Four Fools Press

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

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

--1918, Russia--

Siberia, in winter, is not for the faint of heart--even when you have a Zemyla-yolem at your disposal...

Despite being the 27th of December, it was not so bitterly cold today, and that was a good thing. Riding atop a twenty-five foot tall creature in the ripping winter wind is enough to freeze a man solid. Today, the Good Lord had graced me, his humble servant, Oleg, with bright sunshine and precious little wind.

Even in the heart of winter, in the heart of Russia, in the heart of war, it seems that God can smile.

If so, then God was the only one. The Whites and their damned Komuch (the People's Army) were again shaking their tiny, but persistent, fists at the Reds. Word had just reached my unit that they had taken Perm on the 24th, only three days prior. That would mean more work for me and for my Egor--

With this thought, the massive stone beast beneath me rumbled comfortingly. I had never understood the manner in which the Zemyla-yolems were made--it was a secret closely guarded by the Orthodoxy--but I was glad for their making. Somehow the mystical beasts could hear their man's inner thoughts. Some said that the very disposition and attitudes of the creatures were a direct reflection of their man's heart-of-hearts.

Truth be known, I had seen many of the massive stone beasts that were as evil and black as a man's sinful heart. I could only hope that my Egor (rumble) was not so.

Regardless, there would be much more work to do. White raids against the Trans-Siberian Railroad would again be as sure as snow and ice; they had done it before, in May. White raids against the railroad meant the hauling of more supplies for repair. The hauling of more supplies meant more long, cold, thankless work for Egor (rumble) and me. My giant companion seemed not to mind the long, the cold, and the thankless, however; so, too, would I remain stoic.

Suddenly, the crisp winter air was split with the crack of a rifle--Mosin Nagant by it's sound--and a chip of stone whipped past my eye, narrowly missing it! The shot had come from before me, slightly to my right. It had struck Egor's (rumble) boulder-like head; a few scant inches higher and St. Pitr and I would supping together. I saw the rifle's long bore staring at me through a massive snow bank atop a tumble-down rise of ice-laden rock.

"Halt! Stay your beast, Red!" A voice, thready with weariness and perhaps fear, floated over the white burm to find my ears.

With a thought, I halted Egor, my own hand moving imperceptibly towards my recently salvaged Steyer Automatic strapped to my thigh. The Mosin had me in spades in terms of range and power, but I would not be taken alive by a White. I replied, eyes straining for my attacker's face, "I have done so. What is your purpose here? Who are you?"

"Ha! I'll not give you my name, Red. As to what I am doing, I will be taking your beast of burden, once I pull your still-smoking corpse from it!"

At this, Egor GROWLED. It was the sound of a small earthquake. I knew his carved pit-like eyes could not, but it seemed as if they were drawn tightly in anger. My stone-made Zemyla-yolem had none, but I could feel his hackles rise. With a movement far quicker than any I'd ever seen, he clambered over the rocky rise. I thanked God for my saddle-and-steering straps, or else I would have plummeted to my death!

The man screamed and scuttled down the snowy scree like a man possessed. "No! NO!! Keep away! Stay away!" He dropped his rifle and scrabbled across the ice like a dog, digging in with his hands and feet. "I am sorry! Just...Just leave me be!"

It was then that I saw the little girl. She looked worse than he: completely scared, half-starved, and nearly frozen. The man, now completely unarmed, stood and protected her with his own body. He stood in between this tiny daughter (she had his eyes and mouth) and a massive mammoth of living stone-and-magic four times his height.

He spoke, his voice (like his spirit) completely broken. "Please. Leave us be. I meant no harm. I only wanted to save....her...."

They were Whites, I knew. Likely Bolsheviks, through and through. But, deep down they were people. They were hungry. They were in need. I had to help them.

Egor rumbled, and reached towards the two--father and daughter, most likely--as gently and calmly as a grandmother might reach for a baby.

