An update from the front

It's been an interesting couple weeks. I found out that I'm officially poor. I spent a few days at the hospital for tests and such. I got another test bumped up 2 weeks because of what they found. (That's never a good sign). When I spoke to the nurse she was almost frantic telling me they were trying to move things forward as quick as possible. I'm not sure if that's just her or if it's actually something wrong because they didn't tell me anything other than what I already knew. So hopefully she's just a frantic person.

School is finally over. Putting the finishing touches on my last paper of the semester tonight after work.

Then the extra joy of finding out I had no need of working yesterday and that next week the other tutors decided we weren't going to be working. I'm wondering why I wasn't told about that? But it was a fun time in the office when I found out about that little detail. Sadly there were only 2 people there.

It works out well that there is no work for me next week though since that's when my next fun with prepping and testing starts. Woohoo!

I can't wait to get this over with so maybe they'll find out what is wrong and give me lots of pretty drugs to make things better. Keeping my fingers crossed that there won't be any surgery involved. I really don't want to deal with the after effects of that. Yeck! Gotta remember to take a digital recorder with me next week since I'm sure I'll have lots of silly nonsense to spout.

On a good note though, the semester is over! Woot! I don't think I have ever looked forward to a break so much in my life. I wonder if that has something to do with the fact that I actually did the school thing this time around instead of just pretending. Hmm, something to ponder there.

Terrified

I just awoke from a dream that absolutely terrified me. After clawing my way free of the world I had created I laid in bed unwilling to open my eyes. Something had followed me out of the shadows.

After several minutes I felt it shift beside me and thankfully (finally) realized it was my dog curled up beside me. It took every bit willpower I could muster to open my eyes and I found I was embraced by darkness pressing in tightly around me.

Again I could not move. I was a little boy again awakened from (to) the nightmare. The shadows around me writhed in agony from the presence that followed me into the waking world.

The seconds drug out for days as I tried to convince myself there was nothing waiting to grab my ankle from under the bed, and drag me into the abyss. Finally I was able to jump out of bed and fast enough to be fight the shadows back with blessed light when I flipped the light switch before the creature could claim me.

There wasn't enough light.

There will never be enough light.

The presence still pressed against my chest and the image haunted my mind.

More light. I needed more light.

I turned on every light I could reach by stretching my arm around the corner of my door (careful not to step into the dark) to the kitchen and living room, but the darkness still pressed in on me.

I had been somewhere no mortal was intended to find. The presence had laid dormant for centuries in its prison, and I had freed it in my mind.

In the dream every fiber of my being had desired to configure the laser cutting tool to cut a pattern that would cause the thousands of feet of earth resting on the sarcophagi to crush it thus trapping the creatures, and if we were lucky crush them.

But I was compelled to act differently.

I set the machine to cut around the sarcophagi and retrieve them.

The grey faces of the creatures were the last things I saw as they descended upon my party of would be archaeologists. Their faces were featureless except for the raised, cross pattern in the center. There was nothing beneath this pattern, only a black abyss.

I understood these to be mouths as I fought out of the dream. It peeled back across the entire face exposing the emptiness beneath.

The screams of friends were all I could hear as their souls were devoured.

Then the creatures turned their attention to me.

Their savior.

Their prophet.

Their prey.

Insanity Ensues

After two days of immersing myself in J.C. Hutchins' world of 7th Son: Descent I have got to say that I feel like I'm listening to the story for the first time.

That's crazy right?

I mean, I just got done listening to the 7th Son: Descent (beta version) podcast a little over a month ago for the third time. I just finished the book a few weeks ago as well. Yet here I am listening to the beta version of the podcast once more and I am nearly dumbfounded at the brilliance of it all.

At this time I am finishing Episode 11 before sleepy time. Now if there were just an easier way to get people to check this stuff out. I'm taking the story in for the fifth time now and I have yet to grow tired of it. Seems to me that's the mark of great fiction and story-telling. Somehow this is going to make it out to the rest of the world and not just the happy little portion of the podosphere, but I haven't figured it out just yet.

One other quick item of note. J.C. Hutchins was interviewed by the folks from the Dead Robot Society podcast and it went live today. If you're interested in being motivated by someone who never stops shaking his ass as he tries to get things done give it a listen. Just be warned, it is a little long, but you can skip ahead to about the 12 minute mark to get close to the interview.

Hutch inspires me a little more each time I hear or read what he has to say. It's not just a fan thing there. The man never stops working. There's something about that fact that feeds the fire of desire.

Hyena hungry. That's what we need to be, hyena hungry.

Time to Implement Operations Hutchinsssss Overload

I have listened to J.C. Hutchins' thriller 7th Son: Descent (beta version) just shy of three times, read the book, and am in the process of listening to 7th Son: Descent (print version) now. I had a brilliant idea. Let's create my very own psychotic MOP mission and from that was born "Operation: Hutchinsssssss Overload"

The mission: Listen to the beta version, read the print version, and finally listen to the print version of 7th Son: Descent in that order.

Doesn't sound so bad? Well, of course not silly! It's Hutch!

The point is that the story has undergone changes. The production has undergone changes (dramatic improvements, not that the original was poor quality, but the print version recordings are just that much better). Reading provides a different perspective. So by listening to the beta version I get to submit myself to the nostalgia of the original story that I love. Then I get the pleasure of reading the novel and going through the images in my head without distraction. (I say this because most of my podcast listening is done while in a vehicle). Then I get the aural ecstasy of the finely tuned production of the print version. I'm totally looking forward to it.

I suppose I could have chosen a better time in which to do this with the end of the semester upon me and NaNoWriMo in full swing, but oh well, that's how my hyperactive, unfocusable mind works.

