Followers of Awesome Writing

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Moonlight Tarot – The Crone

This is actually a very rough passage from the book I will be working on once I finish my current one. The story is my oldest and very involved and actually from a series I will eventually put out. I tried to make this story self contained with hints to the larger story but it may be confusing for all of that. If so I apologize in advance but promise it will make more sense when cleaned up and part of the larger whole.



Mary was paranoid. Swift thought his mother might be suffering from early onset dementia. A woman in her forties should not have to face such a thing. Her fears had something to do with Albatross wanting to hurt her.
Albatross, the younger, had run a little mad since his father died bloody. Why would that be directed at Mary? Swift hated the man in a distant way. Albatross controlled Darkling Trail, better known as the Corp, and thus most of the world. Yet Swift did not know why the most powerful man on the planet would wish harm on his mother. The two had never met. Mary had to be insane.
So Swift thought until he entered the house that afternoon.
Mary lay on the floor in a pool of blood, clutching an outdated cell phone in her hand. One look told him she had been cut but they did not account for most of the crimson stained floor. No, the placement of the largest pools of red informed him his mother had been violated. Hot tears stung his eyes as he rushed to her. He told her to hold on. He would get her to a doctor.
“Shit on that. Get me to that chair.”
She spoke through a scream roughened throat. Her voice held a laugh despite her condition. Even in her moment of dying she would keep a brave face for her son. Swift was a good son, even if he was not the best human being. He did as he was told, but he argued.
“We need to get you to the hospital.”
“You know who controls them. Same man who sent thugs to do this. Shut up Johnathan. I have a story to tell and not much time.” Still she clung to the phone like a lifeline.
“What is it mama?”
Swift held back his tears, rage, burning lust for revenge as he watched his mother die. He saw her wrestle with everything inside, trying to come up with the words. There was so much that even thinking of it took too long. It robbed her of the ability to pass on much. When she knew she had wasted all but the last seconds she smiled at him and shook her head. Her breathing was labored, voice soft. Her arm drooped and the phone fell to the floor.
“You… don’t know half of it. Check… garage… gifts…. From him.” With that and two minutes difficult breathing she was gone.
Swift scooped up the phone once she was no more. He had never been allowed in the garage, not even after he was old enough to drive. Looking at the phone he saw she had a contact, labeled simply I.
I? Ian? Was she calling his father? The man who had abandoned them when Swift was too young to remember? Was that who these gifts were from? If so he did not want them.
Swift opened the door to the garage and met his destiny. Three things that would change his life waited. They called to his soul. Swift found he did want them. They would let him fight, let him avenge his mother. They might even give him a chance at freedom.









#shortstory #novel #writer #author #dark

Sunday, February 22, 2015

Nice! A New Review


I was not expecting this review to be as good as it is. So I'm dancing a bit. After you read this you should go buy the book before you're no longer a hipster with it.

Old Odd Ends will keep you on the edge of your seat until you reach the unexpected end. The story is about good vs. evil with all the ingredients that goes along with it. It is a captivating story. I enjoyed this book very much. This book was a great distraction when I needed some better to think about and enjoy * This book was given to me from the author in exchange for an honest review*






