Monday, December 29, 2014


Happy New Year to one and all from the Crazy Jesters at Four Fools! Be safe, be blessed, and be careful! We'll be back next week with more bloggy goodness!
Away for New Years
9:20 AM

Away for New Years

Monday, December 22, 2014


We here at Four FOols wanted to wish you all a very blessed and Merry Christmas! Please take time this holiday season to spread a bit of love, cheer, hope, and peace among those you know, meet, and see. Never forget the reason for this Season--the birth of our Savior and Lord, Jesus Christ.

"And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord."
-Luke 2:8-11 (KJV)

We'll be back next week with more awesome Four FOols goodness...Merry Christmas to All--and God Bless us, every one!
Away for Christmas
12:35 PM

Away for Christmas

Saturday, December 20, 2014


12-20-14 Writing Warm-up
Artwork © Maxim Verehin, All Rights Reserved - http://verehin.deviantart.com/ 
Story and Characters © Brannon Hollingsworth, All Rights Reserved 
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

Don't think you can judge me.

You have no idea what my life is like. You accursed, carbon-based Lords of Permanency. I hate you. I hate you all.You live your lives in a state of glorious eternity...never being dismantled by the apathetic forces of the universe. You don't have to feel yourself unwinding. You don't have to experience the unmaking when the Yellow Eye stares down at you with unfeeling ferocity. You don't know what it is to wait in the gradually unspooling span of forever--praying for just the right circumstances, just the right evolutionary opportunity--in which you can be remade.

You have no idea what horror it is to be me.

And then, when finally the opportunity comes again for Life--when, after all the long ages you feel your form being remade--you are demeaned. Not just demeaned, you are belittled, lowered, and subjugated to such a degree that it would, by any other being in the universe, be considered a crime. Imagine existing, peacefully, in your native state--doing no harm to anyone--merely delighting in the ultimate and finally arrived expression of your true self. Imagine the peace. Image the feeling of release and satisfaction after the eternities of waiting and longing. Imagine this...and then your enemy comes and crushes you. Molds you. Changes you..........????????????


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12-20-14 Writing Warm-up
8:15 AM

12-20-14 Writing Warm-up

Friday, December 19, 2014


12-19-14 Writing Warm-up
Artwork © Johnson Ting, All Rights Reserved - http://johnsonting.deviantart.com/ 
Story and Characters © Corey Blankenship, All Rights Reserved 
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

DLOG 03-30-02-B:
Fuji, Shizuoka Prefecture
Nakano
0937 Local

A triple H. this time.

The body count rises as the System struggles to get through its own HUD clutter. You would think the Cyber Crimes units would have found a way to bypass the archaic firewall known in antiquity as bureaucracy. I mean, we’ve made the jump to biosynth, discovered cychopathy+, and ensured the survival of both our species and the synthetic one we fostered...but you can’t just delete human nature.

Not that that wasn’t tried. *Shudder*

Someone is killing our own. We’re down to three units. Three. My old partner could remember when we were in the thousands. It’s like we’re being hunted. Slowly, methodically, thoroughly.

I am now one of the last CI-BR* detectives left. The first waves died putting down a coup. A hundred in a freak accident at the training center. Another company downed in a hover-trans hop. Many left the service after the great defunding of ‘94. Now, despite the upscaling to resist some nasty psycho-war++ business, Cyber C. hasn’t been beefed.

Anywho...

This is supposed to be official. I just don’t find much care left in me for being “official” or “professional” in these things. My Supe is dead, replaced by an Interim Virtual Interface (INVI). It doesn’t even detect sarcasm. Just hums, beeps, and collates. These H.s are gettin’ pretty nasty. Heads roasted and popped like an overcooked melon. Based on the placement of the bodies, they were enjoying a collective brain-tank**...Maybe one of them thought up a Riviera cafe, a traditional lodge next to Fuji, or even a smoky pub in 1940s Oxford. Who knows. Someone slipped in and turned them into headless horsemen.

Strange thing to note:

The think-tank took place on a sidewalk next to the gardens. Commuters clogged the streets, loungers covered the greens....people everywhere. Sure, you can brain-talk anywhere, but people still get spooked by the white eyes. No sunglasses, helmets, or paper screens means we either have shameless citizens, tourists, or something else going on.

Their bio-feeds show them to be locals...