Oh yeah, the kicker, I'm going then give a full on review and possible comparison of the different versions. I know the differences, but I want them fresh in my mind. The reason I expect this to be fun is that, in case you have yet to notice, I really love this novel. I know there are huge differences between the beta and print version, and even the actually print novel and the audio print version will have differences in presentation since I expect Hutch's inflection and canter will be different from how I read. Oh yeah, and the print version audio has to be last because it's still being cranked out. So that works out nicely. I have time to listen to the beta version again (started today), read the novel, and then hit the print version audio from the start once more.

This should be fun.

And if you happen to check on me over the next month and the whites of my eyes are so blood shot there is no white DON'T try to help. Lock me in a cellar if you can. I've been NEPTH-charged and Devlin is at the reins. Get Hutch. There's a backup of my consciousness in the MemR/I data banks at the 7th Son facility in Virginia.

Time for an Apology

It would seem I owe the Zune HD from Microsoft an apology. It's not nearly as terrible a device as I thought at first. I know, it's bad to expect something to compare to the Apple equivalent, but in all honesty I was expecting something close to the iPod Touch.

It wasn't, nor should it be.

After spending the last 10 hours or so playing with the Zune I have grown a little attached. It's ridiculously small and lightweight. The touch screen reacts well, though the screen size is small enough it makes life a little difficult for my clumsy fingers to find the correct keys on the soft QWERTY keypad. Overall I like it. The web browser is blistering fast, especially for a mobile device. It's actually faster on the wifi here than my sister's desktop computer. Kinda cool.

I'm still miffed at the fact that there are no productivity apps whatsoever from Microsoft. Seriously, how can you not have anything that has to do with productivity. (I don't consider MSN Weather or a calculator productivity apps). Granted I don't really want much out of it. All I really want to see is an email client and something for social media, Tweetdeck would be awesome. A note creation app that can sync with the computer and even traditional contacts would be nice too, but that may be asking a bit much. I know it's hard for MS to put something together that consumers ask for. It's taken them this long to get close to the OS that's been promised since Windows 2000.

I can live with this new toy though. I wouldn't spend money on a Zune HD though, not yet anyway. In the future it may be a nice device, but right now it's nothing more than very capable mp3 and video player with an FM radio tuner. I can't take advantage of the HD FM tuner out here in the middle of nowhere. I will definitely give the Zune HD credit though, the ear buds that come with it are rather nice. I refuse to spend money on ear pieces for mp3 players right now because, well, I don't really have a reason other than I don't want to and I tend to destroy things. But the earbuds that came in the package are nice. They are the first earbuds to not fall out of my ears and they don't give me ear aches like the Apple ones. I like that. I still don't like the Zune Marketplace and the fact that I have to buy points to get anything. Not happening. Give it a rest MS and just put a price on things instead. I ain't doin' eet.

So, after my upset rants earlier I've decided I like this toy. The Zune HD has it's issues, like everything, but hopefully before MS decides to discontinue this sucker they'll get around to providing the 2 apps I want so I'm not forced to pay for a smartphone or an iPod Touch. C'mon Billy-boy hook me up.

Just for fun

So just for kicks I'm typing this from my new toy. I suppse I can tell you that for the first time in my life that I can remember I won a contest and received a prize.

But you've played sports all your life, do you mean to say that you've never won?

That's not what I'm saying. Of corset, I win it's a competition, something I have some control over. This was a random win. It's never happened before.

And I've got to say that it's pretty cool. There is one huge dramatic setback though.

It's a new Zune HD.

Before turning it on I knew the iPod Touch was better. The reason being apps. Microsoft has nothing.

And I MEAN NOTHING!

There are something like 12 games, which sound cool, but other than that there is MSN Weather, a calculator, and a piano of all things. There is nothing productivity. No notes, no mail client, and the web browser makes Netscape look advanced so far. But beggars can't be choosers, eh?

There are another 8 or so apps by 3rd party revs available, and so far it is the biggest pain the ass I have experienced for a device installation. Even backing game systems isn't tedious compared to this.

The final gripe. It took more than 2 hours to sync 19GB of info. Seriously? C'mon Microsoft! There is a very evident reason why Apple bends over it's knee in every category.

IT'S BETTER!

In every aspect it's better. Maybe over time my opinion will change, but with the MS track record I don't see that happening.

No more complaining though. It is cool little toy with built in WIFI so I can at least take advantage of that school since I can't afford an iPod Touch and definitely not an iPhone 3GS and plan with it. At least now I don't have to carry my laptop everywhere I go. Especially if the zNotes app works well. I can stop writing notes on my phone.

Here's to hoping for changes at Microsoft.

One of Those Ideas

So one of those ideas struck me while writing yesterday. You know the kind of idea that gives you chills at the base of your skull. The kind that feels like it is going to crack your cranium in order to be freed, much like the birth of Athena. Well, this was one of those ideas. It completely sidetracked my writing and comes so easily I can't even come close to getting back to what I was working on now. Every time I try to put the virtual pen to paper (which is typing these days) it is what springs forth and not my original idea for NaNoWriMo. So now I am abandoning attempts at the original idea am going to run with this one since it won't leave me be.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not leaving the other, but for this time I will let it go the way of the world turtle and when it draws me back I'll continue. Until then, though, I am running with . . .

Zombie High

Here follows the idea as it hit me while I had my phone out trying to write the previous novel.

High school in Jarvis was anything but normal. They actually let humans attend. It was one of the few schools experimenting with integration. Most of the students had never been allowed near humans before. They were kept apart for their own protection. They were cattle. Most believed them to be cattle, nothing more than food for their ancestors. Something lower on the food chain. The prejudice was unbelievable. When his parents found out humans were going to allowed to attend school with them they nearly pulled Clancy out to send him to a private school or maybe even home school him. It was unheard of to allow the servants and cattle to be learned. There were those who rebelled against the system and treated their humans almost as equals. It was ridiculous. Mankind had its chance. It was replaced by something better, something stronger, something more prepared and capable of dealing with the new aggressive world.

