repeating the three words again and a wall of blue light exploded out from the centre of where she had drawn. 

The ruckus and insanity of only a few moments before came to an abrupt stop and the objects ceased to fly.  Alice King turned to Finian and he was certain she would kill him where he sat.  He was in the midst of praying internally that witches did not truly boil their victims alive whilst cackling madly about their pretty little dinner morsels when the old woman’s face sagged and she began to shake her head slowly.

“You’ve not idea what you’re getting yourself into, do you?  You know nothing and yet you come barging in here and almost get yourself claimed before you know what is at stake.” 

She crouched down and placed her old hands on Evelyn’s temple.  Alice King began to mumble or chant something softly and Evelyn stirred. 

“Look, Wynona Witchy Pants, I know full well what is at stake here,” Finian lied, “and I would suggest you take your hands off my friend before I have to show you a thing or two about magic.  Think you’re the only one around here that knows about conjuring and whatnot?  Think again.  Now step back before I have to drop the bibbidy bobbidy boom on you.” 

Finian was feeling more panicked than he had been in quite some time.  He was staring some kind of magician or sorceress in the face and praying to all the gods he did not believe in that mind reading was not one of her strong suits.  Turned out it was not, but it did not need to be for her to see right through Finian.

“Boy, save your threats and chest thumping for the young ladies who still have it in them to swoon.  I am too old to be impressed by such things.” 

Finian opened his mouth to speak and the old woman held up a shaking finger to stop him.

“Furthermore, we haven’t the time.  You must take this girl and leave this place.  What I have done will keep the creature back for a while but when it breaks through I need you to be gone.  It will drag you both over and the bounty price will be well more than I can pay.”

“What the hell are you talking about lady!  I don’t understand what you just said!”

Finian had decided to give up all pretext of being in control of the situation.  If she was not in the mood to kill him he needed answers. 

“This is exactly my point, young man.  You don’t have the first clue as to what you’re doing.  Yet, you’ve come this far so I shall tell you what I’ve learned and how I learned it.” 

Finian’s eyes were wide and his palms were drenched in sweat.  He clutched Evelyn’s unconscious hands in his own, shaking them involuntarily, and his heart hung on every word that came from Alice King’s mouth.

“You must seek out Raith and learn the arts, the arts of the necromancer.” 

“Arts of the what? And wraith as in a kind of ghost?  After today I don’t think I want to go hunting any wraiths.”

“No,” Alice King shouted, a vein in her neck bulging forth to accost Finian. “Raith is a man.  You must find him and learn of the triangle.  He can teach you.  He will shun you at first, fein ignorance, but he knows more than he lets on.  He tried to fool me, to trap me as I have trapped the one he sent for me, but his knowledge can be used against him.” 

Finian’s mind was spinning.  There was a man named Raith and he knew about art, that much Finian had down.  He could draw triangles, or knew about triangles, or was a triangle.  All the words and meanings became an explosion of colour in Finian’s mind.  Everything blended with everything else and it left him with nothing but a rainbow of nonsense.

“Where can I find this Raith?”

Alice King smiled like a Jack-o-Lantern, all teeth and wickedness.

“If you are strong enough to find me, you will find him.  Now go!” she shouted, “before the other gets loose and you leave me with three times the trouble I had when this day started.” 

“What am I going to do with her, she’s out like a light?  And what about your son?  What happened to him?” Finian asked, the thought coming back to him as his brain was reeling through all the information he had gathered that day.

All the features of Alice King’s withered face drew together and she snarled. 

“Let me worry about my son, you just worry about yourself, boy.” 


Finian knew in that instant that asking any further about Alice King’s son would lead him to a place he did not want to go.  He turned back to find Evelyn struggling to sit up and prying her now drenched hand from his.  She worked her fingers to get feeling back after Finian had been crushing it and she looked from Finian to Alice King with darting eyes. 

“What happened?” 

“Your boyfriend can explain later, get out.” 

Evelyn made to protest but Alice King proved that she was nowhere near as feeble as she appeared.  She grabbed Evelyn up by her lapels and threw her bodily from the house.  Evelyn stumbled on the front porch steps and Finian came rushing out after her.  The door slammed behind them and Evelyn turned to Finian for answers he did not have.

“What the hell was that, Finian?  What happened in there?”

“I’ll explain later.  We need to get out of here, right now.” 

Finian turned on his heels and bolted from Alice King’s front lawn at a run.  Evelyn caught up to him quickly and the two friends ran the entire way back to the train station. 

forest_spirit_by_narandel-d632zj7

My Very Own Monkey

Posted on by under About Me, blogging101

I’ve created a Mailchimp account to help support my *aspirations* as a writer!icon-mailchimp-mobile

This is totally shameless, and as a person who vehemently slammed shameless self promotion I know I am being my own worst enemy right now, but I would love to have anyone interested in my writing sign up for my newsletter!

