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Saturday, February 14, 2015

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

The screen swept clear on a gentle breeze.
Sapphire jewels burned peacefully in the sky,
I ran a hand through golden sheaves,
My lady would soon be drawing nigh.

Over ridge most rugged and ruined by time,
I rushed upon my silver horse to see,
Where stood my gallant lord in tender clime,
M’lord most surely stands waiting for me.

The hills bow low and dales give courtesy
All richly hemmed beneath heaven diademed
I look afar for greater star, full of expectancy,
For work is done and house is trimmed.

Many mile passes by on to another road,
The lanes rutted by many wayfaring carts
Borne down by a hundred heavy loads,
I race on toward the lover of my heart.

Clear the heavens be, above my open eyes,
Brightly shines the fields of unending gold
Where I wait to claim my dearest prize,
Oh, my lady I long to soon have and hold!

I come to you, beloved lord, come to you soon,
I wait for you, dearest darling, I wait in full moon,
I am here below silver starling, my glorious groom.
I am here, true to word, I am here, sweetest bloom.

Answer me this, my brothers, is she not the best?
Answer me this, my sisters, is he not most dear?
Surely, I can say with honest praise I’m blessed,
For under this sacred night my lady draws near.

***

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2-14-15 Writing Warm-up

6:14 AM

2-14-15 Writing Warm-up

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Wednesday, February 11, 2015

2-11-15 Writing Warm-up

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

You never saw so much heat as the night at Fatboy’s Diner.

Ten cops had filtered in to fill the booths across from Johnny “Stigs” Keane and his boys. He had run up a tab ten counties' lines long. The gob going around had been he planned to take the Tri-Cities in his grip. He would’a done it if it had not been for the night at Fatboy’s Diner.

The coppers knew it, too, and they knew just what he’d do when he saw the fuzz stacking thick in the grubby seats. The waitress slipped off Johnny’s lap and fixed her apron. Her voice lilted a tad higher than usual as she asked the men for their orders. All coffees, all black. Their hands seemed stitched to their sides, with elbow crooked stiff and askew. Did the air get hot under the lazy beat of the fans? All after could have swore ol’ Fatboy had opened all his furnaces in the back.

Little more than flies moved as the waitress poured the steamy mugs full o' Joe. The bell chimed as in walked a gold barred officer. Stigs’ fedora dipped low and black eyes pinned the captain as he sat down on a stool. The blue kept his noose tight and his face cool as death. The two squared off in their seats as sweat beaded on the brows of many. Then came the fatal click of a hammer. Who had sparked the lighter in that powder room none could say. All blamed the other. It mattered little as the firestorm raged in Fatboy’s Diner.

Ol’ Stigs knew his calling cards would get rung one day. As such, his wingmen kept a pretty Tommy in their laps. These heaters blazed a nasty dragon’s breath through the booths. Few of those law boys’ pieces got out of their holsters before the lads filled Death’s order. The captain, however, had a quick wit and hand. He had dove low and fired high, striking ol’ Stigs right of his eye. The gash flamed the Gael’s honestly inherited rage. Up he leapt, tossing lead like a thundercloud does rain. The pouring from the Tommies and Stigs stilled the fuzz’s fuss.

Oh, that’d have been a grand day for Keane and his men if not for the trap outside Fatty’s Diner.

Out scooted the faithful few to fight the sty of pigs outdoors. Stigs paused to view the waitress lying all peaceful in scarlet. Elder Sean would swear at every telling that a genuine tear had slipped from steel-eyed Stigs. Only our venerable father would dare suggest the fiery killer could feel remorse. Either way, the slick don swept up a Tommy from a fallen friend and stood silhouetted in Fatboy’s door.

Fierce fought the boys in blue and the men of Keane. Little stood on Languor St. that hadn’t been struck by a stray round. Deacon Paul led the charge, cocking six-spinners from behind a cabbie’s car. Sergeants Donegal and Dingle answered in Irish fury, burning powder from oiled pumps. The lead rain tossed glass everywhere around Fatboy’s Diner.