Zombies now ruled the world.

In the late 21st century humankind fell into sickness, a global pandemic. People died by the millions. The world population was nearly 13 billion by this time and overpopulation was no longer a concern, it was a reality. The virus was, for lack of a better term, perfect. At first it seemed like a super-strain of the dead flu mutations of the 2010s, but the mortality rate was staggeringly high; nearly 100% for the 1st 8 months. Nothing in science or modern medicine could be done.

Then anomalies began to appear. People who seemed to be altogether immune or who had miraculously recovered. But they were changed. Some displayed characteristics of horror movie zombies. They were extremely aggressive and more times than seemed to favor the flesh of those who were uninfected. There was widespread panic and violence. Riots, vandalism, theft, murder, the world was turned on its head. All the depravities of human nature ran rampant. Governments were overthrown and in many cases completely lost control. War lords and police states became the norm. Eventually the zombies gained control. It was slow. The powers that became more sympathetic and it finally became evident that those who were in control were infected or had the foresight to realize these were not the mindless, shambling creatures from horror tales of the past.

C'mon KY Get With the Times

Good ol' KY at it again. Library versus employees in a censorship battle: http://tinyurl.com/yjy3mjj

Are we that far behind the times? Is life that confusing us hicks, hillbillies, rednecks, and battle axes in rural and not-so-rural Kentucky?

What, pray tell am I talking about? Well it would the article found at the Lexington Herald-Leader website. It's rather ridiculous that in 2009 we're still fighting battles over publications and censorship that were waged in the 1950s and 1960s.

Long story short for those without the attention span to read a 3 page article. The Jessamine County Library had a copy of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Volume IV: The Black Dossier on its hallowed shelves.

No big deal right? It's a graphic novel. We're all familiar with those I hope. Surely you don't think that comic books are for kids. That would be a most serious mistake, and could be the mistake many people have made. There is far more happening in comics and graphic novels today than what most adults can imagine. These aren't Archie Comics people (And just for those who don't know, Archie was a

[]D [] []V[] []D

He played Veronica and Betty as much as possible and had no qualms at all about having both girls with him). Some of these carry-on where modern science fiction abandoned us and challenge society.

Back to the point at hand. An employee at the library found it distasteful and repeatedly checked it out. When a patron of the library reserved it so they could read it. The employee used her privilege as an employee, found out who had reserved the it, and it was for an 11-year-old girl. Of course, it is the responsibility of the library to tell us what we can and cannot read and not a parent's or the individual's, so the employee refused to return the graphic novel. She lost her job along with another co-worker.

And guess what!

She still as it and the library has yet to replace it!

There's more to the article but you get the idea.

This stuff scares me. It's like we're being thrown back 60 years. Soon there will be book burnings and more monitoring of who is renting or checking out what at the library.

What's next? Video stores? Are employees going to start monitoring what we choice to enjoy and then the manager tell us, "We're sorry, we've decided this material is inappropriate for you because you have blonde hair and blue eyes, but if you had green eyes it would be okay."

C'mon people, get with it. Personal responsibility and the ability to make choices should lie with the individual not the administration.

The most frightening part may be that more people aren't up-in-arms about it. Are they next going to tell us that Stephen King, Dean Koontz, or any number of romance novels are pornography and can't be acquired at the library? What about removing Frankenstein or The Invisible Man or even To Kill A Mockingbird from print?

I don't know about you, but I love having the ability to choose.

In my experiences I have been shocked by some of the things parents teach their children or allow them to watch, view, play, or do, but it is their child and their responsibility. Believe it or not video games in which you kill people won't make you into a person who stalks from room to room with a semi-automatic weapon pumping round after round into friends, family, co-workers, or strangers.

Repression does that well enough. Ignorance contributes greatly. Over-bearing and oppressive control will lead to a true revolution.

Again I digress.

Make a statement. I plan to. Go to your local library and check out something controversial. Does it matter if you're in a repressive "conservative" area?

Not one bit.

Maybe we can't directly affect Jessamine County, but by-golly we can make sure our local establishments know we care about our right to uncensored, complete, controversial, and challenging literature.

Digital Media Coup

Now is the time of the digital media coup. Don't know what I'm talking about?

Well, it's simple, innovative artists have slaved for years giving their goodies away for free over the years, and now it's paying off.

You're still not sure what I'm talking about?

Here's a couple examples:

We can starts with Phil Rossi's Crescent. It's a science fiction thriller set on the space station of Crescent. There is something inherently wrong with the station. And you know what? This brilliantly fun novel is now print.

A fan favorite Mur Lafferty's Playing for Keeps is a "super" hero story where the "heroes" control every aspect of life in 7th City and others, 3rd Wavers are just second-rate citizens. Especially those who have powers, but they just aren't deemed powerful enough to consider them heroes. And they've had enough.

Of course, nothing about podcast fiction from me is complete without Scott Sigler. The FDO (Future Dark Overlord) has had all 6 novels printed, and is now having original novels partially rewritten and printed through major print. Sigler takes us through the wonderful world of hard science horror. He takes known science, hooks you with the facts, twists it with a viable possibility, then once he's got you hooked takes you on a horror thrill ride the likes of which you haven't experienced. The FDO has even made his presence felt with such force that his science fiction thrill ride Infected is being broadcast on XM's "Book Radio" show and is already running on Sirius on channel 9 from 6:30-7:00 PM Eastern Time.