I promise I won’t send more than one a month and I will make sure to give something away with it!

To kick it off I think I am going to do a book giveaway, so if you would like to sign up for my newsletter I will put you into the pot for the first one.  Make sure to list three books you would be interested in receiving for your prize and I will announce what book I chose when the giveaway starts.

The link to the newsletter is on my sidebar, just below my menu buttons (where it says: Join The Olive Branch)

Thank you so much for the support.  I honestly and truly do love you all!  Yes, even you 😉

Paul’s Story – A Story from 10 Words

Posted on by under A Story from 10 Words, blogging101, Fiction

This was what I was given:  Randy (aka: Mentor), Butch (aka: Gus), and Paul (aka: Lucky) – 10 words: trout, deer, bear, tent, fire, cold, snow, boat, cigars, beer.  Setting: Convict Lake

And this is the story I made from it:

(Today’s accent is going to be, “old west cowboy.”  Again, trust me, reading it in this accent will make it more fun!  Enjoy!)

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image courtesy of: scenicusa.net 

“Well ain’t this a happy heap ‘a horse shit you got us in to, Lucky.”

A shot rang out in the clear California morning and the bullet richoceted off rock, sending a resounding echo bouncing off the nearby mountains.  Snow had been falling for nearly two days and a thick layer covered the ground where three men crouched behind a cluster of fallen aspen trees. 

“We got enough on our plate without having to listen to yer bitchin’, Gus.”

“Ignorin’ me is what got us here in the first place.  We were supposed to be fishin’, that was the plan.  Drink some beers and catch some fish.  Then you two jackasses decided it would be a good idea to chase after ’em convicts made a run for it outta Carson.  Now I find myself knee deep if slush, freezing my balls off and likely about to get my fuzzy ass shot in the bargain.” 

Lucky turned toward Gus with a laugh on his lips.

“Two of us came out here to catch fish, that’s for sure,” he said in an harsh whisper.  “One of us came out here to bait the hooks and run his mouth.  You wanna take a guess as to which one that is, pretty boy?  Now, you don’t shut yer trap you ain’t gonna have to worry about them convicts blowing your ass off, ‘cus I’ma do it for ‘em.” 

The Mentor turned back to his two friends with a slow, steady glare.

“I don’t suppose it would be too much to ask of you boys to focus on the problem at hand.  We got six men out there looking to put us in the dirt and, contrary to the plans a’ you two princesses, I don’t intend on cashin’ in today.” 

More shots rang out and the bullets were getting closer to the target.  A deer bolted from the brush and rushed out into the clearing between the convicts and the three lawmen.  The convicts saw only movement and a chance to empty their cannons into a moving target but it proved to be the perfect distraction. 

Three of the convicts erupted from behind cover and the mentor twisted around the fallen trees and laid to.  He pulled the colt from his hip and fired six shots fast, fanning the hammer with his free hand.

Lucky spun around and placed his rifle across the barrier of trees, zeroed in on the nearest target and fired off three rounds.  He worked the lever action with quick jerks and fired with tried percision.  This was a man who knew how to kill when it was called for.

Gus turned the opposite way, bringing his scattergun to bear.  The blast boomed in that wide open space and birds peeled off into the grey sky.  A rabbit broke from cover and the other critters followed their lead, fleeing their homes to escape the sudden invasion of violence.

The three convicts who had presented targets all fell, bullets tearing them to shreds and painting the snow with their life’s blood.  The mentor had placed all six shots into his man’s chest, caving it in and throwing the man back into the tree behind him.  Lucky set his shots a mass, putting two in his target’s chest and the last right between his eyes.  Gus hit his man first, but it took his the longest to die.  The buckshot tore his chest to shreds and several pellets riddled his face as well.  An ear was torn off and the man was lying face down in the snow screaming as the three lawmen ducked back down.

“Three down, three to go,” Lucky said.

“Don’t reckon those other three‘ll surrender peaceful like,” Gus added, sounding resigned. 

“You could always go on out and ask,” the mentor said, grinning at his brother. 

“I’ll pass.  I got me a date with a nice fat trout in that there lake and I wouldn’t want the fate of the triple crown left in the hands of you two amateurs.” 

“Mentor, please let me shoot him.  I promise we can find you a suitable replacement.” 

“Ain’t no use, Lucky.  You shoot him he’ll only get more irritatin’.” 

“Don’t see how that’s possible.” 

