Four Fools Press: #WritingWarmup

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Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Story and Characters © Brannon Hollingsworth & Davis Riddle, All Rights Reserved
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

I remember the old man’s words, spoken in firelight amid a frozen wasteland:

“Two deer are trained. One deer is bound to the hunter, it is called the bound deer. The other deer goes among its wild brethren, it is called the lure deer. When the wild deer lie down to rest, the lure deer lies down as well. The bound deer knows this and lies down too. It is then that the hunter knows that it is time to strike and with his deadly arrows, comes and takes the wild deer, at unawares.”

I know that I am the lure deer. She made me thus. And now, I lie down amid the wild deer, and I await the arrows of death to come. This place is ripe with death already. My task here is easy. I have only to play my part as the lure deer.

One of the kine comes to me. This one fancies himself a saviour. Amid all this war: chaos, hatred, and death, this one seeks to save men by the skill of his hand. I have dealt with many like him over the long years. Some have claimed to heal with magic, some with faith, and now, with science. They are all the same: dirty charlatans dealing in false hope, scoundrels selling life. I will have nothing to do with him.

“I don’t need your leeches,” I spat. “Leave me be.”

The kine does not expect this. His words tumble from his mouth like the ignorant concepts from which they are born. “I have no leeches. Where are you hurt?”

These fools never learn. Not until it is too late. Not until they see my Lady’s Wrath bearing down upon them. Not until all their lights have gone out, and hope is finally lost. “Leave me be,” I reply.

Then, a most glorious thing happens. The kine touches me. I could feel my Lady’s Gifts - my little ones, within my body stir with rapture. I love it when they come close to me, these confused, foolish men. The closer they are, the easier it is to give them what they so deserve. The closer they are, the easier it becomes to please the one who pleases me: my Dark One. The Twilight Lady.

The kine moves me, rolling me onto my back, and I can see the horror, the disbelief, wash over his dull, stupid features. They all look so alike--these featureless mounds of mobile flesh and bone--and they all act so alike. This man cannot believe what his eyes tell him: my gaping, seeping wounds, the scent of rotting meat that wafts from my gut… All of my Lady’s terrible and glorious gifts.

The kine moves away, mortified.

I am happy. I have touched another one. Another darkly shining gem in my Lady’s ebon crown has been found. Now, there is only the waiting. I must wait for the hunter to come, with his deadly arrows, and claim the prize.

It is hard to keep from smiling as I roll back into the war-churned, bloody mud.

I am a good lure deer. I will please Her.

***

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04-15-15 Wednesday Warm-up

10:25 AM

04-15-15 Wednesday Warm-up

#brannon #hollingsworth #pox #Wednesday #WritingWarmup

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

"Please state your name, Sir." The reporter tried to level his green-eyed gaze at me, but he simply did not have it in him. The kid was young, and inexperienced. With his explosion of tawny, curly red hair and peach fuzz on his chin, he looked like someone trying to get me to buy lemonade at his stand, not grill me for his campus newspaper. I doubted he'd had much experience with getting angry with the subjects of his interviews before.

I deadpanned, "I'd rather not."

Emerald orbs fluttered and lips spluttered. "Ah. Um. Ok. Well, this is Timothy Hammer, reporting with the New Dawn magazine. It is April 13, 2001 and we're sitting in the Padre Hotel in Bakersfield, California - reportedly one of the Golden State's most haunted sites. I'm speaking with Mr. X -- a purported expert in things paranormal -- in response to last night's explosive Coast to Coast radio show. What New Dawn readers would like to know, Mr. X, is what can you tell us about Shadow People?"

I knew that the recording would likely not even make. Devices like that simply do not mix well with those of my ilk. It did not matter, however, I knew what I had to say was for this man, if no one else. I know the Truth, and I'm bound to speak it--forever.

I glanced to my right and Áine was nodding vigorously. Her blue eyes were gone--replaced with my own odd eyes--and she was screaming. "TELL HIM! TELL HIM! YOU DIDN'T TELL ME, TENET! TELL HIM, YOU BAST-!"

"-Sir! Are you well?" Timothy asked, his voice panicked. I could only imagine what my pale face looked like, faced with Áine's rantings. Of course, Timothy could not see her, still screaming as she was. Áine was my own personal revenant with which to deal.

I sighed. "Believe me...you don't want to know what they are. What they are is the sort of thing that will scare a sane person so badly as to cause them to run screaming to their beds, pull the covers over their heads, and never, ever come out. That doesn't change the fact that they are absolutely real, that their greatest desire is to create massive amounts of fear and that they definitely are not, by any means, "people". Far from it, actually."

Timothy looked like he was shocked that I could string so many words together all at once. I could not blame him. I'd probably not spoken more than five words in a row to him since we'd met over a year ago, in this very hotel, in fact.

"So, where do these...things come from? What are they?" he asked.

"We will continue calling them Shadow People for now. Of all the things we could call them, this gives them the least amount of power. Despite what you might have heard, Shadow People have been around since shortly after the Fall, which is also their origin."

Timothy looked perplexed. "The Fall? Do you mean the fall of Man, as mentioned in the Bible?"

I nodded, stroking my black and silver-streaked chin beard. "Yes, as detailed in the third chapter of Genesis..."

The reported lad laughed aloud. "Mr. X, surely you do not expect me, or the readers of the New Dawn, to accept the Bible as a credible source? That is preposterous!"

I arched a brow. "Really? What, then, do you think that Zebul was referring to when he spoke to Gaal?"

The look on Timothy's face was priceless. It was the same as if I'd just told him that his breakfast was made of manna -- complete confusion and utter bewilderment. I spared him and continued speaking, "Judges, chapter 9, verse 36: 'And when Gaal saw the people, he said to Zebul, “Look, people are coming down from the tops of the mountains!” But Zebul said to him, “You see the shadows of the mountains as if they were men.'"

The young reporter scrunched up his face. "So...so, what are you saying?"

"Simply that. These things that you refer to as Shadow People have been amongst us for quite some time."

"You've still not told me what you think these things are, Mr. X."

A scowl passed over my pale features, and while Áine screeched into my ear like a banshee (unheard by the other Padre patrons) I contemplated my next words carefully. "I KNOW what these things are Timothy...but I shall not tell you. Not only would you not believe me, it is not for you to know at this time. Suffice it to say that they are tied to Berith and the Sons of Hamor."