Lastly, but most definitely not least, comes my personal favorite, and hero, J.C. Hutchins. The man is a machine. He hasn't slept in years. Tyler Durden has nothing on Hutch. He cranks out content, info, and just general fun for those who follow him. He was published this past summer with Jordan Weisman in the psychological thriller and trans-media sensation Personal Effects: Dark Art and the only way to get the complete story is to follow the clues, click the links, and call the number. But that was a collaborative novel, as awesome as it was, it wasn't the Hutch story that got me hooked. But guess what, yup, you guessed it, he's in print now with his brilliant conspiracy, sci-fi thrill ride 7th Son: Descent. It's hard for me not to love something that starts with "The President of the United States is dead. He was murdered in the morning sunlight by a four-year-old boy . . ." It just doesn't get any better than that. The story of seven men who are taken from their daily lives and cast into the roles of saviors for the modern world as they try to stop the genius John Alpha from completing his plan of vengeance on those who have wronged him.

I love this. The authors I have fallen in love with over the years are out there for the rest of the world to experience in print. No need to be internet or techno-savvy, just check out the book at the local "brick & mortar" store or go a step further, take my word for it, and buy the goods. You won't be disappointed.

Chapter 2 - A Hunting We Go

Shadoe actually twitched when she heard the name. Her breath caught in her throat and she had to consciously remind herself to breathe. She was within an arm’s reach of the monster Crenshaw. The worst of the stories she had heard flooded back into her mind all at once. Visualizations of the things he had done since the world had gone to hell. She had never thought the man would be so attractive. Shadoe had always thought she would recognize Crenshaw the instant she saw him. She never would have imagined he would be the man who had playfully followed her all this time.

A year ago she had actually been contracted to hunt Crenshaw. He had always been just out of sight when she tracked him, always just a step ahead of her. Shadoe hadn’t had the chance to set up a trap for him or arrange for him to chase her in the past. After finding one of the gang camps left in bloody ruin in his wake she had decided he was not worth whatever the tribe offered her to kill the man. When she returned to the tribe that had contracted her they informed Shadoe they no longer desired Crenshaw dead and saved her from having to back out of the contract. He had apparently discovered the tribe desired him dead so he had taken matters into his own hands. Crenshaw had hunted and killed every member of the Diablos, a gang that had plagued the tribe since the small group of people banded together. As a peace offering Crenshaw had presented the head of the gang’s leader, a man who called himself Morningstar, to the tribe. The tribe had accepted the offering and that had been the end of it.

Shadoe still remembered the gruesome scene left in Crenshaw’s wake when he attacked the Diablos. It looked as though he had used no weapon other than his own hands. Never in her wildest nightmares had she imagined that bodies could be contorted or pulverized as the gang had been. She had seen gore and death before, but never in such brutal fashion, especially not caused by just one man. There had been at least fifteen dead at the final scene, of that she was certain. Now she found herself aligning with the devil himself to accomplish something good, something noble. Maybe her friends in college had been right after all, maybe the devil just had a bad reputation because he refused to live by the status quo. Crenshaw definitely did not live by the status quo. The common belief was that there was strength in numbers. The only way to survive was to band together with likeminded people and try to live as a group. It didn’t matter if you were part of the more peaceful tribes or the violent gangs, there was strength in numbers. Crenshaw did not live by that belief. He was a loner. Everyone knew the man had no family, that he had no friends. If one believed the rumor, he had actually killed his own mother and sister so that he could continue living. There were many stories, but they all came to the same conclusion. Crenshaw’s family died at his own hands because he felt they were a threat to his survival.

“War?” Shadoe asked, “How do you expect to start and win a war against the Kings?”

“Darlin’,” Crenshaw smiled, “I thought surely you would know. After all you were the one who stumbled upon the remains of the Diablos.”

“How did you …”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head on that, goddess. We’ve got work to do and I know just the people for the job.” He moved away from the window and paused in the doorway, “You comin’?” Then he was off.

The speed with which he tore across the rooftops of the abandoned buildings led Shadoe to believe the only reason Crenshaw had never overtaken her in recent months was purely because he had not wanted to. She struggled to match his pace, and more than once he had to stop while he waited for her. It was unbelievable to think that someone so large could move so fast. It was no wonder the tribes feared him and the gangs hated him. They covered the city blocks so quickly she didn’t realize where they were until she jumped through the window of a building only seconds behind him and was taken aback at the sight. Crenshaw held a man with a patchy, dirty beard aloft by his throat with one arm. One moment the man was kicking Crenshaw in the chest in a poor effort to be released. The next he was a lifeless corpse. Crenshaw had broken his neck with one powerful twist of his hand.

Crenshaw pulled the man’s tattered, black shirt off him then used the man’s own knife to etch an upside down crown in his flesh that covered most of his chest and stomach; but he didn’t stop at that. Crenshaw then used the blade to peel the skin inside the design off the man’s body. He tossed the bloody piece of skin aside then stood to admire his work. He actually frowned as he looked down at the body. Shadoe could not imagine what would make him unhappy. The man was dead. There was a carving in his flesh depicting the Fallen Kings insignia. It was all she could think of to do. It was actually more than what she could think to do, she would have left the initial cuts without peeling the skin out of the center to make a cut-out. Then Crenshaw smiled. Before she could ask what he was smiling about he grabbed the man’s right hand, then while he held it in the air he drove his foot into the upper arm snapping the bone with a wet crunch. Shadoe gasped and covered her mouth in speechless horror when Crenshaw repeated similar actions on the rest of the man’s extremities. He broke both legs at the knee, the patella actually shot out the side of the man’s right leg which caused Crenshaw to laugh his approval.