“Shows how little you understand.  I been acosted by his stupidity since my first breath and I guarantee I got more sufferin’ commin to me.”  The mentor turned toward Gus and was greeted with a shit eating grin.  “God don’t let trials like him end easy.” 

“Yeah, old Job ain’t got a thing on you, that’s for damn sure.  How you put up with his mouth for this long I’ll never understand.”

“It’s a’cuz I’m so damned pretty,” Gus added.

All three men had a good laugh at that and the firing began again.  The lawmen ducked down instinctively and the mentor began reloading his Colt.  Lucky checked his rifle and Gus gripped the boom stick close to his chest as they waited for the firing to cease.

“You all gonna die, law dogs!  Come on out ‘ere and get your desserts, damn you!” 

That was Greer, the worst of the bunch. 

“Way I see it, we just cut your number in half, Greer.  Why not come on out yerself and we’ll introduce you to a nice California collar?  Least that way you can go God with a clear conciense,” Lucky replied. 

This was answered with more bullets.  These men wanted to go out guns blazing.  They had escaped prison and made it this far, the last thing they wanted was to surrender to three over-the-hill lawmen. 

“We ain’t gonna see no end to this but by blood my friends.  What say we get it over with?”  Lucky said without the slightest hint of fear.  This was a man who had stared death in the face more than once and he was not going to blink now. 

Gus and Mentor both nodded their heads.  It was time to take the fight to the devil.

Mentor bolted from cover, fanning his Colt and making for a small spread of trees off to his left while Lucky vaulted straight over the cover they had been crouched behind, firing his rifle as he went.  Gus followed behind, his shotgun barraging the surrounding trees with pellets and sending wood chips flying. 

The three men raced forward through the snow, guns blasting apart the trees and sending a roaring thunder of noise rebounding off the mountainside.  Canfield broke from cover first and Mentor venilated him before he could bring his iron around.  Maxwell followed and Lucky near took his head off at the neck with a shot that struck him just below the chin.  Greer was all alone and he decided to make a run for it.  He panicked and turned the wrong way, only to come face to face with Gus and his shotgun. 

“Guess you shoulda’ surrendered after all, asshole.” 

Gus put a hole in Greer’s chest the size of a man’s closed fist.  Greer dropped to his knees in the snow and then fell down, face first. 

Gus rested the barrel of the shotgun on his shoulder and turned toward the other two men. 

“Well, now that I got you two jackasses outta’ this mess, what say we find that boat and get to fishin’?” 

“It’s nearly sundown, we can’t fish in this.  So what say you set up the tent, your highness, seein’ as how you ain’t never caught anything out here but a cold? 

Mentor laughed and holstered his Colt.  “I’ll see to the fire, gentlemen, and I’ll leave you two to figure out who puts up the tent.” 

After some fuss the men had their camp set and a fire going.  Lucky passed cigars out to his two friends and the three men sat before the fire arguing over who killed who first, who killed the most, and which one killed the biggest man.  Little did they know that the lake they sat before would forever be named for this very shootout: Convict Lake.  That was not important to them then though, what was important was they would live to see another day, which meant one more chance to fish together — and argue like old women.

—

This is the meaning of friends.  It’s the ones who go to war with you.  They walk in knowing what’s on the line and they never blink.

Friendship is also about history.  The longer you live the more you will experience those moments that only your true friends understand.  Words are exchanged and simple phrases that mean nothing to anyone else, but everything to you.  In those moments your true friends are revealed and it creates a bond that stands the test of time. 

Here’s to true friends and the dangers we face in their name.  Here, too, is to simple pleasures like fishing, beer, and cigars with your brothers. 

Just beware the bears.

If you would like your own story, please feel free to contact me with 10 words, a theme (it can be a genre, favourite movie or book) and a song and I will write you a story as well.  They are posted every Sunday.  

Next Sunday (23 January) will be Rachel’s Story.  It is a very special edition of Stories from 10 words as the Rachel I will be writing the story for is the namesake and inspiration for the main character of my action fantasy novel, Sisters of Fury.  Look forward to it please!

Downfall VI: Insomniac

Posted on by under Crime, Downfall Series, Fiction

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Image courtesy of: whyifearclowns.net

What is it about dead whores that always reminds me of circus clowns? 

Is it the way their faces, ravaged by drugs and mascara, always seem somehow comical in their extremity?  Or is it just that the profession is so similar that my mind is putting the two together on it’s own?  After all, what is whoring other than parading around in a painted mask hoping for cash and a few smiles? 

This woman died happy though, which is more than the killer did for the last two.  Maybe she made him smile too.

Probably not, but she’s dead.  Let her dream. 

“If you want dead crack whores, I know at least ten more sitting in the morgue we can go poke.  Seriously, why the fuck are we out here?” 