Egor rumbled...and the two Whites smiled.

Even in the heart of winter, in the heart of Russia, in the heart of war, it seems that not just God can smile.

***

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11-19-14 Writing Warm-up

8:40 AM

11-19-14 Writing Warm-up

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Tuesday, November 18, 2014

11-18-14 Writing Warm-up

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

The barren stretch of beach was little more than wind blasted rock as the small boat ran up on its gravelly edge. Two stout fair haired men leapt out into the freezing foam and hauled the craft further out of the surf. The eight others that formed the remainder of the crew followed quickly and the within moments the light, but sea worthy craft was above the high tide mark and staked fast to the shore.

Erlik Rowenson, called “Black Erlik”, wrapped himself tightly in his salt encrusted, damp, woolen cloak—the mail beneath his leather jerkin offering little warmth. His pale blue eyes scanned the rock and pebbled beach, following along the low hills covered with brown stunted grasses, to the west where shear craggy cliffs rose above the gray white capped sea.

“Home.” The word was the bastard son of a sigh and a curse.

The white bearded grizzled leader of the small expedition approached Erlik. “Yer here and safe as promised.” The elder extended a weathered hand, as brown and tough as the rest of him. “Now, as ye promised.”

The dark warrior dropped a heavy gold ring into the older man’s outstretched hand. For that treasure he could have easily purchased his own boat.

The fisherman nodded, feeling the heft of the ring in his palm. “You and yours will find the village over yonder,” He directed with his chin.

Erlik returned the nod with one of his own. “I am grateful.”

The old fisherman just grunted and motioned for his sons to follow and they trudged up the beach toward the low hills and the village of Ap Mathin beyond.

The wanderer’s hobnailed boots crunched sea shells and loose rock as Erlik walked along the bleak beach away from the men that had borne him across the rough seas, to the worn path he had known as a boy. It wound up toward the craggy cliffs then down to the valley concealed between the massive face and the low hills that lapped at them, like waves frozen in the eons. There was the squat, round hovel of his youth and likely birth, though his mother never said as much.

Erlik discerned no smoke from the cook fire that once smoldered constantly with the peat and drift wood that Rowan used. Coming upon the hut he saw the ground about it was wild with brambles, no sheep or goats had grazed here for a long time. The stones that made up the walls were crumbling; the mud mortar and moss sluiced away with time, the thatch, such as remained was rotted and sparse. The rickety door, half off its moldering leather hinges, leaned at an odd angle. Without conscious thought, Erlik gripped the hilt of the broad sword that had been his father’s, in turn serving him as constant companion for the last ten years. With a rough, battle scared hand he pushed his way inside, and then quickly fell back.

***

Tides of Fate and Erlik's Saga are coming to Four Fools Press VERY SOON! If you want more awesomeness like this? Join the Four FOols Mailing list NOW to get access to exclusive Four FOols content, free product, and tons of discounts and special offers: http://eepurl.com/NzeVD

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11-18-14 Writing Warm-up

2:02 PM

11-18-14 Writing Warm-up

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Monday, November 17, 2014

11-17-14 Writing Warm-up

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

"Cyan. It all began with Cyan." The old man's words drifted like dead leaves from his thick lips. The words themselves seemed infused with sadness, like they'd been soaking in barrels made of despair and filled with sorrow.

"What do you mean, Grandfather?" The appellation was completely perfunctory--the old man had never been able to sire children--but it was steeped with respect. In the young speaker's eyes, the old man was the Grandfather of his entire world.

In a strange, perverted way, this was true. But it would not have been in the way that Simson would have wished for it to be. The two men--young and old--stood upon a sharp-nosed promontory that overlooked a wide and once-lush valley. In the Old Days, before the birth of Cyan, this place had been known as Har-Magedon in the tongue of the Hebrew. It was also known as the plains of Megiddo by many. Most simply referred to it as Armageddon. Now, those who were still breathing did not speak of it unless they had to; when they did, it was known as the Valley of Death.