“Wha, what the hell was that?“ when Shadoe finally found her voice it was barely more than a whisper, and Crenshaw seemed to be done mutilating the corpse. She had seen brutality in the past, but nothing ever came close to the satisfaction Crenshaw seemed to find in desecrating the corpse. She found herself second-guessing the decision to align herself with him. Perhaps he really was the monster depicted in the rumors. Perhaps he truly was the devil. Perhaps the Bible had been right and the devil was not misunderstood but truly evil.

“I’m starting a war,” was all Crenshaw said in reply as he looked around the building. He glanced around the room then walked out obviously not finding what he was looking for. A few seconds later he stuck his head back in the door and asked, “You don’t happen to be carrying about 40 feet of rope do you?” Again Shadoe was speechless. She had no idea how to respond. “I don’t guess you would. Stupid question.” Crenshaw came back in the room and slung the corpse shoulder before he left the room again.

Shadoe followed him uncertain of what she was supposed to do now. She never would have imagined that his idea of starting a war would be to find victims to slaughter and mutilate. She wanted to run. She wanted to get as far as possible away from this monster. But there was a part of her that was curious; it was a larger part than she would ever admit so she continued to follow him to the ground floor in silence. When they reached ground floor Crenshaw set the body down next to an open doorway before he peeked out to make sure there was no one near. Once satisfied the two of them were alone he tossed the corpse back over his shoulder and went outside. There was a window that had been boarded over around the corner of the building and on it was another gang sign, this one was the crude pitchfork marking of the Folk. Shadoe grinned as understanding finally came to her. There was a method to Crenshaw’s madness. The Folk and the Fallen Kings seemed to always be fighting over territory, though recently it seemed their violence toward each other had ebbed. It would seem that when Crenshaw was done there would be a war sparked between the gangs once again.

“I really hate to waste a good blade, but I guess it will have to do,” Crenshaw said to himself when he pulled the man’s knife out and held the corpse against the boarded up window by the top of the skull. Shadoe actually blushed as she watched the display of strength. He was holding the body against the wall with one hand, his left arm twisted so that his thumb gripped the left side of the man’s skull, and Crenshaw seemed to have no difficulty in holding the body against the wall. She couldn’t believe it. She was admiring the devil himself while he mutilated a corpse and rekindled the dying embers of a gang war. She would have been embarrassed by her fascination, but there was brilliance in his plan. Then with one quick motion he drove the eight inch blade into the man’s mouth and through the back of the skull effectively pinning the body to the wall. He looked at his work for just a moment with his hands on his hips, “I think I may be a bloody, fucking genius. I missed my calling in life as an artist,” he said. Crenshaw then strode back into the building with Shadoe in tow.

The day afternoon gave way to night and Shadoe almost lost herself as she watched Crenshaw start his war. The man was methodical, silent, and efficient. After the fourth kill she stopped trying to track the different ways he killed then mutilated the corpses. It was nearly sickening, but with each death she felt a grim bolstering in her desire to see each of the gang members die. She no longer cared so much as to how the war was started she was being given a tutorial in death dealing. Her first inclination that Crenshaw was a monster was supported with each desecrated corpse, yet there was a reason for each brutal death he inflicted. The killing spree raged across four city blocks of The Folk’s territory and involved five more deaths, each with chunk of flesh carved from the chest in the shape of a crown.

During the hunt of the fifth gang member Crenshaw had told her to wait on the rooftop for him before he disappeared into the darkness to follow the man. Despite her admonishment of herself she couldn’t help but feel excited with the thrill of the hunt. It had been so long since she enjoyed being part of a kill. Death had become her trade since the Reckoning Day, a way of life. It wasn’t something in which she found satisfaction, but at Crenshaw’s side, watching him deal out justice to those preyed on the fears and weakness of others, she was thrilled with each kill she witnessed. Crenshaw never gave her the chance to prove her worth. Each death was dealt with silent precision; the victim never knew there was something wrong until Crenshaw’s powerful hands were upon them, and at that point it was always too late.

Shadoe lost herself in anticipation of the last kill, imagining what gruesome horror Crenshaw had thought up in his last effort to start a war between the gangs. She never realized that someone had climbed onto the rooftop with her until she heard a boot heel scuff the roof just behind her. When she spun around she expected Crenshaw to be standing there looming over her, instead it was a skinny man with a pock marked face leered down at her crouched form. Shadoe reached for her pistol in her shoulder holster, but was not quick enough. The man had been was only two steps away from her when she realized he was there. The man took a running step toward her and drove his left knee into her face. She reeled away with the force of the blow, then everything began to go dark in a swirling headache when the side of her head struck the raised ledge of the building. Shadoe had the sensation of being drug a few feet before she felt the man’s hands pawing at her body. The last thing she remembered was the man’s rank breath on her face and the weight of his body on her as he fumbled clumsily with her top while he tried to remove it.

Chapter 1 - Crenshaw and the Goddess

Crenshaw watched from a distance as the impossibly pale goddess picked her way through the rubble of the city. He had followed nearly every day he had seen her. Always curious as to how such a lithe beauty was able to survive on her own. It wasn’t that he had anything against women or their strength. In these days it was a rare thing indeed to see a woman able to not just fend for herself, but protect herself as well. He knew the guns she had strapped across her body, the knives sheathed on her thighs did a good deal to dissuade most of the riff-raff from venturing too close. The city wasn’t home to only the meek cattle who cowered in the shadows waiting to pick off those who were even weaker than themselves though. There were predators as well. Crenshaw had come to think of the violent ones as gangs, that’s what they reminded him of the most. The tribes, the organized groups who banded together for their own safety, normally sought peaceful measures. They even worked on a barter system of sorts with other tribes.