Stigs had stood tall and true for a long hour, punishing the dimpled crowns of any Johns who poked above a squad car. Oh, had he known of the cowardly copper with his huntsman’s arm! High he stole upon a fire railing. The devil-glassed sneakster had holed away when the fighting got fiercest. He hadn’t pinched a single casing until he scoped in on blessed Keane. Lightning flashed and down fell our gallant boss by his fair lass. Still he lay in her sweet arms, a lord and his lady.

Then with a roar most cruel the boys flew from hiding and thrashed the pigs in their collars. The high hid fuzz let out two more bolts before he tumbled like a broke-necked albatross. Primal turned the rumble, man beating man with cudgel and pistol. Blood ran thick on the streets outside Fatboy’s Diner.

You can bet your shiniest nest egg the Tri-Cities well remember the shootout between Stigs and the pigs at Fatboy’s Diner.

***

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2-11-15 Writing Warm-up

8:43 AM

2-11-15 Writing Warm-up

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Monday, February 9, 2015

2-9-15 Writing Warm-up

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

Dr. Nordstrom pulled a cord that ran alongside the door. Cole heard no signal, but the panel on the grated window shot back and a pair of wideset dark eyes regarded them. The head nodded and there came the sound of heavy bolts being moved. The door opened to reveal a small room, a sally port. There was another heavy door set the left, this copper sheathed, oak beneath if Cole had to make a guess. He noted the rope pull and small bell attached. There was a table and two leather cushioned chairs. The remains of a breakfast plate and coffee sat atop it.

He was greeted by a matronly woman in a full nurse’s garb, of gray and white skirts and apron, with a steepled wimple-like nurse’s cap upon her own graying crown. The man that had let them in was tall, with heavy shoulders, as tall as Cole, but thirty pounds heavier than his one-ninety, some of that useless around the middle. His flat, slightly misshapen nose and scarred knuckles revealed his previous occupation. The short wooden truncheon at his belt made his current all too clear. From beside the weapon he took a ring of keys and unlocked the interior door, throwing back bolts. He opened it, releasing the sounds from within.

A scream erupted from somewhere down the corridor, followed by a couple of other cries, and a few jeers. Cole stiffened for the sight that would greet him as he followed the doctor and nurse. The orderly trailing, securing the door behind them.

The corridor was well lit by stanchions that emitted the soft glow of gas lamps set between each door on the left side of the long hall, the floor walls were tiled in white, reflecting the lamp light. No reek of waste and death, but a faint sting of an astringent, maybe lye.

Doctor Nordstrom noted Cole’s reaction with some pleasure. “We are progressive here, sir. We do not treat our patients as some rabid beasts. They are unfortunate women that need our help with such maladies as hysteria, or other imbalance in their personality. The other wings hold men and we even have a tuberculosis ward. We are far from barbaric here.”

“And Mrs. M?”

“As I said, an unusual case. She seems quite lucid and sane, then as if some dark window is opened in her mind and this...... Well, she becomes quite manic.” He stopped in front of the third door.

With courtesy the nurse rapped on the door before sliding back the grate. “A visitor for you, ma’am. Mr. Cole.”

Cole did not hear the muffled reply, but the boxer-turned-orderly twisted a key at the nurse’s direction, the other hand on his club. Cole stepped in front of the man and passed the doctor.

The woman was striking and very attractive. Her oval face was strong featured, with a firm jaw, pert nose, and wide, generous mouth. Her black hair was piled atop her head in a functional coiffure that seemed to fit her. Her attire was simple, yet strangely fashionable, a bustled affair of black satin and lace. What arrested Cole’s speech were her eyes. They were a lambent blue, huge and wild. The piecing orbs struck him physically, almost staggering him.

“Mr. Cole!” she intoned as one of the furies pronouncing sentence on the damned. “Know that I have her trapped in here with me...... and she wants out!”