Death was all that moved in that valley. Millions upon millions of dead bodies that would not lie down roved and crawled over the rocky valley. They shambled upon its blasted hills and wandered about its stone-strewn borders. Thankfully, they would not cross the lines. No one knew why...

Simson had his suspicions, however.

The boy waited patiently, but Simson could feel his anticipation, his hunger for information about the Before-times. It was one of the things that Simson liked about the lad--one of many. Simson thought for a moment more, mentally chewing on the spoiled and rotten piece of knowledge he was about to pass along. After a silent prayer--Simson was one of the first True Believers--and a long pause, he replied.

"What I mean to say, Josh, is that I know what caused all of this-" Simson pointed with shaking fingers on his still-good right hand towards the Valley of Death.

Josh gasped at the revelation. In his world, it was tantamount to admitting that you were aware of all of the secrets of the Universe. A hand flew up to his mouth, stifling the sound. But it was too late.

Below, the Eaters--the dead--began to howl and moan, hearing a sound with which they associated living flesh and blood. A knot of the half-rotten fiends began surging towards the cliff where Simson and Josh stood...alone.

"I was there when all this began. I had a hand in the creation of Cyan. I was one of her fathers you might say."

"But, Grandfather, I...I thought Albrecht was the Father of the Despised One... I thought Albrecht was the Crafter of Our Doom! I...I don't understand, Grandfather..."

Simson looked to Josh with sadness and remorse in his eyes. "I know how you feel, Josh. I really do. For a long, long time I thought I could hide behind my actions and my beliefs of the now. I thought that if I tried hard enough, my fight against Cyan's evil and the destruction she wrought would be enough..." Simson flexed his left hand without even thinking about it. Min-resistors and nano-motors acted and reacted to his thoughts even quicker than a real hand.

Simson shook his head slightly. It...it didn't matter. It was too late now.

"...But I've come to realize, Josh, that you cannot run from the Truth. Eventually, no matter how much right and goodness one tries to do, one will eventually have to face the truth."

Simson swallowed, his stubbly upper lip quivering slightly.

Below, the dead howled and scrabbled futilely upwards; ever-hungry and ultimately relentless.

"I was Albrecht's partner. I helped to create Cyan. Josh, I am sor--"

"NNNOOOO!!!" Josh exploded into rage, his face twisting and contorting into something far more horrible than anything that moved in the Valley below. They'd had no say in their current state. Josh was willingly choosing his.

In a hot flash of hatred and madness and spit and froth and RED, Josh shoved Simson from the cliff.

It was over for his Grandfather before the first tear had trickled from his cheek. In less than a moment--less time than it took to draw three breaths, or say, 'I love you'--Josh had murdered the man who had saved him, raised him, cared for him, taught him, and protected him...

For the second time that fateful day, Josh screamed a simple, two letter word of ultimate regret. He fell to his knees, face in the dusty, rocky earth, and sobbed.

***

Quicker than he could have imagined, it began happening. Simson could feel Her presence, blossoming from the cybernetic enhancements in his hand; flowing in from the touches, the rips, the bites, and the tears of the electronically-animated dead attacking him. Simson had thought--feared, really--that his suspiscion was correct, but now he knew.

And now, he was truly terrified.

Cyan was not gone. She'd not been destroyed as they'd thought. She'd merely sub-divided herself--her consciousnesses--into her Eaters, her shambling, rotting creations. At the time, the cybernetic dead had been scattered all over the globe. Merely one more in the long list of her heinous creations made to plague mankind. Or, as Cyan called them: the useless meatbags. Once her being had been transferred into them, some preassigned signal had them all gather together: like an algorithm designed to mimic the flocking nature of birds, or the schooling nature of fish. Simply gather together and wait. But wait for what? This is what Simson could not fathom. But now he knew. God help him, now he KNEW---

***

A titanic scream arose from thousands of rotten throats, and a green light erupted from the knot of unliving fiends that had swarmed over Grandfather's body. Josh had never seen anything like this before. This was not how the dead acted. What had he done?