I watched the blood drain from Timothy's face.

"H-H-Hamor?" he stuttered.

"Yes", I nodded. "Your ancient ancestors..."

***

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04-08-15 Wednesday Write-up

2:24 PM

04-08-15 Wednesday Write-up

#tenetstales #Wednesday #WritingWarmup

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Artwork © Frans Mensink, All Rights Reserved
Image Altered by Four Fools Press Without Permission
Story and Characters © Corey Blankenship, All Rights Reserved
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

In response to a fantastic review, author Corey Blankenship seeks to give interested fans a little more insight into his latest novel, Night's Nadir! Let us know what you think! Warning: Some spoilers lurk inside this "epi-prologue" intermission between Barnabas' adventures!

“Priority alpha…?”

His head swam as if a bottle of rubbing alcohol had been dumped inside his skull. He went to rub his temples and immediately regretted the gesture. His fingers pressed thick gauze through a ragged hole, touching the scratchy material to something hard and smooth: bone. The rubbing alcohol ignited into a mind-gnawing inferno. Barnabas nearly spilled his insides on the table as his head spasmed away from his betraying hand.

“You might not want to touch that,” a gentle voice admonished.

Barnabas opened puffy eyelids, which ached from the effort. Light pounced through the open wounds, adding heat to his mental fire. Whatever vigor brought him to life had ebbed to a nearly mortal scale. What a hellacious dream… The internal moan swirled to the front of the turbulent fumes of his smouldering thoughts. Then, a steel resolve closed around the pain, screening it off into a proper kiln to distill his memories. His gaze narrowed and took in the scene about him. Barnabas had been taken to the wire before--though he had never crossed the Line as he had after the despairing flight from the mines of Mufkat.

Mufkat...

Few details adorned the room. The sterile stucco walls, sandstone tiled floors, and solid cedar door suggested the grizzled veteran remained in the Middle East. Barnabas noted that the stainless steel table underneath his hands offered scant reflection, scoured of any detail or edges. Heavy pieces of forged metal clung and chafed unforgivingly at his wrists: handcuffs. He adjusted his stiff legs. Besides the bone-searing ache in every muscle and joint, a dull chink told him the truth.

Barnabas had been taken prisoner.

“Interesting…” A man pronounced in a polished, emotionless tone.

The veteran studied the figure who leaned against the far wall. Hazel eyes, devoid of apparent interest, scrutinized the prisoner; his manicured beard and hair, both the color of riverbed silt, framed his impassive gaze and sharp jawline; his two-piece suit and coordinated tie announced his allegiance. Barnabas’ gut kindled. The warning beacon reached the will-induced calm section of his mind.

Sector 7.

The captive looked from the oily-haired agent to his partner. The agent sat before Barnabas, his features softer than the others, crowned by neatly-parted golden locks. Only the thick, Norse-looking beard kept him from looking like a cherub. Sapphire eyes sparkled, lines stretching out along the skin around them. The well-worn folds around his gaze hinted to Barnabas this one felt the pains of others. A decanter and cup sat in front of the agent. He pushed the crystal glass across the table into Barnabas’ reach.

“Here, drink. This will help with your headache,” the captor offered.

“What is in it?” Barnabas croaked as he eyed the clear liquid.

“Just water. It’s pure, straight from the Source,” the man added.

Barnabas noted the strange emphasis on Source, but his gut didn’t trigger. Perhaps this will quench the furnace in my skull...or poison me. An occupational hazard, the veteran mused. He sipped, then chugged as the frigid water rinsed over his cracked lips, parched gum beds, and down his arid throat. A pleasant tingling flushed through starved tissue, as though thousands of tributaries awakened and carried the enlivening fluid into the ravaged desert of his body. What had been a wasteland of torn flesh bristled with renewed vitality. The skin around his wrapped wounds shivered with a tickling sensation. The heady warmth of revelry started to replace the famished hunger of pain in his head. He nearly tossed the cup across the table in his hunger for more.

“Hold on there, Barnabas,” the standing man commanded in his languid tone.

“We’ll give you more. Don’t worry,” offered the one at the table.

“How do you know my name?” Strength returned to Barnabas’ voice. So did suspicion.

“You’re well known to the Sector,” the first agent replied, “at least to those who have to deal with your antics.”

“The Sector wastes its resources if it keeps tabs on a lowly soldier,” Barnabas countered.

The agent stepped from the wall and leaned over the table. His voice sparked with a flinty tone. “A professor-turned-paramilitary officer is not so low as you think. Especially for the group you’ve thrown in with.”

“Silas,” the other agent interjected, putting a hand on his partner’s arm. “Let’s take things slowly. He just stepped back from the Other Side, after all. Besides, it would’ve been more work for us if he remained in the Pit.”

Silas sighed. “Yeah, guess you’re right, Thomas. Then again,” Silas returned his steely gaze to the prisoner, “him having the Piece makes things sticky. A lot more sticky.”

“True,” Thomas poured a glass of water, but didn’t pass it to captive. “Why don’t you help us fill in the blanks, Barnabas? What happened in the mines?”

Barnabas stared at the glass, then at Thomas. This wasn’t his first interrogation. “You know my name and rank. That is all you need to know.”

Sad lines furrowed further in Thomas’ face. Silas frowned. “You can either tell us or we will draw the memories kicking and screaming from your head.”

The words came without menace, as if spoken as fact.

Thomas nudged the glass closer, but not quite into arm’s reach. “It’s far simpler if you share in your own words--and much more pleasant for everyone involved.”

“What would you care to hear a Jadd’s story of ancestors, the Land of Turquoise, and the pride of being the first civilization?” chuckled the prisoner.

Silas tersely replied, “Everything. You’re no grandfather, and we both know there is more to the story.”

“True,” Barnabas stretched the word. His temple throbbed. “I have not been so fortunate to settle down. Your kind keeps me busy abroad.”

“You underestimate our patience, Barnabas.” Thomas interrupted. “Your deflections, while humorous, only delay the process. But they do not disrupt our progress. We have you here. We will eventually have the Altar Piece.”

“So you plan to take the turquoise wall panel? You’d destroy a priceless artifact?” The veteran quipped.