“For a man who desires to do my job you should focus a bit more on your own before you open your mouth,” I tell the coroner.

“What the fuck does that mean?”  He hurls his cigarette against the wall, balls his huge hands into fists, and looms over me. 

Oh my stars and garters, I have angered him.

“It means, my dear doctor, that this woman was not a crack user.  Crack cocaine is smoked.  This woman was a needle user and, unless I am mistaken, more prone to the heroin crowd.” 

The coroner is shaking his head.  What difference does it make, right?  One drug or the other still makes for a dead whore and he doesn’t give the first goddamn.

I do.  The devil is in the details. 

“The point, detective, is why do we give a shit about this piece of human trash.” 

I have to bite my tongue.  I shouldn’t answer this question, it isn’t worth it.  So of course I will.   

“Because, you monument to hubris, none of the other women in your morgue were killed by our umbrella toting friend.” 

Three witnesses reported seeing a man in a dark suit approach the woman and pass her something.  She took it, injected it, and passed out.  She hadn’t moved since.  The woman was about to be passed over when I heard about it because who cares?  She was a prostitute, a drug addict, and generally seen in the same light as the coroner was now viewing her.  It also didn’t help that the testimonies of other drug addicts and street people were taken with less than a grain of salt. 

“If he did kill this bitch then good on him.  He did us all a favour.  Maybe we should start calling him the garbage man because he’s getting rid of our trash for us.” 

When dealing with bigots one must draw a line.  The more I address this neanderthal the more he will vomit his stupidity on me, and I like this suit. 

Why did he kill this woman?  What was special about her?  How did she stand out?  There could have been anywhere from five to ten just like her standing within a stones thrown when he killed her.  Why this one? 

Damn this guy.  He has to be saying something, so what is it?  Why be so cryptic.  If you have a message, out with it already you asshole. 

“Detective, can I speak with you a moment?” 

My headache has taken on a new aspect.  That spot right behind my left eye begins to throb and I feel my eye twitch.  Would that I could have gotten through this whole day without having to deal with the captain I might have lasted long enough to down something heavy and brownish to kill it, but alas my luck is not so hot these days.  Here we go again. 

“Yes, captain, what is it?”

“What are we looking into this woman for?  I don’t see the need for this many hands just to clean up a street walker.” 

At least he is addressing her with more political correctness.  Being the police chief means being schooled in the university of pretty mouth, and his is top notch.  I am sure this woman would have appreciated the hell out of him.

I stand up, fingers rubbing my temples, eyes shut tight and I can feel it growing.  This killer is getting in my head and it hurts like nothing I have ever felt.

“Another late night, detective?  Are you even sober enough to be out here?”

I have to laugh at this.  The assumption that I am an alcoholic is cliche to the point of being moronic.

“I have a headache.  That has nothing to do with drinking, it has to do with not sleeping.”


“The job is getting to you.  Maybe you need a vacation.”

I laugh again.  This is turning into a veritable tennis match of stereotypes.

“I don’t sleep because I am an insomniac.  I am not an insomniac because I do this job, I do this job because I am an insomniac.”

His one brow raises and he leans his head to the side, putting his hands on his hips.

“My mamma always told me, ‘son, know what you’re good at and use it.’  Only thing I’m good at is living without sleep and being able to look any horrible thing in the eye knowing it couldn’t possibly lead to nightmares.  You have to sleep to have nightmares.”

I pause and he sighs, shaking his head as he does so. 

“So here I am, not giving a shit if my life makes sense to you.” 

“This is a dead end,” he cuts in.  “The woman doesn’t fit the M.O.”

“For once, we agree.  She didn’t stand out like the others.  That does’t mean he didn’t kill her, it means the M.O. wasn’t correct.” 

He’s giving me the jaw. 

“Look, serial killers can usually be broken into two main types: the ones with a manic obsession who kill a specific type of victim in order to fill a need, and the ones who kill to send a message.  This man is the second type.  He’s sending us a message and we have to figure out what that is.”

“You said the message was about standing out and that appears to be wrong.  So what is the message now?”

I honestly don’t know the answer to that anymore.  That is why my head wants to explode.  It is so full of all the different things these murders could possibly be saying and I can’t sort them out or shut them up. 

“What I know is this: he planned this.  The others weren’t planned, or did not bear the appearance of being planned, but this woman’s death was.  Or perhaps it was simply a plan to kill the first drug addict he came upon, but he knew her drug of choice and brought it along with him.  He knew he was going to kill a drug user and he was prepared.  That means he could have known he was going to kill the others as well and is a master of making it look unplanned.”

The captain is looking as if he just opened his organic frozen yogurt to find that some plebeian has replaced it with pedestrian ice cream.