The emerald light coalesced and transformed into a lance of steely brightness that stabbed into Heaven's eye. Within that beam, a figure of shadow, dead flesh, and technology formed. Bits of bone, flesh, and what could only be streams of fiber-optic energy swirled upward from the mass of the dead towards the shadowy figure, feeding it. Eyes of sickly green light stared hollowly--a corpse's unfeeling glance--as a nan-infused heart began to beat with a slow, steady rhythm.

The drumbeat of doom.

Words emerged from the emerald halo of light around the figure's dark-haired head. As the words appeared, a voice emerged from....EVERYWHERE...that intoned their meaning.

"I AM THE MISLEADER."

"I AM THE BELIEVER."

"I AM THE DECIEVER."

"I AM THE MOUTHEATHER."

"I AM DEATH."

"I AM CYAN."

"I AM SIMSON."

"I AM SATAN."

"I AM COME."

Josh ran.

***

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11-17-14 Writing Warm-up

9:49 AM

11-17-14 Writing Warm-up

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Sunday, November 16, 2014

Just a little sneak peek of the cover of our next release from R. R. Hunsinger, Tides of Fate, an installment in Erlik's Saga! The cover's not 100% yet, but its getting closer. Let us know what you think. Someone that shares, +1's, or comments below just might get a free copy!

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Cover Sneak - Tides of Fate!

2:14 PM

Cover Sneak - Tides of Fate!

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Saturday, November 15, 2014

11-15-14 Writing Warm-up

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

"What in the name of-- Wh--? What happened here, Simson?" Albrecht was even more furious than usual this time. His pale German complexion was flushed beet red, and his thin, golden hair was flying helter-skelter. It looked like he'd been chopping wood all morning (he certainly had the physique and genes for it), instead of merely walking into the most secret UWO (United World Organization) R&D lab on the planet.

The short, mousey man with the coke-bottle glasses and the nearly bald plate stood stock-still; he was a deer in Albrecht's on-coming headlights. If it had not been for the unconsciencious twitching of his upper lip (and with it, the greasy, smarmy, pencil thin black "moustash"), one would have thought the brilliant doctor and geneticist Simon Smith was a statue.

A particularly small, nervous, rumpled, and trollish statue, but a statue nonetheless.

"Answer me, Simson! Speak, you buffoon!" Albrecht Bergmann, the world's foremost and famous roboticist/nanotechnologian screamed like a angry caveman.

"S-s-s-sir, I...I don't know. I simply don't know. It was fine yesterday...er...last night when I left. B-b-b-ut this mornin-" Simson's words were interrupted by a giggle tinkling from the glass enclosure that he and Albrecht had begun to refer to as "The Crib". Simson thought it was a fitting name for the space, after all. What he and the brilliant (if not a little unstable, at times) German were creating was more like a child--an entirely new creation on planet Earth, truth be told--than anything. The enclosure It was housed in was like a combination state-of-the-art operation room, top-of-the-line incubator, ultra-high tech IT/server room, and an old fashioned nursery when you really got right down too it.

Albrecht was cursing now, flinging reams of encoded data reports across the room, as if merely touching the information-filled books could clue him into why this had happened. His bloodshot blues scanned across the mission control-esque bank of high-end monitors that supplied every concievable element of information that someone could desire when carefully watching over a precious and coveted creation. "What about the security recordings from last night, Simson? What do they show?"

Simson gulped audibly. He knew this moment would come. He'd seen the recordings. He'd seen them many, many times since he'd arrived at the Facility in the wee, pale hours shortly after dawn. He'd seen them and not believed. He'd already grappled with what his eyes had shown him and the utterly illogical conclusion. He did not know how Albrecht would deal with the information.