Silas laughed. “No, that stone will stay locked in the earth. Your men will see to that.”

Thomas weighed in. “We get the Altar Piece. You get the vault. It’s a win-win.”

Barnabas wondered why they gave up on the mines. More would lurk in the parallel tunnels the other squad had entered. What did they want? The vault has the Gate and Keystone to the Pharoah's Prison. He mentally added, of Djinn, apparently.

He didn't want to know what price the kings of old had paid to seal, and then wield, such spirits. A terrible secret he hoped the Sons could keep from foul hands.

As if reading his mind, Silas tipped his hand, “Whatever happened in the vault, you walked away with the Altar Piece. The Boss only knows why…but we are here to collect it.”

The image of a blue-flamed cross shimmered in Barnabas’ mind. Then a golden-red storm consumed it. He shuddered.

“Herein lies the problem. We can’t get the Piece out of you. Not yet, anyway…” continued Silas.

“It’s not yours to have,” Barnabas retorted. Whatever he had, he would not surrender it.

“Nor is it yours,” Silas answered deadpan.

Thomas pressed the cup into the prisoner’s hands. “We want to free you from this burden. It’s not yours to bear. Look at the state it’s already left you in.”

Barnabas accepted the drink and imbibed with more reserve. Another wave of clarity and cleansing coursed through him. He felt like a new man. The image of hissing fangs and hungering fire fizzled. The symbol of the handled cross burned clearer. His most recent past ordered itself, and, for a time, could not haunt him. He remembered the Gate. He remembered the djinn. He remembered the Power. Power that the springwater seemed to feed.

“What do mean by Altar Piece?” Barnabas queried.

Thomas smiled faintly, “All you need to know is that these artifacts belong in the most secure place possible. Mufkat had been safe enough, until your group from the Sons of Alexandria uncovered the secret vault’s existence.”

“Sorry to be so productive,” the veteran added wryly.

“Anyway, we will move these Pieces forthwith out of the Field,” Silas concluded. “Starting with the one inside your head.”

“I’m afraid gentlemen, it won’t be so easy.” Barnabas said. “These artifacts belong in the hands of museums.”

The veteran had already guessed the door would be locked. He hadn’t seen weapons, but he knew appearances were deceiving. Whatever these agents were capable of, he knew they hadn’t prepared for him to use the Piece. Perhaps they thought he didn’t know what it was or how to use it. Unless he wanted to stay and stretch his military-grade counter-interrogation training, Barnabas would have to activate the symbol. What had they called him?, he recalled.

The Wild Card.

He smiled broadly and said in a generous tone, “Thank you for the hospitality and insightful conversation, but I have a mission to finish.”

The veteran mentally touched the Mark lurking inside him. The Ankh blazed into sight on his forehead and violently flashed, filling the room in blinding azure flames. Barnabas disappeared, engulfed in fire. In the afterglow, the stucco blackened to tar and the floor to soot. The door had enkindled along its frame.

“Sulphur and Smoke!” cursed Silas, patting his fuming suit.

Thomas collected himself off the floor and righted the warped table. “We better alert the entire Sector.”

Silas grimaced. He touched an uncomfortably warm earpiece, sending out the alert. “...and now the Wild Card knows that there are other Pieces. I repeat, Priority Alpha is at large.”

***

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3-18-15 Wednesday Write-up

2:47 PM

3-18-15 Wednesday Write-up

#AmazonBestseller #Barnabas #Blankenship #Corey #detective #drama #exploration #fiction #literature #Sectof7 #SectofSeven #Sector7 #tenetstales #Wednesday #WritingExcercise #WritingWarmup

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Artwork © Kezrek, All Rights Reserved - http://kezrek.deviantart.com/
Story and Characters © Corey Blankenship, All Rights Reserved
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

We delved too deep.

Water threatened to crush us in its Olympian jaws. We had passed thousands of meters into the Abyssal region of the sea. We were alone in an ever-blinding dark. I expected the Ferryman to come and ask how we had strayed so far from the land of the living. Only ghosts lived here.

Or so we thought.

Flickers and sudden swirls of light danced before our eyes. We had dared to kill the external lamps and behold the wonders etching life in a dead realm. The specters haunted the hull of our ship, darting closer and then blinking out of existence. How many countless gossamer tentacles stroked our vessel ponderously. The image of encircling suction cups gripped my heart as it did our phantom ship, adrift in my imagination. I shook my head. We only had meters until we reached the labyrinth of fissures and tunnels that lead into the crust. Perhaps the gates would be open and we would be the first living eyes to peer into the underworld.

The ghostly chorus of bioluminescence struck a grand finale and then vanished. Our pale floodlights groped through silty ichor. We felt truly alone once more. The barren teeth of the first stone fixture pierced the gloom before our viewport. I noted the temperature gauge for external "atmosphere" started to climb. We neared the basin. Amid the bony spurs, a wide, oval waterfront opened before us. The curved depression held a milky surface. Wide, flat, and mysterious, these submarine lakes marked our real target. The long fins of our vessel dipped into the opal waters, bouncing as ripples cascaded in front of our lens. The hull lifted as the dense waves cradled her husk. Our calculations had been correct. The unterseemeer* had been deep enough. Our Lady of Lozenor took her maiden voyage into a brine pool.

Black gave way to white. The liquid crusted and filmed whatever came into its touch. Soon the glass appeared to be no more than the exterior of a milk glass. I feared crashing, but our pilot continued forward. The sonar began its disembodied piping. We proceeded to its tune, confident only that we would not run aground so long as the fluted sounds rung true. Two seas below the surface of the world and we might find it at last.

Lost Lozenor.

The pings pulsed through our vessel like a terrible toothache. My skull screamed with each passing wave. I was sure the pearly water churned with each blast of the invisible organ. I wondered if the venture was a mistake. It couldn't be. Our Lady had been the perfection of knowledge, drawn from the hidden wisdom of our realms. The beautiful fusion of science and secrets. The maps, once stitched together, immaculate. The guiding light burned clear. So did our lamps. The murky depths disappeared into dazzling clarity. Valleys unfolded between rhythmic hills. Towers dwelled amid the roots of the aforeseen mountains. The pool receded down into a long, ever deeper tunnel. Wide libraries of forgotten secrets huddled further ahead, in life far more vivid and inviting than in picture. So much lost knowledge would be ours! I nearly threw open the hatch in my excitement, like a man who rises to the crow's nest upon seeing land.