  “This is both bad and good.  It is bad because we were initially on the wrong track, but it’s good because that means these three victims have a stalker and possibly a connection we missed.  He’s given us another piece of the puzzle and we have to see how these three fit together.” 

“So a street walker, a day trader, and a high end fashion designer are all connected?” 

“It’s a mad world, captain.”

I turn from him and start walking toward the other end of the street, the sun assaulting my face.  The part I left out was that it had been a month since this woman had been killed, according to the coroner, and the killer hadn’t made a move since.  We found her on a nice sunny day because her death hadn’t lead us to her when the rain had been falling.  It’s rained a few times between then and now.  Either the killer has more presents out there waiting for us to find or he was waiting for us to find this one before moving on. 

My mind is telling me its the latter.  He’s watching.  He wants us to appreciate his work and understand.  He can’t move on until we find his little present, like a cat who shits in the living room. 

Well, we found it.  Now I have to check the weather report and see how long I have until he drops another pile for me to appreciate.

Othersiders: Arts of the Necromancer – Pt. 6

Posted on by under Fiction, Othersiders Series, Young Adult SF/Fantasy

“Alice King?” Evelyn said, her voice clear and strong like a river. 

The middle aged woman at the door smiled with the corners of her mouth, gentle lines of old skin pulling and folding, making her face ripple out in waves.  Opaque shadows clouded her green eyes and she looked slightly confused to hear her own name.

“May I help you, young lady?”

“Yes, my name is Evelyn Stone, and this is,” Evelyn said, turning her head to the left and right to find that Finian had stayed a few steps away from the door.  Evelyn reached out and pulled him up next to her bodily.  “This is Finian Kelley.”  Evelyn was staring hard into the side of his face, daring him to take a step back.  Turning back to face Alice King, Evelyn continued with a sigh, “we would like to ask you a few questions about your son.” 

Alice King’s tired eyes began to blink rapidly and she raised her feathery eyebrows.    

“Son?  I don’t have a son,” Alice King said, clutching her hands to her breast and popping her knuckles as she did so. 

Evelyn watched as the two sides of Alice King’s nature began to battle.  The brittle old woman she wore as an exterior struggled to maintain control but the hardened warrior who had lost her most prized possession was fighting to get loose.  The white streaks of flyaway hair that framed Alice King’s face fell into her eyes and her smile slackened.

“I am sorry, you must be mistaken.”  Alice King said in a voice as cold and sharp as folded steel.

Evelyn licked her lips slowly.  Alice King wanted to play hardball.  Evelyn was battening down her own hatches while Finian, on the other hand, was pulling at her sleeve and trying to whisper into her ear. 

“Evie, maybe I was wrong about her.  Let’s just go.  I don’t think she want’s to talk with us.  Besides,” he added, “I am allergic to cats.”

“I don’t have any cats,” Alice King said, puzzled.

“She doesn’t have a cat, Finian,” Evelyn repeated, never looking away from Alice King.

Finian rolled his eyes and moved closer to Evelyn.  “Look at this woman, Evie.  If she doesn’t have a cat then she’s just the crazy lady.  At least being ‘the crazy cat lady’ makes you sound cute.  People can sympathise with a cat owner.”

Evelyn shook her head in a mixture of disgust and frustration.  Finian would either follow her lead or go home.  She had no time to humour him further.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. King, but my friend is a little strange.” 

“Really?  I’m not the one trying to strike up a dialogue with Mrs. Coo-Coo for CoCo Puffs,” Finian whispered rather too loudly into Evelyn’s ear. 

“Finian!” Evelyn shouted, finally turning to glare him into silence.

“Mrs. King, I am sorry once again for my friend’s mouth.  He can’t always seem to control it.” 

“It’s quite alright my dear,” Alice King said. 

“As I was saying, we’ve come to ask you a few questions about your son.  I am sure this is a sensitive subject and I know that we are strangers but I assure you we are very interested in anything you might be able to tell us about his disappearance.” 

Alice King blinked several times and took a deep breath.  She was wrestling again.  Her smiled returned again, only wider, and crows feet spread from the corners of her eyes like talons. 

“As I told you before, young lady, I don’t have a son.” 

Evelyn finally caught on to the game of semantics Alice King was playing.

“Of course.  You don’t have a son because he was taken.  You did have one before though, didn’t you?” 

Alice King’s knuckles cracked again. 

“Young lady, I really think this conversation has become inappropriate and I am going to have to ask you to leave.  I have been as patient as I can be with complete strangers.” 

Alice King made to close the door on them and Evelyn put her hand out to stop it.  She would not be so easily dismissed. 