Rules out tourists.

Their latest Cloud archives reflect intense isolation and introspection in all of them...

Classic Hikikimori***.

Also, from what I could jack, these were all analysts for Shingori Security. Even with Full-Transparency clearance, their project files wouldn’t decrypt. Whatever it was these cloistered crypts had been working on, it must have been big. Big enough to drive them out of their holes into a rushed mind-meld.

And now they are dead.

Just noticed an innocuous folder titled “Food.”

Would have overlooked it, except for curiosity at what a hikikimori likes to eat. Wow, no digital-to-door gourmet service. It’s chock full of personnel profiles, case studies, and feverish, near-gibberish notes. Looks like one of them had been a huge fan of CI-BRs. Cute. Articles, posters, commendations, (outdated) training manuals, casualties...shit. There’s a paper titled Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? in here. One section includes intimate details on all current CI-BRs. Too intimate. I’m in here. We’re called, mavericks, nuisances, and traitors. It outlines our habits, hobbies, homes--Everything. Even has tactics tailored to each of our tendencies. The file
..........?????????????


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12-19-14 Writing Warm-up
6:53 AM

12-19-14 Writing Warm-up

Thursday, December 18, 2014


12-18-14 Writing Warm-up
Artwork © ???, All Rights Reserved - 
Story and Characters © R. R. Hunsinger, All Rights Reserved 
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories” 

The snow muffled her tread through the wood, concealing her movement, yet revealed her path to those that pursued. Elowen, daughter of Bran, wife to Bjorn, the Jarl of Svilgard dropped to her knees to the frozen forest floor. Her breath steamed in the freezing air as she knelt, sweat beaded her fair forehead from the exertion of her run through the wood, and the battle that had stained the sword in her grip.

They had come out of the mist, raiding knarrs that had braved the ice-choked fjord to surprise Bjorn and his folk. The watchmen had been stalwart in their task, blowing the horns to warn the people. They had died with their warnings echoing off the surrounding hills. The men of the hall were true warriors and had kept their blood worms near at hand. Quickly and without fear, the men armed themselves to meet the attack. Her husband had been with them and she had been by his side.

She heard the snap of a branch, a deliberate sound.

Elowen did not move, but cut her eyes up to see a looming figure in blackened mail and bear-skin cloak towering above her. The black helm shadowed the features above the thick, grizzled beard that framed a grinning mouth. Pale eyes seemed to glow within the dark recesses of the face guard. The warrior’s fist gripped a rune etched dark steel blade. A shield hitched over his shoulder, as well as the amassed skins he wore added to his sheer bulk.

She knelt there, wondering now, why she ran. Better that she had stayed and fought, to fall with those that served Bjorn, and through him, her, so faithfully. She led warriors and fought in the shield wall. They held for a time, but the raiders that came against them managed to force a wedge between her men and the rest of Svilgard’s defenders. They gave ground grudgingly, each falling only when three of the foe had been sent ahead of them. But fall they did, her men urged her to fall back, to save herself as the wife of the Jarl. With a heavy heart she left her friends, the huscarls of her husband, to fall without her.

Elowen stood, her chest burning with the cold and exertion further drained her strength. She gripped her sword, her father’s sword, Thorn. She would not allow them to take her alive. She would send many ahead to serve her in death. “Come then, let us finish this!” She could see the rest of the huge warrior’s men moving among the trees, grey shadows like shades of Hel.

“You have a familiar look to you, child,” the huge warrior rumbled. A strange statement for the reaver, she thought. He seemed to take little notice of her fighting stance, or the blade she carried. The raider’s bright eyes studied her. “You would not be the child of Bran? Elwen?”

“Elowen, and I do not know you. I warn you, do not try and take me for ransom! I will kill myself if you manage to take me alive.” She stepped back, her grey eyes flashed, and her jaw set, preparing to attack before the rest of the men closed..........?????????????


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12-18-14 Writing Warm-up
7:53 AM

12-18-14 Writing Warm-up

Wednesday, December 17, 2014


12-17-14 Writing Warm-up
Artwork © Nelson Evergreen, All Rights Reserved - http://nelson-evergreen.blogspot.it
Story and Characters © Craven Pierce, All Rights Reserved 
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

On the first day of Cthulmas
My true lord gave to me
A madman’s twisted fantasy.