Lozenor!

The captain made a ritual maneuver. He sounded the depths to begin mapping. The cacophony echoed from the mountains, across the hills, through the towers, down into the tunnel, and within my skull. The pealing ripped at the roots of my teeth. Oh, if only such ghastly ruckus was unneeded! The jackal screams dwindled into pianissimo and then beyond all human recognition. The cartographer scribed faithfully as if the sound persisted. My mental pain did persist. We made to embark toward the first outcroppings. The gates so clearly sealed and the windows sightless. How long had they sat gaping into the sea with no candle to warm them? How they blushed at our phantasmagorical illumination! I stared into them and they into me. Thin script whorled and spun before my eyes. The scrolls called from their sunken tomb.

Lozenor would see light once more.

Then, from the depths of the tube, came a keening. As if in answer to our song the grave sang. First a whisper, waxing then waning. Then a proper roar un-restraining. The vessel shook! Our Lady cried at the audible molestation! The very molecules of air and water howled in horror. My mind enflamed with hellish fifes and drums complaining. A crewman had to peel my hands from wrestling open the door.

Lozenor mocked our coming.

The mountains lifted from their bed. The captain swiftly pushed the vessel's prow toward the milky ceiling. Our escape. We plunged into the whitewash with sudden fury. The thrash of shrieks and constant pinging kept my brain ringing. Banging. Screaming. I cursed the lot who left long-lost Lozenor. They strapped me in my chair, eyes locked to the viewport before me. The basin pool spat us out in rage, fleeing long lost Lozenor. The tendrils of the ghost lights claimed us, grasped us, maimed us. Soon the Abyss would blind my gaze, stealing away all vision of Lozenor. I longed to see one last glimpse of lovely city beneath two seas. I tore at my restraints and twisted until my eye strained to stern's bubbled glass. What I saw made cold seep into my soul.

I saw the Lord of Lozenor.

Mountain-mawed, valley-gummed, abyss-throated, daemon-shouting God of yore. My mind un-lidded, and I cried unbidden in the tongue of Lozenor, and then spoke no more.

Ia! Ia! Loze-Shinithor!

*Literally "Undersea Lake"

***

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3-11-15 Wednesday Warm-up

7:45 AM

3-11-15 Wednesday Warm-up

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Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Artwork © Christopher Lovell, All Rights Reserved - http://lovell-art.deviantart.com/
Story and Characters © Raulston Hunsinger, All Rights Reserved
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

“They come,” Princess Adwin said in a low murmur. She was sweating in her mail, her helm heavy on her head beneath the noon sun as it baked the scrubby grassland that stretched out before her.

High on the parapet of the fortress called unflatteringly, the Plug, because it blocked passage through the Briginbar Pass, she took in the vast army that spread out across the plain. The dead army. They stood row upon row, slowly swaying in their ordered lines, as if they had to continually adjust their balance. The stench of those that were recently recruited reached her at this height and distance.

The dwarf turned to the human that stood beside her. Tall, even for his race, he was as spar as a pine, his shoulders slightly stooped with the age and mail that weighed him down. She allowed her eyes to drop to the sword at his side, an ancient battle-blade, with a worn hilt and a pommel of silver, a baying wolf head with emeralds for the eyes. A relic of another age, the blade of a Wolf-Knight. The elite warriors that served the High Kings of the humans. The High King was no more and men such as this one served various lords, recalling that ancient order as their own. Behind him, in forest leathers, a chain vestment his only armor stood a young man. Armed with a short-sword and bow, a quiver across his back, this was his apprentice, or squire as they called these stripling knights in training.

The three necromancers, undead themselves, detached from their horde and stood patiently in front of the great stone gates of the Fortress Briginbar, the true name for the Plug. Desiccated things from a bygone time when a great sprawling kingdom lay to the south of the grass lands. None knew what had ended that vast empire, but these three had emerged from the dry wastes to challenge the living and the Plug barred their way to verdant lands and the human kingdoms beyond. One appeared to be goblin-kin, mummified with its elongated ears still prevalent, snaggled incisors, and mossy beard. Black pits for eyes stared blankly up at the top of the wall as it stood mutely, a fetish staff topped with a human skull in its fist. Another was a skeletal husk draped in rotting silks and veils, as the woman of the Western Seas, with its cities of gold minarets wore. Little could be seen save cadaverous shadows and glimpses when a breeze caught the gossamer garments. The center of the trio, the one that stood to the fore, was a woman, white skinned, her bleached features covered by a heavy black cowl and gold embroidered robes. Talon tipped hands gripped a grimoire. About the whole, including the hoard, various carrion birds wheeled and dived, not attacking, confused by the mobility of their meals.

“Shall we go parley, Sir Knight,” the princess said, her tone bordering on insult.

The old knight stroked his beard, his pale eyes gimlet sparks in the wrinkled folds of his face. “No need. They have no reason to discuss terms other than to have you in their grasp, Lady. They will simply try to overrun the walls with their vast numbers. What are casualties to those already dead?”

The Lady Dwarf looked out over the gathered dead then back to her own defenders, stout dwarves all, armored and preparing defenses. Indeed, what are casualties to the dead?

***

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3-4-15 Wednesday Warm-up

9:01 AM

3-4-15 Wednesday Warm-up

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Wednesday, February 25, 2015

2-25-15 Writing Warm-up

Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

The darkness surrounded me, filled the garage, and swallowed the truck whole. Now any flicker of light or stray sound would be a dinner bell. I tucked my sleeping bag around me, waited, and listened. Sleep would steal me at some point, but I feared the quiet shuffle of the damned. You never knew if they would find you in the night. You certainly knew when they did.

Tonight was no different.