***

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2-9-15 Writing Warm-up

6:46 AM

2-9-15 Writing Warm-up

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Saturday, February 7, 2015

2-10-15 Writing Warm-up

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

“Aren’t you afraid of death?”

The white clad prisoner answered without blinking, “It is the duty of a warrior to die honorably. This death is good.”

The Marine shifted his carbine to his hip and fixed his helm. His olive drab blended well with the dark foliage around them, while the other two men stood in contrasts of black and white. He nodded and said, “Sir, prisoner’s all yours.”

“Thanks, Corporal.”

The charcoal overcoat accented the other’s operator status. He held a carbonized 1911 idly in his right hand. He gripped the prisoner’s collar and gruffly jerked him down onto the hill’s ridge. The condemned man’s kimono fell open as he dropped to his knees. The agent produced a ceremonial wakizashi, tossing the ornate short blade into the leaves and long grass. The Marine knelt a few feet behind, his shortened rifle gripped tightly. This was the first harakiri the Westerner had witnessed.

The defeated officer collected the hilt. The hilt of his grandfather. The blade of his thrice great grandfather. The characters which danced along the edge told the victories of his clan. Stories only the first sons could discern. He read the hero feats without ever glancing at the inscriptions. The last warrior of Koka stared through the haze toward where the homeland hid. A scroll flashed into vision as the steel bit into his stomach.

Quiet reeds now whisper
In Shogunate’s empty halls.
I join my fathers.

The swift stroke painted a crimson slash across his abdomen. Without delay, the condemned withdrew the weapon and pressed the stained tip into his breast. Burgundy fountains poured upon white robes as the man fell into the withered bed of leaves. He neither stirred nor twitched as the crimson blade stood in a snowy mound.

Crack! A small geyser flew from the prisoner’s skull. The Corporal jerked as he swung slack-jawed to see smoke drift from the operator's pistol. The Marine let out a trapped breath and moved forward from his crouched position. He prodded the executed with his carbine’s muzzle. A gentle breeze ruffled the fallen man’s hair and draped them all in fresh leaves.

The Marine looked up at the operator’s face, grim behind its bearded mask. The two grabbed an arm and dragged the slain enemy into a nearby grave. More shallow depressions stood silently nearby for the sleepers waiting to be interred.

***

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2-10-15 Writing Warm-up

11:50 AM

2-10-15 Writing Warm-up

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Friday, January 23, 2015

1-23-15 Writing Warm-up

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

"Well, this is tragic."

The squawk brought the Anithon out his contemplation.

Jaz'or, they all deserved what came to them.

The Roc-Raven had become accustomed to the entity of law's mental missives.

"True. A carrion bird should rejoice at the feast...but these spawn had the foul taint of the Far Ones about them."

The battle had come due to an emergency landing. Moments before the slaughter, the two had stood in the web between the worlds. Anithon, Guardian of the Ways-Between-Worlds, had kept the worlds at equilibrium. The Lady ruled the Spire. He the nexus. Some would think a True Neutral being would preside over the confluence of worlds, but One bound to the Law of Balance could maintain sufficient impartiality. Anithon was such a Warden, while Jaz'or had been His faithful harbinger and harsh enforcer of Rule 1: Aequilibrium in omnibus.*

Then the web between the worlds shivered and shattered.

In Anithon's perception, it was as though the strands burned, froze, splintered, boiled, writhed, vaporized, and vanished all at once--a stunning diversity of destruction which would have shred a mortal's mind. An infinite procession of windows slammed close in an instant. Rule 0, the preamble and epilogue of all things, rushed to devour the Balance and enact a greater scale. Anithon had foreseen its coming long (or a moment?) ago when He became Warden.