On the second day of Cthulmas,
My true lord gave to me
Two deep ones
And madman’s twisted fantasy.

On the third day of Cthulmas,
My true lord gave to me
Three frog-spawn
Two deep ones
And a madman’s twisted fantasy.

On the fourth day of Cthulmas,
My true lord gave to me
Four crawling bholes,
Three frog-spawn
Two deep ones
And a madman’s twisted fantasy.

On the fifth day of Cthulmas,
My true lord gave to me
Five yellow kings,
Four crawling bholes,
Three frog-spawn,
Two deep ones
And a twisted madman’s fantasy.

On the sixth day of Cthulmas,
My true lord gave to me
Six gugs a-slaying,
Five yellow kings,
Four crawling bholes,
Three frog-spawn,
Two deep ones,
And a madman’s twisted fantasy.

On the seventh day of Cthulmas,
My true lord gave to me
Seven shantaks a-shrieking,
Six gugs a-slaying,
Five yellow kings,
Four crawling bholes,
Three frog-spawn,
Two deep ones,
And a madman’s twisted fantasy.

On the eighth day of Cthulmas,
My true lord gave to me
Eight Monks of Mu,
Seven shantaks a-shrieking,
Six gugs a-slaying,
Five yellow kings,
Four crawling bholes,
Three frog-spawn,
Two deep ones,
And a madman’s twisted fantasy.

On the ninth day of Cthulmas,
My true lord gave to me
Nine Lloigor dancing,
Eight Monks of Mu,
Seven shantaks a-shrieking,
Six gugs a-slaying,
Five yellow kings,
Four crawling bholes,
Three frog-spawn,
Two deep ones,
And a madman’s twisted fantasy.

On the tenth day of Cthulmas,
My true lord gave to me
Ten Lords a-sleeping,
Nine Lloigor dancing,
Eight Monks of Mu,
Seven shantaks a-shrieking,
Six gugs a-slaying,
Five yellow kings,
Four crawling bholes,
Three frog-spawn,
Two deep ones,
And a madman’s twisted fantasy.

On the eleventh day of Cthulmas.........?????????????

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12-17-14 Writing Warm-up
8:19 AM

12-17-14 Writing Warm-up

Tuesday, December 16, 2014


12-16-14 Writing Warm-up
Artwork © Kerem Beyit, All Rights Reserved - http://kerembeyit.deviantart.com/
Story and Characters © Corey Blankenship, All Rights Reserved 
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

“Full sails! FULL SAILS!!!”

“I’m givin’ ‘er all she’s got, Cap’n! I’m a Wind-Catcher, not a Wind-Maker.”

“Don’t give me yer lip, Red-Beard! I’ve ‘ad enough of yer railin’s to last me a lifetime...and it better be a long lifetime at that.”

The dour sailor spat back. “It would be as long as the sky is large if you’d followed my advice. That Jonas clan is a whale of an albatross, if one ever did swim these sky-streams.”

“I said, SAILS, not lip!”


“Aye, Cap…”

The captain would have spitted and tossed the burly engineer overboard if he had a replacement. The mouthy savage had a way with running his yap as mightily as a ship. But he needed him today, more than any other day, to work his wonders. A Titan was hot on their tails.

By Odin’s beard he’d been right...not that I’d let that foul islander know it.

Far to the right sailed their cruel nemesis, the Jonah Clan. They were smug and swift, edging off in their skiff just as the monster awakened. How the colossus awoke, Captain Fiske would have paid all the treasures in Valhal to know. These Jonas, as the Gael liked to call them, seemed to have a knack for stirring up ancient ills. Rumors of drakes and trolls seemed all-too-closely tied to the fell-fliers. Now giants could be added to the lot.

“Ragnarok will be in tow, if these Loki’s sons have their way…” Fiske muttered into his frosty beard.

“What’s the status of our cannons, Spear-Spouter?” The ship’s master howled down into the hold.

A bent man scurried to the base of the ladder. “The powder’s low, but we should be able to get off a shot or two. Not that it would dent that beast, Sah! Fellin’ ships is one thing. Only Mimirs-draught could tell how to kill a giant!”

“By Odin’s beard, did Loki switch out my men with girls?! Stop wettin’ yer lips with mead and start packin’ the spear-spewers.”