I heard the first scrape along the hood. A slow, mind-piercing screech. Then the side of truck dimpled with what felt like a thundering boomp. I jolted. A face slid against my window, empty nose socket trailing gore as I heard a faint wheeze. The rabid sucked air into its nasal cavity, past long-dead scent receptors. At least I hoped they were dead. As if reading my thoughts, the creature stopped and huffed at the crack in my door. It raised a stump, fresh pieces of flesh dangling from its wrist. It pawed slowly at the window sill.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A short growl came from the other side of my cabin. I looked to the right and noticed a sparsely grassy half-dome pressed against the passenger window. It rubbed its few hairs up and down the pane, slightly vibrating the filmy glass. The short rabid looked like a cat marking its territory. I regretted eating in the car. I regretted more not going to the bathroom before dark. I eyed a large Value Cup the previous occupant had left, thinking back to college days and road trips. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

It was going to a long night.

Then Mr. Paw grunted harshly at Little Boy. Little Boy barked back. The two clawed their way around the car and started tearing into each other. High-pitched shrieks and teeth-aching growls pierced the night. A hard smack! echoed in the empty air as something smacked into the bumper. A gurgly riiiip followed by soft splatters told me that one of the two had won. I could only hope he remained content with his meal and that was the only encroachment. I tried to drown the slurping noises that drifted from the back out of my mind. It was better to endure the small ruckus than try to flee into unknown danger.

A lesson learned by a sad few.

***

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02-25-15 Writing Warm-up

3:03 PM

02-25-15 Writing Warm-up

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Tuesday, February 24, 2015

2-24-15 Writing Warm-up

Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

Sound…

audio.input.acoustic_signature(Frequency(4186Hz), Amplitude(10db), audio.traceback[Date ”2154-14-7” Time ”20:32:12”[audio_register]], …)

Sound: Doorway Bell chimes

Aroma…

Composition(Alkaloids(Trigonelline, Caffeine, …, …)

Plantae.Angiosperms.Eudicots.Asterids.Gentianales.Rubiaceae.Ixoroideae.Coffeeae.Coffea.Arabica

Smell: Roasted Arabica Coffee.

GPS…

Latitude(37.858701)Longitude(-122.244243)

Location: Echoes Coffee Shop.

Human looking eyes driven by inhuman motive assessed, compiled, and cataloged the torrent of new data. Only, there wasn’t much to catalogue. The shop offered little more than what the online reviews and data clouds already foretold. It was a quaint little shop, quite literally a nook between two larger buildings, built only to fill space and optimize the profits of some unknown landowner. The coffee, according to preliminary aromatic analysis, was no different than most other local shop’s, and consumer ratings placed it well with the 3% standard deviation of “average”. He could spy a black stamp on the burlap sacks piled up behind the bar. “Calloway Coffee”, they read. The beans were locally grown and processed, he concluded, but commercially available and well within his means to recreate using standard domestic utensils. Why was he here? The question was filed away as unnecessary given the context of his orders. “Why?” is only as useful as it’s ability to enable more efficiently fulfilled orders, even considering his administrators commands.

He continued his examination. The style of the shop: Art deco with an emphasis on nightlife. Jazz crackled over an antique radio. The barista wore a slim white dress and black apron, her copper hair pinned up in a Chignon. Paintings on the wall featured suited men and dressed women dancing, sitting, or smoking with stylized portrayals of brass wind music and ivory keys filling the air. A few paintings had changed since the most recent interior scan. The Cloud was blocked here so he saved the images to be uploaded later. He reconsidered his “why?” question. It was beyond logical reason The programmed response “sentimentality” satisfied his initial asking. The question was now answered, categorized, and classified, but it was not concluded.

A voice, like a second greeting bell, chimed out from the other side of the cherry wood bar.

“Hi there, welcome to Echoes.” The barista greeted the man with a warm smile and rosy cheeks. “Be sure to check out our daily specials.”

She gestured to a blackboard hanging above the counter.

Countless servos hummed at unheard frequencies as a dry smile grew on his face. He uttered a curt and obligatory “Thank you” before glancing at the menu. His eyes locked on the curly chalked letters.

There were only a few characters. They took less than a millisecond to read but 4 seconds and counting to process.

“Why?” The question assailed him again, this time in response to the innocuous looking lettering command he read on the sign.

“Here, have a seat.” The woman interrupted his thoughts.

He paused a moment, then nodded. His hands gestured to the chalked out words. And he shot her an inquisitive look. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut short.

A finger rose to her lips and she shushed him. “House rules.”

Not without hesitation he strode to the bar, bidden by commands not entirely contradictory to his administrators. Thousands of parallel processes happened nearly simultaneously, all fruitless for resolving the conundrum posed to him. He took a seat next to another patron, a hawkish nosed man with a heavy brow. The man appraised the newcomer in turn, gazing at him with cool blue eyes. The man took a drag from a cigarette that rested between his fingers. To Joseph it was an unfashionable symbol of antiquity.

He turned back to see the barista leaning on the bar smiling at him. “What are we having tonight?”

“Black Coffee. To go please.”

“I’ll brew some fresh for ya, if you have the time. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

He nods hesitantly, then sits up straight, hands in his lap, and waits. In moments the barista has the coffee brewing in the pot and she resumes leaning against the back counter next to the radio.

“You’re looking a little stiff.” The stranger states. “May as well get comfortable while you wait.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“I know your fine, but you’re making me tense, sitting so proper.” The stranger takes another drag from his cigarette.

Joseph shifts awkwardly in his seat before leaning over the bar, his elbows now resting on the cherrywood surface. A mimicked pose, more than a natural one.

“Now that’s a little better.” The hawk nosed man states, then leans back in the stool and crosses his arms.

“I’m Edward, you can call me Ed, and that’s Melody." The barista smiles and waves but otherwise remains lost in her music. “What’s your name, son?”

“Joseph” He recites his administrators designation for him. “But…” A delta of subroutines repurposed themselves to respond appropriately. The decree on the chalkboard as proving to be taxing on his systems. “You can call me Joe.”

“It’s a pleasure Joe. I think you’ll like the place. Very comfortable.” He gestures around the room. “It’s got an old charm to it.”

Joe see’s the opportunity to learn. “How’s that?”

Ed continues. “Check your phone. Your phone connected to The Cloud? Hear the crackle of the radio. That’s not artificial.” He gives a smirk. “It’s nostalgic. Makes the patrons feel more at ease.”

“People like this?”

“Not everyone, but the patrons here do. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you like it?”

The coffee machines gurgle fills the pregnant pause. “It rates out well, and has a pleasant decor.”

Ed chuckles. “It does that. I love the place personally. No noise, no buzz of technology, good music. sweet Mel, back there.” He winks.