The tribes weren’t that smart though. They worked as family units of four to six usually. They would trade with other peaceful tribes, but they were often preyed upon by the gangs. The gangs were a different breed. Crenshaw despised them. He understood the need to survive. He understood the need for sacrifice. Donovan Crenshaw would sacrifice his own mother, his own father, his brothers or sisters if it had been necessary, but they did not survive. He was the only one. He was the survivor of his family. Maybe that was why he felt no attachment to the others he met in the ruins now. His own family had been destroyed therefore he cared not what happened to anyone other than himself. That could be so, but he was not concerned. He was a survivor. That was what he knew. That’s what the tribes knew as well. Even the gangs knew of him.

Now though he was concerned with the gun toting goddess. She hadn’t tried to lose him yet. That really didn’t mean anything. There were times when she was unaware of his presence, but mostly she either allowed him to follow her or not. Crenshaw always kept his distance. The rifle slung across her back was what he respected. He had seen her use the weapon before. It wasn’t for show like with the cattle. She was a survivor. She knew how to use the tools at her disposal. Maybe that was why he was fascinated by her.

The ruins were their playground. It was a twisted game of cat and mouse they played. Her slight agile frame would scamper through the destroyed buildings and rubble little effort while Crenshaw bounded along behind her. Sometimes he would try to conceal that he was following her, but mostly he liked it when she knew he was there. It was for his own safety honestly. If she knew he was there then she wouldn’t lead him to a sniper trap as she had done to others. She had even done it to him once. That was when he had discovered her weapons were not for show. She had led him into an abandoned warehouse several months ago when he had first noticed her form bolting through the ruins. She had known he was following her almost as soon as he had realized that’s what he was doing. He had entered the building and noticed she was on the catwalks. When he tried to follow she had fired two warning shots. The first hit a rusted soda can at his feet lifting it into the air almost to his waist, and the second hit the can again while it was still airborne lifting it higher. He had smiled at the display. Crenshaw could see where she was perched on the raised walkway and waved to her. He had simply walked back out of the building and left her alone for the most part.

There were days when he got curious though. He would follow her either until she lost him or he got bored with the pursuit. Crenshaw never tried to catch her after that first day. He was content to watch her from a distance, and that seemed to be her preference as well. This day seemed to be different. He wasn’t certain if she was allowing him to get close or if she were distracted by something else. She had yet to look back at him even when he had made an effort to be noticed so as to keep from being shot. He decided there was definitely something distracting her. There was no other explanation. She had to know he was there by now. He had to know what was keeping her focus away from him. The goddess was close to 200 feet ahead of him perched in the window of an abandoned building window watching something across the street out of his line of sight. The frustration at having something else hold the attention of his gun toting goddess when he wanted to play peaked his curiosity.

Crenshaw sprinted at the wall of the building before him and in two leaping steps up the wall he grabbed the second rung on the raised fire escape ladder. He pulled himself up the ladder quickly then bounded up the steps to the roof. Once there he glanced around and saw the upside down green crown painted on the roof access door marking the territory of the Fallen Kings. This was not friendly territory. The Fallen Kings were one of the gangs from which Crenshaw tried to steer clear. They weren’t like most of the gangs who only preyed upon the stragglers and the weak. The Kings were a force to avoid. When they struck the Kings typically did not leave survivors. Their symbol on the wall was enough to let any passersby know who was responsible. The Kings also had the reputation for taking the young as spoils. Crenshaw had never known what they did with the children they took. He had never cared, but now that he found himself following the goddess his mind wandered. It wasn’t so much that he was concerned, but now that he was there he almost felt compelled to take an interest. Almost.

Instead he crouched and quickly crossed the roof. Crenshaw paused for just a moment at the edge of the building before leaping down to the window ledge on the next building. He crouched there for a moment listening before he stepped through the window and made his way across the open area of the floor. There were burned and broken desks along with partition panels with a blue-gray fabric scattered about the room. It was the first time in several months that he had been reminded of life before the Reckoning Day. Office buildings and cubicles, people crammed into their little cages, hurriedly working to goal that would never bring them freedom. That was something he did not miss. He had been one of those people to an extent. The Reckoning Day had set him free to an extent. Crenshaw shook his head. It was not the time to muse about days gone by. There was a very real threat here. Not just with the girl, but should the Fallen Kings become aware of his presence it would most likely not bode well for him. There was a history between them. A bad history. A very bad history. Not that he was on good relations with any of the gangs, but the history with the Kings was personal. It was best they never knew he was near. He crossed through the debris of the world of the past and turned down left down the hall. Slowly approaching the window he had seen the goddess perched in a few minutes earlier. She was still there. She still watched the street below, but now she had drawn a pistol and had it pointed back down the hall at him. The girl stole a quick glance back at him then motioned with a wave of her pistol for him to come closer before she holstered it. So much for trying to sneak up on the gun toting goddess.

Her head was barely peaking over the window ledge as she watched the street. Crenshaw approached her quickly and quietly. He almost found himself almost running silently as he covered the distance between them before he stopped in the doorway and crouched, uncertain if he should move closer. He was uncertain if how close she would want him. “Well, c’mon, cowboy,” she said. Her voice was a husky alto, not at all what he had expected from her slight frame. “No point coming all this way not to see what almost got you killed again.” He started forward, this time at a crouch. She spoke again without looking over her shoulder. “Do be a dear and stay low though.”