Fiske whirled about, fur cloak snapping like an angry tail behind him. His piercing black eyes fell upon three men-at-arms standing ready for orders to board. The captain licked his bristled lips before shouting across the clamor from the oncoming terror. The giant’s bellows knocked words about like a fighter tossed scrawny runts.

“Here’s Tyrs-own! Have hands on your blood-embers, men. We will lay a red-mist about this raven-road yet.”

Fiske’s eyes gleamed with a hidden fire. He reached deep into the cauldron of his soul, as the grove-tenders had taught him. He could feel the warm fire gnaw up from the depths, writhing into his chest and up his arm. A horrible pain wracked his limb as a cruel, fanged blade blasted from his palm. Fiske anticipated this familiar, ravenous pain. He glanced lovingly at the ivory blade extending from his hand.

Fish-Bone may be Hel’s gift, but a mightier blood-worm you won’t find in all the realms men tread.

The Jonas may have their magics, but we’ll spine them yet.


The massive Titan plowed meadhall-sized fingers into the mountains about him. Slabs of rock uprooted from their ancient resting places as lightly as one would pull grass from the soil. The iron-hided titan then heaved the hill-sized shards into the air. The towering stone hurtling miles above the earth appeared to be floating mountains...floating mountains that moved ever nearer by the second. The sun disappeared as.........?????????????


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12-16-14 Writing Warm-up
11:16 AM

12-16-14 Writing Warm-up

Monday, December 15, 2014


12-15-14 Writing Warm-up
Artwork © Phuoc Quan, All Rights Reserved - http://nkabuto.deviantart.com/
Story and Characters © R. R. Hunsinger, All Rights Reserved 
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

London, Fall 1904

London had a different feel than Boston, or even New York. It was more than topography, country, or nuance of language. Even the architecture, while different in age and styles, did not set the city apart as much as the very air. The fog and coal smoke were ubiquitous, but the ancient feeling of the atmosphere here in this metropolis that had existed since the Romans was what set it apart from its sisters across the Pond.

Reese contemplated this absently as he smoked his cigar. The rhythmic click of the tip of his cane upon the wet cobbles of the street. He had left is cousin that had summoned him across from the family’s home in America. A twelve day crossing on the Arabic saw him in Liverpool and then his cousin’s home outside London. Now, after a companionable meal, which they had discussed their business at length, and then a performance in Piccadilly, he was making his way to rooms he had taken for an indefinite time.

He exhaled smoke with a hint of leather and earth, to mingle with the ever-present mists that swirled about the city on such nights as this. It was nights such as this that seemed to attract the predators, those that prey on stragglers, solitary sorts, or the unwary. Just as well, for he too was solitary, but he was not prey, he was one of the predators. This is why dear cousin Maynard Reese had sent him a cable to come to London, one that implored him to make haste as his skills were needed. Skills as a hunter of men and monsters; sometimes they were one and the same. In his fifty years of life he had handled cattle, mined, and soldiered. However, all had ultimately been in the pursuit of the family occupation of facing down and destroying those things that would prey on humanity.

He had retired to the family home in Boston when Maynard had contacted him about the disappearance of numerous children in White Chapel. Like Five Points and Boston’s West End, this was no great thing of note. Though even fifteen years later, the London neighborhood was synonymous with the Ripper. Two of the missing children had been found, it was the state in which they had been discovered that had prompted the cable.

The flesh had been bleached, the eyes and organs removed. The first, a boy of twelve, had been discovered in the basement of a tenement. It was believed the killer had been interrupted in disposing of the body and disappeared. That was when Maynard sent the cable. The second, in a similar state was discovered while Reese was on the train from Liverpool.

Maynard, a detective himself, had set up an appointment in the morning to examine the body. They would investigate the site where the body was discovered after. Now he walked the streets of White Chapel, not in any belief that he would run up on some clue or the villains themselves. That was the stuff of Dime Novels and Penny Dreadfuls. Rather he was exploring the battlefield, the neighborhoods, the alleys, and the corners. He did not know this place, he wanted to feel where his foe hunted, to possibly understand the mind or how it might turn.

Suddenly, Reese saw shadows shift, scuffling steps, and cries muffled by a hand...or perhaps something else.......?????????????