She rolls her eyes at him, but smiles.

“I’ve been coming here, somewhere around a year and a half now, once a month.”

“That’s not much.”

“That’s all I’ve got. Work keeps me tied up most of the time.”

“And what’s that?”

“My job? I guess you could say, I work in data entry and processing. Simple work, pays the bills. Mel’s been running the coffee shop for the past 12 years, lucky girl.”

“She has odd rules.”

“It makes people happy.” He scratches his chin. “The buzz of The Cloud, constant work, To Do lists that never end. They can come here and relax.”

“People can?”

He nods “They forget to ask ‘why?’ every now and then.” Ed smothers his cigarette in a silver tray. “and just as importantly. ‘Why not?’”

“I’ve… never thought about it.”

The man laughs again and shakes his head. He holds up his cup right as the brewer sighs a final puff of water and air… “Some to go Mel.”

She takes two foam cups from a stack, but Joseph stops her.

“No… actually. I’ll have it for here.”

“Sure thing hon. Want me to turn up the music for you?” He nods in response.

Ed smiles, then slips on his overcoat. “Enjoy the coffee Joe. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

Joe nods and watches curiously as Ed takes his coffee and slips out the door, the chimes of the bell ringing once again. His thoughts turn to the sign. “On premises, AI ≠ computer.”

“Why not…” He muttered to himself, then took a sip of his coffee.

***

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2-24-15 Writing Warm-up

8:59 AM

2-24-15 Writing Warm-up

#americano #android #cafe #coffee #John #Langley #MMWW #Noir #WritingExcercise #WritingWarmup

Monday, February 23, 2015

2-23-15 Writing Warm-up

Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

The truck drove heedlessly through bushes and ruts. Screams from the city came as a faint moaning on the wind. The driver, his face marred by grease, stared into the mirror. He almost expected hungry, blood-stained eyes to glare back. His throat tried to gulp, instead he gasped. The African heat drank greedily from his body, stealing precious water.

"Shouldn't we turn the lights on?" The shrill whisper came from the passenger seat.

The soiled driver jerked his head sideways and blinked. He had almost forgotten about his travel companion. Fear feasted on his thoughts. The shock of her voice blew the fog to the corners of his mind.

"Mara, we need to get further away. The light will attract them. You saw how they followed our flashlight!"

The woman drew her fragile-looking legs closer, as if cold in the 34 degree weather. Sweat dripped from her brow. She replied through her knees, "But, Kodzo, if we hit a tree or a wildebeest, we'll be stuck...and they will get us..."

"It's a chance we have to take," He shot back. He needed to keep his thoughts on prodding the vehicle forward. His mind threatened to scatter like flamingos from a crocodile.

The shocks squealed as they surged over a bank and smashed into a dry river bed. The cracked lips of the dead waterway collapsed and coughed silt into the air. The dust swirled about the vehicle, blinding them. He slammed the accelerator, and then the dash. The engine had whined in protest. The brown darkness stained the windows and blinded the mirrors. The truck would not move.

"Kodzo..." Her voice wavered on the edge of tears.

"Damn, it's stuck." He couldn't stop shaking.

Silence circled the whimpering engine of the truck.

Mara eventually offered, "Maybe you can push it out."

He glared at her as though she had suggested he walk on lava. "I'll turn on the lights. Maybe we can see better. They shouldn't see us down here."

Before she could protest, he turned the headlamps to high. White light flooded the riverbed, bounced off the swirling dust, and blinded the occupants. Both blinked and then blinked again. A shadow stood between the headlamps. A broad leaf hung from the right side, while a slender, spiky branch stuck from its left. The strange tree had smooth, dark bark, accented with dully gleaming vines. It was no tree.

It was a man.

Mara started shrieking. Kodzo put a hand on her shoulder and shook her. "It's ok! He is Masaai. We are saved!"

Kodzo leaped from the car and into the chalky riverbed. The dust had thinned and stars stabbed through the haze. Then he saw them. Shadows weaved on the edge of the lamplight. The Maasai warrior turned his head toward Kodzo's bloodless face. The driver's eyes bulged.

The warrior's mouth foamed.

***

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2-23-15 Writing Warm-up

10:21 AM

2-23-15 Writing Warm-up

#AmazonBestseller #Blankenship #Corey #fiction #Kenya #Masaai #MMWW #postapocalypse #prepper #rabid #WritingWarmup

Saturday, February 21, 2015

2-21-15 Writing Warm-up

Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”
(Click for Larger Version)

Want to find out what happened? Check out The Guestbook, below!

***

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2-21-15 Writing Warm-up

8:48 AM

2-21-15 Writing Warm-up

#writersretreat #WritingWarmup writers' retreat writing warm-up

Friday, February 20, 2015

2-20-15 Writing Warm-up

Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

Diesel is the magic of the new age.

Pure. Powerful. Flammable.

"The big wheels keep on turnin' / Proud Mary keep on burnin' / And we're rollin', rollin', Rollin' on..."

"Please stop singing. I'd rather pass my last moments in silence." The old man finally found some steel to put in his tone.

I cocked him a glance. "Fair enough."

Besides songs I wasn't big on words. And I wasn't too much on singin' myself. But today was the last day I'd be doing either. Poor pops, I forgot this was his last day, too, so I owed him that little respect. And more...

The freight engine gobbled rails faster than a man could chew. I had laid a fair share of my own in my time. The road and tracks had been my home since I could curl up in my father's cab. Now, I had one final route to run. I smiled. This should be fun.

The path bent around a scree flanked bend, walls of trees bristled above the white gravel. After the curve, I saw what I looked for. Metro city, aka "Meat Factory." Or, as I'd like to think today, Proud Mary. The towers would be mad hives, and the streets filled with walking corpses. She stood thick with cord wood, dried by a life sated only by blood frenzy. It made me think of my father's great-great-great-great-great grandpa. Way back when blood fury had respect. And fear. I had lived to see courage become fashionable again.

Soon I'd be amid my fore-pas, tellin' tales and swiggin' ale.

I rolled down my window, letting in a refreshing winter wind. Time to get the man-beasts attention.

SWOOOOOOOOO!!! SWOOOOOOO!!!! SWOOOOO!!!