To the Great Omen, the Roc-Raven saw a billion wormholes snap shut, with tunnels wriggling backwards into nothingness. A pull came from everywhere to rise and parade before the End. Cries inaudible to all flesh trumpeted to Him the summons to sound the Great Feast. Yet, bound in fealty to the Warden, Jaz'or awaited Anithon's word. The two had flashed like lightning through a chink that led into the visible convergence between the planes. Many would come here and fight to re-establish rule of the Realms.

The Outlands.

Their arrival had blasted a gigantic shaft into a colossal cavern.

A cavern filled with thralls, servitors, and the Foul Consciousness.

Of course the thralls and servitors frenzied to protect the disembodied Mind, which cowered at the coming of two equally mighty Powers. Blood-Swan tore through entire divisions with its fell beak. Its own primal cry tearing the mental fetters off broken minds. The shriek drove the shambled souls from panic to death. Living Axiom then unleashed a terrible Dictum upon the hordes of slaves and servants. Flesh, bone, sinew dissolved at the Word's impact, transforming the numberless mob into a sea of blood.

Meanwhile, the Formless Mind hovered and awaited judgment.

Anithon had not deemed to address the Being, letting the humiliation mount. Clean, unpolluted water poured from the vast hole the Warden had purposely torn in the ceiling. The gape stood as a sign to the dark Power and others that limits still existed. The scales may yet return to Equilibrium. The embodiment of Order finally spoke to the alien Farlander.

You know why I have come, Ildriline.

Yesss...Your Rule has ended, so you seek to stop Mine.

A Rule has ended. Not all Rule. The Realms will not be Thine. Balance will restore once more.

A mental hiss reverberated through the crystalline hollows. Jaz'or answered the mental assault that would have unraveled worlds with mania if uttered elsewhere. The harbinger shrilled terribly, killing the maddening tone in its infancy. The Far Queen had chosen a domain too close to the Spire to think to rule over an equal Power. Much less two Powers. This timeless Terror had fled this dream when it left the Realm of Nightmares.

Mouthless, Anithon smiled.

Few could scare an Elder God.

*Latin for "Balance in Everything."

***

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1-23-15 Writing Warm-up

5:15 AM

1-23-15 Writing Warm-up

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Thursday, January 22, 2015

1-22-15 Writing Warm-up

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

The priest runs witless into the dark demesne,

Unwary of the danger the eery lair presents,

Fear had goaded the holy man deeper,

Woe when wolf-man startles craven sleeper,

Behind lay tomes, talismans, and holy writ,

Little grabbed the priest when terror bit,

Now he wanders in the house of horror,

Will he become next victim or first restorer?

The Lord of the twisted manor draws close,

His subtle arts woven into the vilest prose,

A word could rend thought from reason,

Or send the passions into blackest treason,

Supple sentences bend and warp reality,

In an attempt to succumb priest to immorality.

“A bargain struck is a world won,” he chides,

“All is yours--if the conditions man abides.”

The sweet overtures wafts in serpentine haze

As image of the Masked Lord in his mind blazed.

Revered preacher felt his holy wrath reave

Corruption’s tendrils which thought to cleave

A fiery rage springs into swift, sure action

As grim resolve within the pure gained traction

Up leaps a vial of consecrated waters

And out jumps dagger eager for slaughter!

Dirk instead dives into leather nape

And all about the defiled chambers water drapes.

Hallowed liquid on unholy soil rains and pours,

Burning back malice’s accumulated sores.

Foul Master of the rotten, mangled cavern,

Who defaced fell Gomorrah with wyverns,

Who countless races in succession slaves,

Now in his assaulted home incensed raves,

He casts noxious fumes and venomous ink

While words vicious and spirit vile he sinks

Into the herald of a truly venerable royalty

To break with vengeance upon naive loyalty.

“Loom of lies! Lord of flesh-harrowing flies!

Shall you continue to holy Truth disguise?

Shall not the grieved ground open up to eat

All who dotingly attend you upon false seat;

How many blind have learned your trade

Which the True Lord has forever forbade?