“Mrs. King, please.  We need to see the album.  We need to know what you remember.  It might help us!  We’ve lost loved ones too!”  By the end Evelyn was shouting in the woman’s face. 

“Lower your voice,” Alice King rasped, her eyes flashing hawklike.  “Your shouting will draw it out!”

“Draw what out?” Finian shouted.

A chair was thrown from Alice King’s house.  It exploded from the front window near where Finian was standing in a shower of glass.  Finian ducked behind Evelyn and she instinctively put her arm out to shield him.  Alice King tried to use the distraction to slam the door shut but Evelyn was too fast.  She got her foot into the gap before it closed and then used her youthful strength to shoulder the door back.  Alice King went sprawling onto the hard tile floor with Evelyn and Finian tripping into the room behind her.

A glass frame came whizzing from a neighbouring room and smashed into the wall above Finian’s head.  He let out a high pitched squeal and dropped to the floor with his hands over his head.

“What in great holy hell was that, Evie!” 

Evelyn was looking around for their attacker and found nothing.  Then a glass vase was lifted from before her eyes and there was no hand holding it.  Whatever doubts she had before she entered this house were blown out like a candle in a high wind.  It was all true. 

The vase came pelting toward her and smashed into her face.  She had been so awestruck by it that she did not even raise her hands to defend herself.  Evelyn dropped to the floor on top of Finian in a shower of glass, violets, baby’s breath and cascading water.  The last thoughts she had before blacking out where of her brother and knowing that she had been right all along.

He was alive and she was going to find him. 

Music To Write To

Posted on by under blogging101

Blogging 101 Assignment #9

I am building a post from a comment I made yesterday.  The strange thing is, it’s a comment that I made to a blogger who commented on the post I created to show the sites I had commented on for homework.  Did you get all that?  Good, because there is a test at the end.

The comment was about a song lyric she had posted on her about page.  It got me thinking about how music can spark memory and also, as a writer, how I use it to fuel moments of my writing.

So I thought I would share a short list of songs and soundtracks that I listen to while writing and why I use them. 


Most of the music I listen to comes from soundtracks.  Songs with lyrics tend to distract me while composed music from orchestras gets me into the moods and moments of the films they were created for and I find that can help stoke the fire. 

For intense battle scenes with buildup: Battlestar Galactica  – Kara Remembers

Galactica is awesome for several reasons.  I love taiko drums, bagpipes, and the piano.  The combination of these things is more amazing than I could ever have imagined. 

For betrayal, anguish, and death scenes:  Braveheart – Betrayal and Desolation

This whole score is amazing, but the use of drums is also what gets me.  Awesome. 

For going on a mission or traveling and revelation scenes: Lost – Hollywood and Vines

I love Michael Giacchino’s work.  Again, he makes great use of the piano and strings.  Locke’d Out Again is another one of my favourites of his: 

My list of favourite soundtracks to write to are:

Battlestar Gallactica

Braveheart

Lord of the Rings

The Last Samurai

Lost

Avatar: The Last Airbender (again, the taiko drums are awesome)

So, what music do you use when you are writing?  What inspires you?  What helps get you into different moods or moments? 

Sisters of Fury: Prologue

Posted on by under Fiction

This is the prologue to a novel I am polishing at the moment.  I have reworked this about ten times now and I would really like some feedback.  Is it too much of an information dump?  Does it catch your attention?  Would you want to read more?  Comments would be greatly appreciated!

 

————————————————————————

william-adolphe_bouguereau_1825-1905_-_the_remorse_of_orestes_1862

My life has been defined by death.

Even before I was old enough to know my own name I knew death. My grandparents died in a plane crash while I was still teething and my parents were gunned down in our home before I had left elementary school. The official story was murder suicide. Official stories are never the real story –that is why they have to make them official. They cannot be anything else. I hold Christian responsible.

My husband, Blake, and my uncle, Daniel, were the next to go. My brother took care of them with a shotgun. The twisted part of Uncle Daniel’s death is that he had been the chief proponent fighting to keep my brother from being charged with my parent’s murder. Christian’s ingratitude knew no bounds.

The night Daniel and Blake were killed I walked into my uncle’s house and found Christian hovering over them with a sick grin on his face. That is right were I shot him, in his smug face. I gave that son of a bitch what he deserved.

That is the last moment I can recall with any clarity. I have been trying for nearly two years to remember exactly what happened after that but for the life of me the memory will not come back. The next thing I knew I had woken up in a compound full of refugee women somewhere in Asia with no idea how I got there. I would try to escape but where do I have to go? Everyone I have ever loved is either dead or despises me.

So I am here; haunted by vivid nightmares, isolated and confused.