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12-15-14 Writing Warm-up
7:25 AM

12-15-14 Writing Warm-up

Saturday, December 13, 2014


12-13-14 Writing Warm-up
Artwork © Krzysztof Szafulski, All Rights Reserved - http://shapk.deviantart.com/
Story and Characters © Corey Blankenship, All Rights Reserved 
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”


Light and heat coursed through her veins faster than blood. White filled her vision, a blindness made of sheer brightness. The cool water had burned the instant she submerged, but now was replaced by void, light, and power. All she could remember before the radiance was the frescoed ceiling above the pool, a serene shepherd cradling a sheep. A shaft of pure something had blazed like lightning from above, striking her in the chest. She felt suspended in a great emptiness that was somehow also ever filling and always full.

Her eyes adjusted to the intense glow. The pool had deepened and grown into an endless ocean. New lights separated from within the expanse of light, spheres of varied hues and colors. Wheels of fire danced far away, whirling to a tune which had been unheard by mortal ears for aeons. Luminous tendrils laced around her from the beam above, holding her in a gentle warmth.  The brilliant shaft of light remained focused on her hovering form. Fear and confusion could not exist here, foreign as frost in the heart of a fire. Instead, a pleasant curiosity drew her gaze once more toward the cosmic gleam.

“Well done, my child.”

The words, if thunder can be called words, came from above, around, within. The orbs glow grew livelier, the water clearer, and the light cleaner as if in response. The power throbbing through this place, through her, grew exponentially in the echo. The rain-rinsed air from a thousand springs, filled with a myriad summers’ proud suns, joined with a century of venerable falls, coupled with a hundred winters’ freshest snows, could not have captured the essence of how pleasant, sweet, and strong this presence felt to her. She felt Life, and because of it she felt alive. Alive in a way she had not been in years. More alive than she had ever been.

“I…”

The sound seemed so frail after the thunder, tinged with the rain of joyful tears. She recognized the spoken syllable was her own. A hush had come upon her for...what? A second? A minute? A decade? A millennia? Both time and history fled here in a tempo that could not keep pace with the cadence of this new world around her. Her life seemed to be lost in the ages. All those battles, victories, tragedies, losses, romances, and joys had vanished. Even the shepherd, the pool, and the kind man who had helped her into the water; these things from her most recent past now appeared remote. Personal life felt like fable--a myth soon enough forgotten in the ether. Reality swallowed up her shadowy existence in its sudden encroachment. She blinked and spoke again.

“I am free…”

The wheels of light, the ceaseless waters, and the ever-burning radiance whirled and danced in laughter in response to a joke she had not heard. Then a rumbling voice shook the whole of the firmament and cast the entire sea into a frothing churn. The Voice spoke, and this time she caught something else in the tone. Something she had longed for ever since the shadow had lodged deep within her heart. In her dreams, she had thought she would relish the eradication of the oily whisper from within. Instead, the addition of the new voice filled the moment; her mind; her soul; her entire world. The other, even its memory, disappeared completely in the rumbling voice’s wake. It was a still, tender voice; a fatherly, lordly voice. The Voice many wild men and quiet sisters had spoken of in her now-distant life. Now, the Voice spoke to her. Tears burst forth, running down her pale cheeks into the endless mere below.

“Welcome Home, Roksana…”
***

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12-13-14 Writing Warm-up
3:11 PM

12-13-14 Writing Warm-up

Friday, December 12, 2014


12-12-14 Writing Warm-up
Artwork © Craig Robertson/Toronto Sun/QMI Agency, All Rights Reserved - http://www.torontosun.com/2014/01/07/brutal-cold-descends-on-toronto
Story and Characters © Brannon Hollingsworth, All Rights Reserved 
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”


"They must first be tested; and then if there is nothing against them, let them serve as deacons."
- 1 Timothy 3:10

"Get up!" the disembodied voice pealed discordantly. Cletus wished, for the billionth time, that it had feet, or hands, or something with which to deal physically with this particular charge. "I said get up, Deacon! Hurry!"

The great, grey block of a man rumbled like a sliding tectonic plate but successfully ignored the all-too familiar voice in his head. He levered an eyelid open – a bit – and groaned at the stabbing intrusion daylight brought. He could have sworn those blinds had been closed before. He’d no doubt that Cletus had somehow worked that “little miracle” just for him.

"Shush, Cletus, my head’s splittin'."

"Just desserts, my friend, or have you forgotten the bit about, 'not indulging in much wine'?"