My horn howled my rage and rang the dinner bell. The blasts leaped from rock to rock, house to house, tower to tower. In the quiet of a dead planet, I may as well split the earth or let loose thunderbolts. My smile grew bigger. Thunderbolts. That's family talk.

Suburban Hel fled behind and the spires of Proud Mary advanced. All the while, black blobs bubbled into view between buildings. Each time a gap opened I saw them. They kept getting larger and faster. I drove slow to let them keep up.

"Keep comin', trolls!" I jeered over the engines.

"You know they aren't trolls." Pops pouted, face staring ahead.

"They'll eat you like one, and they burn like trolls. They're trolls today."

"If you insist," he piped back.

"I do." I thundered.

Today I would not be cheated my glory. Especially by a broken weakling.

I pulled the freight train right to the center of the city. The engine ceased its buffet. I patted the gearbox. I hoped the last meal had sated the steel wyrm. I reached below the seat and yanked up my proud sledge. It gleamed dully in the faint sunlight. The old man stared at the steel head, and then spoke his mind. He'd gotten used to that these last few days.

"So that's your fabled hammer," he stated without enthusiasm.

I lifted it and studied my reflection in it. Beard and hair gleamed gold. Fierce blue burned in my eyes. Yes. The blood still ran true. Our pride. My glory. I stared beyond the modern exterior to the core, the real birthright of my family. There, recast in this simple sledge, a flake from Thor's own lived. It had passed to me. Last son. The first in a five hundred years to take this hammer into war. I frowned.

"I'm sorry, Rivka's father," I confessed.

He hissed air as if I had crushed his chest.

"I thank you for giving me thunder...I wish she could see this day," I offered.

He roared, "How dare you...you who used her and left her to these monsters. How dare you! Go to Hel where you belong!"

"Hel is for these beasts and weak fools who can't defend their own!" I bellowed back.

The frail elder curled against the wall. I had jumped to my feet at his curse. My hammer hovered next to my head. Damn the milk-drinker for provoking my anger on this day.

I pointed the sledge at his chest. "You curse me when I confess. Rivka was worthy of a better father."

Pops sobbed into his drawn knees. I took an iron hook and slipped it over the horn wire. The pipes challenged the damned. They would come. They always do.

I pulled out a knife and scraped a fresh cut into my shoulder. A fourth mark to match the top three. Three times I had lured the beasts. Three times I had slain them in fury and fire.

This time would have Pop's mythic Sodium.

This time would blend water and fire into thunder.

This time would be the last.

As I jumped onto the first car, the husks crawled, limped, and charged toward my train. My thunder. I raised Thor's Seed and cried my hatred. The frothing sea shrieked in a banshee chorus. A bone-thin troll managed to tumble off a platform onto the car. My sledge turned his chest into dust and he flew into the waves of hungry claws below. They tore into each other for a chew of his bones.

The valve stood on top of the tank. I swung the hammer against its blocky side. The valve turned a quarter-inch. I struck it twice more, twisting the head slowly around. Then a blood-stained skull appeared in front of me. Long black vines hung around a pointed face. She had been a beauty once. Now she leered through hollow eyes and torn lips. I split her skull with a hammer blow from my fist. These shadow-men had nothing on a son of thunder.

The first valve groaned and then steamed. I ran to the next and raged my steel weapon against its soft iron skin. I had to finish quick. The old man had said the thunder would come quick. Three husks crawled along the catwalk. I broke them with backswings as I moved the cap with blows. The second whined and whistled steam. I raced for the third and final valve.

All around the train the trolls swarmed. They bit and tore at each other until piles choked the wheels. Up they surged to face me, and down I threw them back with Thor's Seed and my fists. Their poisoned blood caked my hands and hammer. My pure blood sung in my veins. The fire in the sky burned full. The moment had come and it was glorious. Three valves spat tongues of mist. I had only moments until the thunder roared.

Two small barks rang out over the deafening roar of the horn. I turned and saw him. The old man braced against the rail as he wielded a double shotgun. Pops slid cartridges into the breech with a sure hand. Gone was the whimpering fool. It seemed threats of Hel had raised the warrior in his bones. I laughed as he blasted two more into death. He walked calmly down the catwalk. When a beefy husk charged him as he reloaded, pops grabbed the gun by its nose and smashed the brute in the head. It staggered and tumbled into the horde. I may raise a glass with him yet!

His cold grey eyes met my own. His face looked as grim as Odin and fierce in his fury. The All-Father burned in this man. Though I could not hear his words, I knew in my heart what he had said.

For Rivka.

"For Valhal!" I answered.

Then I launched from the heights, hammer in hand. I laughed. I roared. I flashed. I thundered.

Proud Mary burned.

***

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2-20-15 Writing Warm-up

10:43 AM

2-20-15 Writing Warm-up

#AmazonBestseller #Blankenship #Corey #fiction #MMWW #postapocalypse #prepper #WritingWarmup

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

2-18-15 Writing Warm-up

Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”

I hate crowds.

Crowds only mean trouble. I avoided grocery stores on Fridays and Sundays, knowing swarms would dogpile the aisles for the same selection that existed Monday to Sunday. I dodged town on the weekends when the nightlife clogged the roads with cars piloted by Captain Morgan. I sure as heaven owes no one a favor stayed clear of the big city on Black Friday. Funny that was the day crowds truly began to eat their own. You would think a dose of viral cannibalism would thin the crowds. The pandemic only made them less intelligent and less restrained, if that could be possible.

Which is why I hate crowds.

My hiding hole tucked amid the mountains proved blissful. I would have stayed there indefinitely, me and my faithful collie. Then a poor bastard stumbled out of the treeline, a harbinger that Rivendell would not last. Sure enough. He turned, then bit Molly. Then she turned, and my hatchet bit her. I burned the fool and buried Molly. Soon after, two more rabids crawled up the hill. I dropped them at the treeline. I almost had a hedge of bodies sticking out of countless pit traps when I decided it was time to move.

I burned the crowd of corpses and headed north.

The city loomed up before me, a crowd of huddled towers. I came only because the Arsenal was here. Having served my time in the Guard, I knew they had some pretty big guns. Maybe the magazine hadn't been wasted or demolished. The Big Man hadn't been keen on "crowd control." It's not PC to burn rabids. Nor is calling them rabids considered PC, but hey, I'm not one of those white collars hanging from the cranes outside the rabid hives they called "quarantines." No one made it out unscathed, except a few loners.