Mine is a life damned, and only my pride propels me forward. I will find out why I was brought here and how. There is a reason and until I learn it I will keep fighting.

Death can have me after that.

 

Amanda’s Story -A Story from 10 Words

Posted on by under A Story from 10 Words, Fiction

Amanda’s Story

These were the 10 words I was given:  Cheez-it’s, pizza, sleep, gym, laughter, music, rain, chocolate, sweatpants, love. In a log cabin

This is the story I wrote:  (Do me a favor and read it in a British accent.  It will help 🙂 )

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The rain assails my cage whilst anticipation draws out as endless as the sea.  That a life can wither in such a way I had known not.  Had it come to me by word or by way perhaps I would have been better prepared for such desolation.  Alas, I am beset. 

Woe that a bird such as I could be so imprisoned, abjectly cast into the pit of suffering reserved for creatures of grey and black.  These colours were intended for grander presentation; the music of my life to be played before the masses. 

Whilst not my liberator come for me?  Knowest he not the way?  Hath dangers untold befallen him in the gallant quest to deliver this gem of ages into breaking dawn only to outshine it.  Weep, for truly my plight is unmatched in the annals of man. 

Speed, my love, speed.  Your flower withers evermore. 

Rising from my bed I chance to the window only to find that the downfall will not abate.  Even gods seek to prolong my exile.  I am cast from the eyes of both high and low.  Will my anguish never cease? 

A knock.  The door hath been struck.  Could it be fair prince?  Hath he braved the way to be at the side of his one true love?  Am I to be stolen away, loosed into the sky where I belong.  Oh, I pray it so.

Dashing to the door I fling it wide to bathe in the sight of my hero.  What hath fate rendered? 

The rain cascades off his magnificent form and I behold a creature made from sinew and fine silk, Michelangelo’s David hath come for me. 

“Pray, tell, my brave knight, to what end hath you sought this place?”

Silence fills the night.  His powerful mind spins from the perils he hath overcome to stand before me.

“Are we doing this again?” he asks, and I am less than pleased at his failure to grasp the weight of the situation. 

“Again, my love?  Surely this is the first our eyes have met!” I shout, pleading with mine eyes. 

“Right,” he says, shrugging his massively muscled shoulders.  “So, the first question was something about why I came here, right?” 

“I say,” I say, “thine words are vulgar.  Could it be that thou dost not seek copulation on this fair night?  Perhaps I would be better served to sleep, gods know I love it so.”

The musculature of his face shows that he hath grasped what lies in the balance should he fail in his task. 

“Most assuredly not, my fair princess.  I have traveled far in search of you and I just got finished at the gym so my, I mean ‘mine’, mine mind is not quite caught up to mine ass.” 

“Ass?  Really?” I query, disquietude getting the better of me.

“Yes, fair maiden.  I hath worked it to exhaustion for thine pleasure.  I present it,” he says, turning to produce his derrière.  “Is it not lithesome?  Is it not supple?”

“Your fortunes are turning for the worse I fear and I may have to seek solace in sleep after all.”

“But maiden, I have ridden long on the back of my great stead, Ford Bronco, to be at your side!”

That fate would send me such a creature!  He hath no even the wit or extravagance to choose the Mustang instead.  Miserly halfwit!  Be gone from my sight!

“I have no time for such games.  I shall pine away until my loins are of no use, certainly not to one such as you.”

“No, dearest damsel, do not turn from me.  Do not shut me away from this, the log-iest of cabins, to be cast out of your sight and denied the beauty of you and your finest of faded sweatpants.”

I pray he can see the vexation upon my visage.

“I have come, enduring wandering pathways with terrible reception and a lack of GPS whilst Siri, my ever troublesome companion, lead me to ways unknown.  I have soiled my finest raiments, purchased from the greatest smith in all the land – Dick, of Dick’s Sporting Goods.  He hath crafted this fine chest piece in the style of the very Thomas Edward Patrick Brady, Jr., the noblest of all Patriots, so that I may woo you.  Do not let these efforts be in vain!  I pray you!”

“Seriously, Joe, you suck at this.”

“I can’t be good at everything.” 

His laughter undoes me.  I can’t help but smile, the big dope.

“Okay, so you aren’t prince charming.  How are you going to make up for that?”

“Well, I brought you chocolate, Cheez-it’s, and pizza.  How does that sound?”

I love this man. 

People think that love is complicated.  That it’s a grand gesture that can only be understood on a large stage in breathtaking moments with elegant words.  That isn’t true.  Love is in the little things.  The small gestures.  The minute understandings.  Love is being close enough to someone to know how much leaving the last piece of chocolate in the box for them will mean.  It’s driving out of the way to get to the store that sells their favourite snack just because it’s Tuesday and you love them.