Be cast in the furnace from which none leave,

From which such polluters find no reprieve!”

The black mist roils as if pricked with light

The priest stands resolute in this heated fight

Pallid Spirit writhes, roves, rages, and screams

Forth a cacophony darker than infernal dreams

As his pitch soars to climax most gory

The holy man calls on his Lord for glory

Instant unhinges as Eternal hell invades

Heavenly majesty into cave parades!

Gone is the dark domain of the damned

Back into the Void it has been crammed

The wearied priest follows fresh spring

As healing water renewal to land brings.

Fell may be the fight to reclaim strongholds,

But great are the gifts given to the bold,

Few may be Eden’s sons on the world,
But greater glory remains to be unfurled.

***

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1-22-15 Writing Warm-up

7:17 AM

1-22-15 Writing Warm-up

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Wednesday, January 21, 2015

1-21-15 Writing Warm-up

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

The water ran in a steady, warm river. The dirt of the road fell away under its soft caress. The traveler shook as his protective layer fell away. How long had it been since he felt such tender relief? The arid desert had afforded little respite beyond a few sudden rains and small streams. Both had been miles and memories ago.

The water opened his crusted vision and soothed his cracked lips. He drank in the refreshment and opened his gaze. The realms of salt and sand dissipated into a verdant oasis of coruscating lights. The veil of water which drenched his face had also cleared away the blockage that hindered real Sight. Life grew where barrenness had been moments before. Venerable trees stood where stone had denied weeds. Birds and beasts laughed in the distance. Across the river of water stood a man on fire.

“Welcome back.”

The river bubbled as the nomad sobbed with joy.

“It’s been so long.” Too long, the traveler thought.

The person amid the shimmering radiance spoke with words both mirthful and piercing.

“Haven’t I always been near at hand?”

Images of the journey blazed up into sight. A rock-strewn valley in which messengers encased in starlight danced and blazed about the sleeping traveler. Another camp many days later lay hidden under a withered tree, from which dew fell into a stone pool long prepared generations before the traveler’s tread. Clouds weaving their strands as a hood over a scorched land just when water became scarcest. Each moment flowed into the stream in hot relief. Jacob could not deny the presence’s truth. He never could.

“You have been with me, and I have not known. My vision has been blinded by the road,” confessed the weary wanderer.

“Cross over, and I will help you to see further.”

The words awakened slumbering fear and excited immense joy. The walker had always stood on this side of the veil looking into the realm of radiance. To go over meant to leave behind...what exactly he couldn’t say. So much had been left behind already. Lost. Given. Taken. Gone. Life in the wilderness whittled resources and possessions down to the barest necessities. But these few had become proportionately precious.

An involuntary spasm shook the wanderer. He planted one foot into the stream and the other heel dug into the earth. At once greater relief and anguish welled. He locked his gaze on the smiling, flaming figure before him, so full of life unfiltered. He took another step, dragging his braced leg forward. Half of him blazed with life. Half took on the nature of stone. Muscles had tensed, protested. Joints ceased functioning. Pain screamed from these seized parts of his body. A few feet became an ever expanding gulf. His long dehydration took its toll.

The wanderer shot out a hand which splashed in the water. He gasped as the current struck his waist, then his chest. He attempted to swim, but he sank as half his body betrayed him. The light rippled, then dimmed. He watched his air flee in rapid bubbles. Panic tore into his resolve like voracious piranhas hungering for his hope. Still he floundered. His good foot sunk into clay and he pushed forward. He bobbled and fell again into the mire. He hopped once more, stretching his fingers toward the surface. His chest blazed and darkness encroached into the rim of his gaze.

With one last, desperate leap the wanderer dove from the dark depths toward the light. Instead of hobbling onto shore, he soared above the stream. He felt two fiery hands lifted him from both water and realm. Lightness replaced the heavy numbness. The coruscating brilliance flowed about the nomad. He turned his glance about him and saw the stream had turned into a mighty torrent. A deluge of light. His eyes could see hues beyond any he had ever known.