I passed a mangled helicopter, blood burnt into its shattered windscreen. The rabids had started out smart, or rather instinctively sneaky. Like a twisted fusion of Murphy's Law and a horror film, they turned at the worst moments without prior warning. They turned en masse. They turned and went straight for the jugular. That's why the military dissolved and this chinook smouldered on top of the barricade. I clambered inside to find what I expected. Ruins, weapons, and bodies.

And damn crowds.

Hefting my fireman's axe, I let the first camo-clad rabid enter true rest. I stepped over the guard's M4 and split another from scalp to sternum. Only a fool would fire a rifle around rabids. It draws crowds. Ten to twenty of them ate on each other, snarling and biting for another hank of flesh. I skirted the mob, slipping between Humvees set in defilade. The .50 cal tempted me to let out some steam on the herd, but I knew its magazines would be nearly empty. I charged toward the bunker with its surprisingly open door, upswinging to replace a third rabid's eye with my axe's spike. Thankfully the rest had fanned out of open buildings to hunt.

I'd hate to face a crowd in here.

The crypt stank of old blood and urine. I walked down the concrete stairs to more doors ajar. Apparently the initial fight went downstairs. Bodies lay everywhere, bloated and torn. I replaced my axe for my ash wood slugger. I exchanged home run shots to the melon for jabs with Sting. The machete eased up on my energy loss, though I preferred the bat's distance. A few corridors later and I found the door I needed. A brawny fellah with coal skin blocked my way. His stripes declared him a First Sergeant, while his name tape read Salem. And, as you'd imagine, he had the bloodshot eyes and foaming mouth of a rabid.

The bastard raised his massive paw and then barked out of his raspy throat. A corporal and private shuffled out from their nooks in the wall, where I presume they'd been eating on the fallen. I stifled a chuckle. Even in living death, First Sarge pulled rank. They had me at a disadvantage since I had Sting in my main hand and Ashy in my offhand. Never a good time to learn dual wielding than like the present. Well, except the past.

Private Luggin's leaped straight at me while Corpoal Half-Hand tried to flank in the narrow hallway. I swatted Private for his poor form, while Sting admonished Mrs. Nubs for chasing men with her wedding ring on. I retreated a few steps. Rabids can be as hard as opossums to take down if you don't destroy the central nervous system. I flicked Sting and slipped it reflexively into its sheath. Corporal came around first like a persistent bar girl, bone claws ready to plunge for my heart. I dropped her with a hammer swing, then shifted grip to uppercut Private Luggin's as he dove over her collapsing body. The two fell in a heap.

Then I saw the train engine of a rabid, Sgt. Salem, barreling toward me. His feint had worked and now I was going to pay. There wasn't enough tunnel to get off the tracks. My pack straps bit into my arms, and my chest burned. Great. My steam was running low while Senior NCO Feral spooled up. Tactics. Good to know a life of military training did the ol' man good.

Time for a hail Mary.

I dropped the bat and tugged Sting back out. Sgt. Salem was in my face. I dropped, presenting the carbon blade as I collapsed on my pack. The meat truck of a man fell with me. Reflexes kicked in as my pack crunched and I twisted violently, bounding with the momentum sideways. The motion led me out from under his beefy shadow and let him slap into the concrete floor. Sting glistened in the blue light of my chest lamp. The impaled soldier struggled to his hands and knees. I scrambled upright and grabbed for my axe.

First Sgt. Salem turned, my machete sawing with his labored "breaths." I still didn't know if they truly needed air. Blood bubbled from his chest wound and mouth as he tried to roar. Only a low gurgle spilled from his clenched teeth. He swiped and I swung. He broke my clipped-on tablet and I severed his high-and-tight from his shoulders. Heavy steam vented out of my collar as I wiped at my face with a rag. I had plenty of those in this mad world. I then picked Salem's pockets, and pulled out a heavy key ring. Bingo. Government thriftiness finally benefited me.

I collected my weapons and inspected my gear. I thanked the heavens I didn't crash into any spilled blood. Sting survived the fall, somehow, another miracle notched onto its legacy. When I finally found the right key, the heavy grey door swung open. Inside I saw high-stacked crates. Too bad the First Sergeant had turned before he could access the magazine.

Lurid signs with stark symbols marked each crate and canister inside the room. I selected a mask from the wall and donned it. The world shrank to twin dusky corridors. Even with the constricted vision, I noted that the arsenal had been depleted; some higher-up had been successful in an initial grab-and-go. I guessed poor Salem got the shaft of running clean-up. I pushed a rack toward the lift on the opposite side of the room, adding various pieces as I went along.

The hydraulic lift jerked and spasmed its way to ground level. I had a pretty cart of silver tubes. I crouched behind the load, axe ready. I dared not open my canteen until in the clear sky. Damn the fighting and work left me parched. No rabids lurked in the bunker. I pushed my load to the door and glanced outside. The orgy continued, and, as dusk crept in, so did more feeders. I would have plenty to test my theory. God, I hope this works, I genuinely prayed.

The sun set as forty starved-yet-glutted husks tore each other apart. They mingled strangled yelps from broken larynx with shrieks and gravelly barks. None noticed the long cylinder stained red by the sunshine as it rolled across the pavement. A light hiss whispered from its cap. Foam poured from the pack's mouths. I watched them wriggle and flop on the hard top. The spasms ceased as they stiffened. Silence pounced on their broken bodies. I felt solitude replace the frenzy.

I scanned the horizon through my fogged goggles. Heaven owes no one favors, but it can give them whenever it wants. An abandoned mosquito-fogger sat with its driver's side door ajar. I pushed my cart over to the truck. Lo and behold, the poor federal employee had the courtesy to turn and leave the key in the ignition. I dumped its tanks and filled it with nerve agent.

For the first time, I was ready to drive into town. I knelt on the concrete and rubbed my finger in an old firepit. I marked my forehead and then clambered up into the truck. It was Ash Wednesday. Perhaps I'd clear my town by Easter. I might even be able to get my cave back. I smiled at the thought.

I would give up my hatred of crowds for Lent.

***

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2-18-15 Writing Warm-up

11:33 AM