He could hear the ruckus in the street now. Crenshaw had no idea how he had not heard it before. There was so much noise. It sounded as if there was a party or a fight, possibly both. The cheers and din were unbelievably loud, but it was their territory so there really was no reason for the Fallen Kings to be quiet. Theirs was a reign of terror for almost six blocks. He tried not to focus on her, but being this close he couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering to her form. She was thin, but not unhealthily so. The goddess had long, shapely arms, but he could see the muscles. Apparently she didn’t depend solely on her guns. She was physically stunning. Her alabaster skin seemed even more pale with the black outfit she wore. The clothes were form-fitting, her top was sleeveless, and the pants had several cargo-style pockets. He guessed she had gotten those in what used to be an arms surplus before the Reckoning Day or shortly thereafter. Her auburn hair was pulled into a tight ponytail at the back of her head. Crenshaw guessed that if she were to let the hair fall loose it would be near the middle of her back. He had always liked women with longer hair. The most startling part was that she was clean. It was usually easy to smell a person once within a few feet. He paused a few feet from her drew in a deep breath through his nose, trying to catch a scent of her. Somehow he didn’t trust his mind now that she was so close to him. Everyone had a smell to them, most had a stench since the Reckoning Day, but this woman, the goddess, was clean. Was that apricots he smelled? He wasn’t certain. Surely she didn’t have access to scented soap still. That had all been used long ago. He would have sworn only homemade soap was available now, but the scent was there now. She cut her eyes back at him after he didn’t move for several seconds and when he finally noticed she was looking at him she raised her eyebrows as if to ask why he had stopped.

When he was finally able to pull his attention away from the beauty beside him Crenshaw peeked over the edge of the window at the street below. There was a lot happening in the camp about half a block away. He had expected there to be more people for this to be the heart of the Fallen Kings territory, but before he could ask where all the gang members were he finally focused on the small ring of people. In the center of the circle was what looked to be a boy, maybe a young teen no more than 13 or 14 years old. Across from him taunting the child was the all too familiar form of the lead of the Kings, Solomon. Unlike his namesake, this Solomon was not a wise leader; he was a ruthless and violent leader who solved issues with his hands rather than his mind. The boy in the middle of the circle had young girl he was trying to keep away from the nine or so gang members who circled them while Solomon continued to taunt the boy. One of the men grabbed at the girl and when the boy turned to fend off the groping hands Solomon kicked the kid in the back. The boy staggered into the circle of men and it looked as though he got an elbow to face and punch in the gut for his trouble. When the boy turned around Crenshaw could see that it wasn’t a punch in the stomach, but a knife wound. The boy didn’t even raise his hands to his bloodied nose. Both hands covered the bloodied wound in his abdomen as he staggered forward and fell to his knees beside the girl. The child cried and threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. The boy’s bloodied hands weakly reciprocated the hug and a moment later he fell to the ground.

The little girl threw herself onto the boy’s chest, her arms draped over him and Crenshaw could hear her screams and sobs from his perch. He felt a pang of sorrow for the child. The boy had the luck of dying quickly in the fight, but the girl did not have such luck. Crenshaw could only imagine what horrors had seen already and now that she was property of the Fallen Kings what terrors she had yet to experience. Solomon approached the child and pulled her away from the corpse, but a couple seconds later she tore free of his grip after biting his wrist and dove back onto the body. When Solomon approached again he wasn’t so gentle. He didn’t bother reaching for the child, he kicked her off the boy. His boot caught her in the stomach and lifted her several feet into the air as she flipped in the air before landing on her stomach. The girl rolled into the fetal position and rocked slightly on her side as one of the other men approached her. The man gripped her by a handful of hair and lifted her into the air, holding her in front of him much like lifting a cat by the scruff of the neck. He dropped her suddenly as he jerked his hand away and cradled his arm to his chest. The man spun in a quick circle then pulled his leg back to kick the child, but she had already charged at him and buried whatever object she held in the inside of his thigh.

There was so much blood. “Way to go kid,” Crenshaw whispered as he watched the girl try to fight the men. The one she had stabbed fell to the ground as he tried to cover the wound on his leg, but no one went to his aid. Most of the Kings laughed at him as the girl charged Solomon. She didn’t hesitate when he smiled at her, but it was no use for her to fight him. She had gotten lucky with the first guy, but Solomon rarely underestimated someone. When the girl swung the knife at him he caught her arm at the wrist then backhanded her with his other hand. Crenshaw felt his meaty hands tighten into fists as he watched, his knuckles were white with the pressure as he knew what would happen to the girl. The child fell to the ground and again Solomon planted a kick in her stomach and flipped her violently to her back. She tried to sit up for a moment before Solomon stood straddling over her. He gripped her dirty shirt and held her head up for a moment. It looked like he said something to her, maybe spit in her face, but after that he threw one quick, straight punch and her head lolled back. Crenshaw’s jaw tightened as he thought about the hell the child would experience soon. He wasn’t certain, but he had a good idea of what Solomon would put her through. He would discipline her, make her wish she had been the one to die instead, and when he was done with her he would pass among the other Kings. It was no secret what the gangs did with girls of all ages. It nearly turned Crenshaw’s stomach to think of it.

Solomon tossed the girl’s limp body over his shoulder unceremoniously and carried her into the nearest tent. The other gang members began to move away from the area. None of them bothered to move the corpse of the boy or the gang member dead at the hands of the girl. They hadn’t even tried to help him. One less mouth to feed. If he had been careless enough to get himself killed by a child then he wasn’t worthy of being a Fallen King anyway. Crenshaw was certain he would see the boy again. The Fallen Kings had a habit of staking their victims either near their camp or hanging them from light posts somewhere in their territory with their symbol carved into the flesh. It was a common practice among the gangs. It was a warning to those unaware enough to wander into their territory.

“That bastard,” the goddess said. “That fucking bastard.” She raised her rifle to take aim. Crenshaw hadn’t even noticed that she had pulled the weapon off her back.

“Wait,” he hissed as he slapped her right hand away from the trigger. “What are you gonna do? Kill them all from here? After the first or second shot one of the bastards would probably gut the kid just to make she didn’t survive even if they died.”