Hovering now amid the luminous well, he saw the world as a beautiful sapphire sphere far below. Winter coated half in pleasant frost, while summer warmed the other in verdant green. Earth’s moon danced in faithful promenade, glistening ivory in the light. The traveler turned once more to the man behind him. He saw details he would never utter or dare to describe to mortal ears. The man's features declared nobility and power, while his eyes blazed with wisdom and compassion.

“I can see!” laughed the traveler.

“Yes, and never forget what you have seen.”

The wanderer furrowed his brow. “Am I not to stay?”

“No, messenger. You have work yet to do.”

The wanderer wiped his face. The heavy tears from crying out had made a mess of his clothes. He looked about himself. A twisted olive tree glistened in moonlight. Darkness otherwise covered the earth. Then he remembered. He had finished his provisions days ago. He had come to this barren tree to die. He had cast himself down and wept himself to sleep. His hand fell to something soft on the ground. An olive. Other similarly dark bulbs lay about him. He wept again.

“Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it!”

***

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1-21-15 Writing Warm-up

9:58 AM

1-21-15 Writing Warm-up

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Tuesday, January 20, 2015

1-20-15 Writing Warm-up

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

“Things have changed.”

The basal grind--like an industrial coal sieve--ripped at the fibers of my soul. When the growl came through the medium, its overlay had been softened by her sultry croon. Many, ahem, “rituals” had been...pleasurable. But now I had graduated, or so Khosk had spoken through my exquisite teacher. Syrena. How I missed her tender touch as I stood alone in this clammy cemetery.

What were the honeyed words she chanted? “The succulent song of luring,” as she had whispered, her spiced breath awakening my potential...Ah, now I remember...

The nocturnal dance of Pan’s pantomime
Calls forth prance from passion of mine
--A riotous rhythm, an unruly rite,
An endless spring of lascivious delight:
Summons the foul Lord of Blights.

“Y-yes, Sire. I agree.”

I had hardly paid attention to my response, snared in the thoughts of her slender fingers’ caresses.

“Agree? Are you so important as to speak as my peer?”

“N-no, Sire…”

“The realms have changed. You have acted wisely, though you are ignorant of the matter. I thank you for your short service.”

“Not a problem, M’liege. I live to ever serve you.”

The chuckle that echoed after my words felt as freshly spewed igneous rubbed over my intestines.

“Ah, yes...service. Yours shall be richly rewarded. I needed a vessel in whom I can completely trust.”

A full moon cast its ghostly strands around me, though a terrible shadow cloaked me from behind. During the chanting I had thought it merely branches moving in the light. Oh, how I had forgotten Syrena’s massages...er, messages. Now I saw the thick, spiky brambles were in fact Khosk. Or, rather, knew, as his tarry breath burned the nape of my neck. His strangely limping speech raked across my ears.

“It is time for you to become my soldier.”

“Um...I’m no combatant...Syrena could find you muscle...she’s good with muscle…”

“No, fool, not a soldier of strength. A soldier of soul. MY soul.”

The roots of my hackles twitched painfully at his words. I wasn’t liking where this was going. What were those words of returning? I so desperately needed to remember the words that fell from Syrena’s sweet mouth…

“Gh’dzi-dal...um...oem-mal-dumm...fara’dzi...oh…”

“Barad’gadh’zi."

“Ha. Ha. Ha."

“Oh, mortal…”

A massive limb moved its terrible branches over my head. But it was no tree. Oh no, where was Syrena’s gossamer fingers to brush away the fear? I really needed her now. Then, I didn’t. A foul, pallid burning filled my brain, raged into my eyes, and rushed out into the night. A horrible anguish, an endless hunger, and terrible knowing. Yes, knowing...knowledge unspeakable. Alas, “I” did speak.

“...The Gates are shut, and your world is Mine.”

***

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1-20-15 Writing Warm-up

7:33 AM