Simson was by no means a Church-going man, but he'd read. He'd listened. He never believed before. But he did now. Oh yes, now Simson believed.

The small scientist ran his pudgey fingers over the few wisps of long, slicked-down hair that he still had on his head. Another giggled trickled in from The Crib, causing him to shudder. He licked his too-fat lips and pointed to the button on the space-age console that would show Albrecht something that he would likely not believe. Something that would change his world forever.

It seemed silly, when one thought about it. It really made no sense, whatsoever.

Albrecht jabbed the button as if the very act could rid him of his anger and frustration. His eyes slowly began to widen, and his blonde-haired head mechanically began to rotate back and forth.

Simson almost chuckled to himself. He knew what his abusive partner was feeling...what he was thinking. In retrospect, Simson felt like he might be going a little mad himself.

Just why in the world would the Devil--the real-deal Satan of the Bible: horns, hooves, and all--want to appear bodily and possess Cyan, the world's first sentient and fully functional Cyborg, was completely beyond him...

***

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11-15-14 Writing Warm-up

8:47 AM

11-15-14 Writing Warm-up

#MMWW #WritingExcercise #WritingWarmup mmww writing exercise writing warm-up

Friday, November 14, 2014

by R. R. Hunsinger & Brannon Hollingsworth

Jaroos glided effortlessly through the midnight waters of the deep harbor. His large dark eyes drank in the ambient light, revealing the vast array of creatures that coiled and spiraled about him. Long, needle-nosed fish darted away in schools of flashing silver, multicolored walls of waving kelp oscillated with the rhythm of the tide. The oceanid concealed himself among the massive, undulating rays that hovered like uninterested clouds above him; fooling the keener senses of predators that served as Tiberious' sentries.

Beneath him, he could spy his destination, squatting like a cancerous lump of twisted coral, with radiating arms like a grasping kraken. Twinkling stars of light, powered by mighty wytchweave added a cold, otherworldly glow to the contorted structure. With an effortless pull of his spread web-fingered palms, contracting his forearm fins, and powerful kicks of his webbed feet, Jaroos catapulted to the silt sea floor. There, the oceanid darted amid coral outcroppings and kelp spires, tightly hugging the ocean bottom as he stealthily approached the entrance to Tiberious' lair.

The thief had paid well in salvaged shipwreck trinkets and hard-earned coin for the tools and dweomered items necessary to pull off his most daring, and hopefully most profitable heists: to rob the home of the once noble and powerful Tiberious. The rumor-mongers both in Rome and Ostia said Tiberious, driven mad in his quest for power, had been ostracized across the Empire after his excommunication by Pope Paul IV for his heretical dabblings and writings. Now, the madman sought isolation beneath the waves of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

***

If you like what you just read, then you need to sign-up to the Four FOols Mailing List now! That's the only way you'll get exclusive access of this action-packed, 12-Part Story set in the brand new Historical Fantasy world of Medium Aevum, created by authors R. R. Hunsinger and Brannon Hollingsworth. You'll get to read this 100% complete and ready-for-publication novella before anyone else on the planet, not to mention all of the other awesome benefits from the Four FOols Mailing List!

This 100% free, exclusive, and exciting story begins next week and the only way you can get it is in the Four FOols mailing. Also, this is just the beginning of the awesome world of Medium Aevum, and you can say you were here when it started. Sign up today!

***

Medium Aevum

The Middle Age, the age between ages, a breathless pause, the anticipation of the next. Such is the age of Man in Anno Domini 1551. The age of exploration dawning, the age Da Vinci’s machines taking wing. Gunpowder supplanting armor. The age where the fate of the Wytchborn shall be decided.