Shakespeare wrote beautiful words and his love always died. 

Real life isn’t always full of beautiful words, but if you look hard enough you will find that it is full of something even better. 

It is full of simple love. 

Simple love is the kind that never leaves you.  It never betrays you.  Simple love is rocking chairs and holding hands even when your hands can’t hold anything else.  Simple love is grandchildren and forever. 

Here is to simple love and the hope that it finds you every day.

Here, too, is to real men who know that loving Tom Brady is never simple. 

Sorry.  I had to ruin it a little there. 

If you would like your own story, please feel free to contact me with 10 words, a theme (it can be a genre, favourite movie or book) and a song and I will write you a story as well.  They are posted every Sunday.  

Next Sunday (16 January) will be Paul’s Story.  Look forward to it please!

Downfall V: Super Heroin

Posted on by under Crime, Downfall Series, Fiction

Have to stay awake. 

Eyelids heavy like lead and my bones hurt.  Are they shrinking or growing?  I can’t tell but I’m going to keep scratching until I get them out.  Who the hell needs bones anyway?  Visions of super heroine-ism flash through my tired mind and I love it.  I’m smiling.  I think I’m smiling.  I think I shit myself as well.  That can be the only explanation for that smell.  I did it or the man next to me did it.  My bowels feel heavy and my mouth feels like a salt lick.  If I’m not the one who shit themselves than I am certainly the one responsible for the vomit on the sidewalk.  One way or another, something that was in me came back out and it smells like hell.    

God damn this itch. 

The rain is pissing down.  It’s been raining like this on and off for weeks now.  They say it’s good.  The earth needs water.  When you live in God’s ass crack you don’t care what the scenery is like as long as he wipes every now and then.  He doesn’t.  God is a hands off type.  Real hippy, that rat bastard. 

I’m sorry Lord.

There’s a man looking at me.  He’s thinking about it.  He wants it and I’ll give it to him.  I’m a swallower, sir, step right this way.  Or is it the vomit he’s looking at.  I feel sick.  I need to throw up.  Didn’t I do that already?  No, no, no.  That wasn’t me.  That was Bobby Brown Bag on my right.  He did that.  Vomiting is for supermodels and that is definitely not me.  I am not a runway broad.  I am the back alley bitch all the way.  And, yes, I do that too. 

Need to get up and move.

How can I be this hot?  It’s raining.  I shouldn’t be sweating.  This ain’t Florida.  Dammit all.  Damn this ran and damn this city.  Damn this life.  Right, that part we already had covered.  Shit.  I think I did it again. 

Please, I am begging.

The man’s back.  He’s coming closer.  I need to wipe my mouth, present a pleasant shopping experience for the customer.  He’s crouching down in front of me.  Jesus, the man is black.  His whole essence is black.  Shiny black shoes, black suit pants worth more than my life, black suit jacket, black shirt, black tie, black bowler hat, black gloves, black umbrella.  Wait.  Umbrella.  Something about that is ringing a bell.  I can’t remember.  I’m looking at his face though.  God, he’s beautiful.

Black eyes like death. 

He’s holding something out.  What the hell is that?  I can’t see with all this rain.  I have to sit up.  Oh, God.  Please.  Please tell me it’s what I think it is.  Please tell me this isn’t a dream.  I haven’t even had to prove my skills at the flute yet and he’s giving it to me.  He knows.  I’ve been so low for so long and he’s giving me  the elevator.  The key to the skyrocket.  The booster pack.  The Icarus Wings.  Oh, I’m gonna fly.  I can already feel the warm, happy centre of everything good. 

“For me?” 

I sound like a two dollar tramp.  I don’t even cost a quarter.  Where did I get such a fancy tongue?  He’s nodding so it must be for me.  I’ve never tied off faster.  The booster hits and we have ignition.  Ground control, kick the tires and light the fires, mama is coming home.  I can feel it coming, the heat.  The blanket of love and joy that I’ve been craving for days.  Sitting here in my own piss and shit I dream of all the places I will go when the love finally embraces me again.  I am going to be a super heroine.  Heroine.  I like that word.  I don’t need the ‘e’ though.  You can keep that.  No charge, baby, no charge.  Here we go.

Her heart slowed.  Her heart stopped. 

The man with the black umbrella picked up the syringe and placed it slowly into his pocket.  He leaned closer to the dead woman and whispered in her ear. 

“If you beckon death by spitting in the face of life it is only a matter of time before it finds you.  Wander, o soul, in the pit of damnation and writhe in suffering for a life wasted.  To hell with you.” 

The man with the black umbrella stood and walked away.  Not a single soul noticed the woman had died. She remained there, unmolested, for a month.