"Yea, yea. Just give me a bit'o'peace, will ya?" The man feebly swatted a thick-fingered hand through the air. He knew that he would not be able to strike Cletus, but the symbolic gesture seemed to work: Cletus' echoing voice had dissipated. The damage had been done, though, and now that he was awake, he could not coax his hammering head back into submission. He only had two options, lie on the cold floor in misery or get up and get to feeling better. Being the man of action that he was, he chose the latter.

***

The shadows of afternoon were creeping up the long, narrow streets by the time he rose, splashed some aspirin down his throat, some water on his face and tossed on a shabby coat to ward away the late fall nip.  Steam billowed out of sewer grates along the traffic-clogged streets; the venting columns of haze reminded him of the cheesy fogger machines he’d seen in the cheap plays downtown.

A lot like this world – just a low-budget, second-rate version of that which was real…

He grunted to himself, tucked his scraggly, badly-in-need-of-a-shave chin to his barrel chest and trudged onward through the gathering gloom. He caught the whiff of coming snow in the air and quickened his pace, if his mother – God rest her soul – had been there, she’d have chided him about going outside in the wind without a hat. The man raised his eyes to the skies as he passed from the lemony glow of a sodium street light; or was she thinking that right n--

"Heya dere big fellah! Spare some change?" A gap-toothed voice issued from a gap-toothed mouth connected to a ragamuffin-of-a-man hunched over a steam vent in the sidewalk. The way he was crouched over the steaming vent, wrapped in several layers of warm, smoky air, shredded cardboard and cast-off, filthy rags, all woven into a make-shift blanket, made him look like a nightmare Humpty Dumpty.

Deacon paused, and looked the man over with steely grey eyes. Long ago, he’d been given a gift, some called it discernment; some, that was, who did not know any better. He’d had a long time to hone and focus that gift into what it was meant to be: a powerful tool for learning lots about potential enemies and allies. As his gaze fell over Humpty, Deacon knew that the man would only use the money to buy booze, which he would then use to drink himself into oblivion. Oblivion that would come quickly and help the man bear the bone-numbing night spent on a frost-limed, coarse, concrete bed. But that was not all - he could see much further, deeper, into the man than merely that.

Humpty drank to escape things: things like the frigid, biting, night air and his shattered, scarred past which sprang, screaming and frothing into his terrified dreams each night. Humpty drank to give the world an excuse to hate him, because he was filled with self-hatred; if the world despised and loathed him, he reasoned internally; then who was he to argue? Humpty had willingly placed himself in a vicious, down-spiraling cycle of self-deprivation followed by self-loathing.

Steely grey eyes blinked and the gift had done its work. One corner of the big man's usually down-mouth cocked up in a half-grin. He extended his hand Humpty Dumpty - to what many would have considered to have been no more than a pile of human refuse – and replied.

"Th' name's Deacon. How's about somethin' even better than some change? How about a change?"

It took some convincing, but eventually, Deacon coaxed Humpty – who's real name was Carl – up from his grate-roost as the first frosty flakes fell. They went and shared a hot meal and two bottomless mugs of steaming joe in the back corner of a no-count diner in the wrong section of town. As his belly warmed, so too did Carl's tongue; he soon discovered that Deacon was actually listening to him and what's more that the big man wanted to listen to him.

And then the real work began.

Before morning, the first real snow of the season had fallen: six feet of wet, white wonderfulness. Another wonder had occurred – Carl had stayed warm and dry through the whole of the night – and by morning, had made a decision to turn his life completely upside down and strike off in a totally new direction. The words that his new-found friend resonated with him, as did the compassion that came with them.

Deacon took no pride in what had been done; he was just a player and had done his part – like he’d been doing for years and years.  It was just part of who he was and he could not change it anymore than he could the color of his thinning grey hair or the fact that he cursed way too much.

As he trudged home in the cold, still light of the morning something stopped him dead in his tracks. It was Humpty’s – Carl’s – grate and it was covered with a huge snow drift. Sometime during the night, the warm air had stopped flowing and the snow had begun piling.

"I told you to hurry." Cletus’ voice chimed like a silver bell in Deacon's head.

Deacon, eyes wide with fear and awe, could only nod in silence.

***

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12-12-14 Writing Warm-up
2:39 PM

12-12-14 Writing Warm-up