The Fairy, the creatures of myth, the Wytchborn, the Giants in the Earth--all have lived side by side with Man throughout the ages. Sometimes allies, sometimes foes; always treated with an uneasy trust. Urals, the great trolls and giants of myth and the ethereal Seriphim, claiming to the first of God’s servants walk Paris’ streets. Mercurial elves in their varying splendor; the tall, deadly Northern Alfheim, to the small dark svarts that flit bole to bole deep in the forests of Saxony, and the wizardly wise Fey of Albion. All of these--and far more besides--walk among men, not legends, nor tales about the fire, but feared all the more for their presence.

In this world of the Inquisition of Princes, the intrigues of the Medici’s, and the strength of Spain’s empire; magic and dawning mechanical might, alter the history of a once known age. Plagues have twice decimated Mankind in living memory, destroying whole villages, emptying cities, and wasting the country side. The Wytchborn, the creatures, the monsters, all went on unaffected. Men found a scourge to blame for these plagues, pointing to the things that should not be among as the cause. Others found hope and guidance from the eldars. The Fey, once allies to Arthur, succored those native to the Isles, earning peace and acceptance. In the German Principalities they found fire and hot iron to be their portion.

Within these folios is the history of what could have been and for those within that history, what shall be. Turn the page to adventure and wonder; hate and heroism; exploration and isolationism. Enter a world where the whispered word is more destructive than a cannon blast; where magic and fey-touched allies may turn the balance.

Fish Out of Water (Sample)

10:44 AM

Fish Out of Water (Sample)

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11-14-14 Writing Warm-up

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

"Freakin' whiney babies...", Hellboy groused, buckling his right sode.

"Excuse me?" Abe piped, eyelids flicking in confusion. He did that thing with his head, the thing that reminded Hellboy so much of a puppy, tilting it sideways.

"Ya know, all the whiney babies back at the Bureau. Those guys who've gone back in time, or traveled through space..." Big Red finished with the massive square piece of shoulder armor and then looked from his fishy friend, glancing towards his other, still unprotected shoulder. There was NO WAY he was going to be able to fasten on the left-side sode with his massive Right Hand.

(Right Hand of DOOM)

Abe Sapien, studiously perceptive and emotionally sensitive as ever, immediately picked up on his best friend's discomfort, and helped affix the samauri-armor. "Yes, but I-"

Hellboy continued rambling right over Abe's words, "...and how they're always croonin' on and on about how careful they had to be not to disrupt the time stream, or the cosmic confluences, and all'a that crap."

"Uh. Yes?"

"Well, here we are, in a whole different freakin' Dimension, AND we've been thrown back in time AND space to boot." Hellboy chuckled. It was the sound of pumice rocks being tossed into a rock-grater.

Abe blinked, now thoroughly confused.

B.P.R.D.'s most secret and valued weapon glanced at his blue-skinned brother-in-arms, his yellow eyes gleaming with mirth. "Ya don't here us complainin', and we gotta take out the Emperor of the whole freakin' place!"

Abe Sapien blinked again, picking up twin kamas that had been left for him by said Emperor. The weapons he held, and the katana in his sash, had been especially crafted, selected, and left for him for just this purpose. "An assignment which has me somewhat concerned, actually. What if this was nothing more than an elaborate ruse? Logically, if what we've been told is true and if the principles of logic operate in the same manner in this Dimension as in our own--if we destroy the Demon Emperor, will not his entire demesne completely vanish?" Abe gulped, but Big Red could not tell if it was out of fear or lack of oxygen. "Taking us along with it?"

Hellboy blew out a disgusted sigh. "Well, at least we weren't complainin'--Sheesh!" With a grunt, he hefted his own blade, one that looked like nothing less than a gigantic Usuba bōchō with a inversely hooked tip. It felt good in his hands and truth be told, he felt more like himself with it there than with a gun. He didn't really care if it was a good idea or not to kill this place's Demon Emperor. He just knew it needed to be done...

...and he was just the guy to do it.

***

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11-14-14 Writing Warm-up

9:21 AM