#5star #reviews #novel

Friday, February 20, 2015

How Come it's Got so Cold

Crimson drizzle stained bone white snow with a sizzle of heat only known on the coldest days. Herbert, never Herb, wondered how it had come to this. Was he so old he no longer belonged in the world or was it the thing caged inside of him since ‘Nam? Ah the impatience of youth, from the beginning.
Damn global whatever the hell, thought Herbert as he shoveled the snow in his driveway. Wasn’t it supposed to be getting towards spring? Sixty-five was too old for such tasks. As he insisted on the truth of such ponderings he looked next door and sighed. The widow Blankenship had over twenty years on him and her driveway needed attention. Clearing it out for her was the Christian thing to do.
As he dug the first shovel full out three teenagers appeared on the horizon, which with Herbert’s declining vision meant the edge of the property. Looking at them Herbert knew they were trouble. He cringed inwardly as he mourned the decline of society. Who the hell wore their pants down around the knees, especially in a foot of snow? Seeing one of the thugs motioning to him, Herbert walked to the impromptu conference.
“Pops, we have problem here. This is our territory.” The first boy, probably the leader, with the barrette, or something equally ridiculous sounding, piercing that that looked like a fishhook through his lip.
“Just being neighborly.” Herbert’s voice was proud and strong in spite of his advancing age and the apocalyptic conditions.
“Didn’t you hear? This is our turf!” Teen two, with the unsightly black, plastic saucers replacing and extending his earlobes. “That old bat pays us twenty bucks for five minutes work.”
“Did anyone ever teach you to respect your elders?”
“I’ll show you respect ya old fuck. Get on inside.” Teen three, the one with no metal but acne that would survive until his thirties on his face. “We’ll be over to shovel your house and get the money in about ten minutes.”
“Son, I would ask you to watch your language.”
“That’s it, I warned him. You heard me warn him.”
Permanent acne swung his shovel at Herbert as the other two nodded with mock sorrow. Herbert was old but these punks weren’t trained. He snatched the handle just below the blade and yanked. His leg came out and with the slipper snow the teen fell onto the wide metal of his shovel with a disturbing crunch of shattering teeth and nose.
“You boys have aggression but no training, no discipline, and no respect.”
Stop now, Herbert told himself, before this goes too far. It was too late though. The thing he had caged up since coming home was loose. Besides, saucer ears was advancing.
Herbert lifted his shovel. With a quick thrust driven by wiry muscles long unused but not forgotten the handle met the boy’s esophagus. The teen went down with a disturbing choking gag as he clutched his throat.
“We were punks in my day too but we respected age, skill, and service. Things your self-entitled generation does not learn and thus fails to honor.”
Metal mouth was turning to run but it was too late. Herbert was in another place. The boy was the enemy, Charlie, and he was escaping. Mercy belonged in Korea not Vietnam. Herbert reversed his hold and swung the blade of the shovel at the back of Charlie’s head, connecting with a satisfying thunk that dropped the youth to watery knees and spread crimson through his hair. As Herbert looked at the blood on metal the mist cleared and he returned to the now.
Crimson drizzle stained bone white snow with a sizzle of heat only known on the coldest days. Herbert wondered if this was what the world had come to. Wondered if this was what he had to become. He looked upon his fallen adversaries and felt ashamed of himself, but not as ashamed as he would if they didn’t deserve it.
“I’m sorry that had to happen boys. I’ll call an ambulance for you.”
Herbert turned to make good on the promise. His foot slipped on the unshoveled pink slush and he went down. He heard the telltale snap from his aging hip as he landed.








#shortstory #socialcommentary #author #writer

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Commuter Train

The dentist explained the procedure was too complex for my inferior mind to understand. It was important that it be done. Even more important it be performed Friday at noon. Most important of all, I would be under general anesthesia and feel nothing.
“Alright doctor blood and gums.”
He was not amused. Some people take themselves too seriously. Outside of spies those folks usually insist on being called doctor and hang diplomas on their walls. I tried that with my high school equivalency once. Nobody was impressed.
The dentist went on to tell me, under the influence of this drug patients were known to experience vivid dreams. I might have taken the warning more seriously had he not been trying to stare down the cleavage of nurse big tits. Seriously, she could have been a Bond girl back before they made anorexia a prerequisite. So, I was not prepared for what I fell into. There was no way he could have prepped me for it.
Especially since this was no dream.
Blinking the fog of sleep from my eyes did nothing to stop it clinging to my brain. The dentist may have been right about my mental endowment. I meant to think, but spoke aloud.
“That’s a hand cannon.”
My words were mushy. I acutely focused on the gentleman in a brown car salesman’s suit approaching me. He carried a revolver straight from the OK corral. I risked a glance around the commuter train headed upstate on the late afternoon run. My fellow passengers were few. A bum sleeping in one corner and a woman that could have been the nurse’s younger sister as far from him as possible; no help there. The gentleman in Armani could have been a spy but he was involved only with the stock section. Then there was me with a briefcase handcuffed to my wrist.
“Give me the codes, agent.” He seethed in a villainous midwestern accent.
“I’m not a spy!” My voice cracked.
“This is no time for games.”
“Seriously, dude! If I was a spy would I be here?”
“There is fallacy in your logic.”
“No, seriously. Even self respecting business men don’t train it these days.”
That caused black-suit to harumph. It also caused the (Mormon?) agent to tilt his head. The miniscule delay allowed the real secret agent on the train to act.
The car filled with thunder and a whiff of sulfur. A crimson third eye opened above the blue ones of the dangerous stranger. He fell forward with a, comical if I had not been covered in brains, look of shock on his face.
I sat stunned as the bum re-hid his gun. He retrieved his case. He smiled and spoke in an English accent.
“Thanks partner.”
He slipped off at the next stop, leaving me to look around. The woman was watching me with warm eyes. I presume it was because of the partner. The man in the suit had soiled himself. It was a good day.








#shortstory #writer #author #spy

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Mixed Signals

Stanley is a little bit psychic.
Most of the time that’s annoying. On rare occasions I wish it was full on. Once in a while it comes in handy. Like when he sets you up on a blind date. But you can’t count on it.
“Dude! You’ve been down in the dumps since that last ho-bag dumped you.”
“Stan, first, we dated for months so a little respect. Second, it’s not very nice to say things like that about your sister.”
“She broke your heart and my mom’s not around… bitch. Point is I’ve got a winner for you on Valentines.”
“I admit you’ve had some wins but my worst dates have been your idea too.”
“Like?”
“Lisa…”
“Dude! What was wrong with her?”
“She was a werewolf, you set us up on the full moon.”
“Granted…” Stan doesn’t normally look sheepish. “This one though.”
I made him run down her traits for me, and translated along.
Well rounded – Fat
Nice personality – Butter-face
Passionate – Psycho
Comfortable with herself – Twenty cats
Great cook – Really fat
Demure – Religious whack job
Loves her family – Daddy issues
He sweetened the pot, he thought she was a hero. Capes and tights? No, classic Greco-Roman hero. I agreed, reluctantly.
Stan was to call me at nine thirty, if all was well I would give him the code phrase. If not I would claim an emergency.
You can imagine how surprised I was when I showed up and the girl was gorgeous. I mean like Bridgette Bardot had lesbian sex with your favorite questionable actress and somehow had a baby who was voiced by Mae West beautiful. She smelled like roses, not like the crappy floral perfume your grandma wore too much of but like she rolled in petals until they bruised then came to meet me. Best of all? We hit it off instantly.
I almost didn’t answer the call when it came. Then, I picked it up and gave the code phrase, that’s taken care of. Stan’s response child me to the bone.
“No, dude, there’s a real emergency. She’s about to go crazy bitch on you. I don’t know what’s going to set her off, but you’re in danger.”
I looked at this lovely flower just in time to see her pulling a bow from her purse. She knocked a heart tipped arrows and I knew who’s daughter she was. Just a moment before she had been laughing and pleasant, now she glared at me with the wrath of… well… a god. Her voice was locked in a glacier.
“Let me guess, you have to go? I really liked you too. Why do men have to have the escape route and not just say, ‘this isn’t working’?”
“No…”
Too late. She launched the love arrow at me. My last free thought was more terrifying than it should have been. I wondered what that arrow would do to someone already in love with the woman he was looking at.

Then all I had was hers.





#shortstory #love #magic #mythology #author #writer