“They can’t do that,” she said. “They can’t. That’s, it’s, it’s just, it’s not …right.” She lowered the weapon and looked at Crenshaw. Hatred burned in her eyes. Crenshaw had expected to see tears welled in her eyes, but there was only rage and hatred there. “What would you have me do you big oaf? Just let them take the girl? Let those bastards do whatever they want and take the damn girl? Do you even have an idea what they do down there? Or are you so fucking self-absorbed you don’t care?”

“Chill goddess, just chill,” he said in a hushed tone. “There are other ways. It’s terrible, but this is life. This is what our city has become. Hell the entire world as far as we know!”

She looked at him quizzically. It was comical the way she cocked her head to the side, her ear almost touched her shoulder. “What?”

“This is what our world has become.”

“No, before that, what did you call me?”

“I didn’t call you anything. I just said to chill,” Crenshaw paused for a moment. Had he said it out loud? He didn’t realize he had done it, but maybe he had actually said it. “Goddess. I called you goddess,” he grinned sheepishly, almost apologetically at her when he said it.

She smiled at him then. It was a toothy, almost frightening smile. The kind of smile that bordered on mania. “I’m a gun toting, bible humping, gothic goddess, but you can call me Shadoe.”

“Well gothic goddess Shadoe, there are other ways of saving that child. The Fallen Kings don’t have insurmountable numbers, but there are several of them. I would guess close to twenty-five, maybe thirty. If you just start firing into them now you’ll get us both killed or damn near to it. And one thing is for damn sure. That little girl would be dead before you were able to pick off ten of those fucks.”

“So what is it you suggest, cowboy?”

“We start a war, darlin’, we start a war,” he paused for a moment and smiled down at her. She hadn’t realized how huge a man he was until that moment. She never would have imagined that someone so large had been able to follow and move through places as easily as he seemed to when he wanted to close the distance between them during their previous cat and mouse games. The smile on his face bordered on malevolence. In that moment she was never more thankful that he had never taken more than a curious interest in observing her. Chills crawled up her spine and gooseflesh popped up on her bare arms despite the late summer heat. “Goddess, call me Crenshaw.”

Where has All the Fantasy in My Mind Gone

So I'm afraid I've forgotten how to write a fantasy story. In particular, a short fantasy story dealing with war. It only needs to be 1000-7000 words, but every time I think I'm on to something I realize that where I want to go with it either isn't fantasy or it isn't war. If you had told me 13 years ago I wouldn't be able to crank out a fantasy story at the drop of a hat I would have told you that you were on some really good drugs. Then again, 13 years ago I was certain I would already have my RX-7 too.

Maybe it's time to don the Hoodie of Reckoning to make this work. The Hoodie doesn't usually get donned until I'm on to something. The Hoodie is scary. It controls the mind. It makes the mind do things it normally wouldn't do. I don't want to come to that, but it just might happen.

It skeers me.

NaNoWriMo ... again

I'm thinking that as NaNoWriMo is coming upon us I'll do something fun with it to help keep me in check with the pace needed to finish the challenge and "WIN". Every day after I've completed my word count for the day I'm going put what I've got up on here.

So y'all get to keep me honest!

Also, I'm really thinking about killing the RSS feed to Facebook. That's the part I'm not entirely certain about, but it's the way I'm leaning at the moment. The real difficulty is that I have 3 1/2 ideas fighting to get out. Maybe I'll just go crazy and write all 3. If it weren't for real life I think I might have to do it, but that's just craziness because it's just no longer possible to write for 10 hours a day since I'm actually doing those forbidden things called work and school again.

On a completely different note, I just had the pleasure of listening and participating in the PodioRacket launch party of J.C. Hutchins' science fiction thriller novel 7th Son: Descent. The launch party was an absolute blast and it would seem that Hutch is going to be crossing the pond as a result of one very ambitious fan who has organized people he knows to get 100 copies of 7th Son: Descent purchased for the Beta Clone Army Rewards Program.

I have got to admit that every time I hear or read what J.C. has to say about writing I feel empowered. He truly is an inspiration.

It's a Rainy ...

Today is looking to be a mix-up of fun and crazy rain driving. I'm looking forward to more corruption happening later today. Someone has to teach those young uns a thing or three

>>> [ WARNING ::: DATABASE ERROR ::: CONTENT OVERRIDE ::: SOURCE: EXTERNAL ] <<<

> source terminal location: UNKNOWN
> source terminal identity: UNAVAILABLE
> source login information: ENCRYPTED
> message begins

the post you are now reading is designed to dull your senses to THE TRUTH. do not live the life of the worker bee, the cog, the well-oiled piston in the MACHINE OF DECEIT!

there is a grand CONSPIRACY afoot. you have been taught to believe that you are UNIQUE, one of a kind. THIS IS NOT TRUE. long ago, a cabal of scientists created technologies to ensure that ANYONE'S MIND AND BODY can be duplicated.

human cloning isn't NEAR. it's already HERE. discover the truth at http://JCHutchins.net

you are being DECEIVED. break free from the cogs, flee the hive, become A PROPHET OF THE TRUTH!

kilroy2. was here ... kilroy2.0 is everywhere

>>> [ CONTENT OVERRIDE CEASES ::: DATABASE STATUS: RECOVERING ] <<<

then later tonight there is the book launch party with J.C. Hutchins for his thriller novel 7th Son: Descent. Looking forward to it yo!

Beta Clone 076 signing off.

The Ascension has Begun

It's finally here. Can you believe it? I'm having trouble with it and it's not even my project. October 27th. The official print release of J.C. Hutchins' thriller novel 7th Son: Descent is upon us. This has been something I have been looking forward to for quite some time.

Hutchins isn't the first podcast novelist, or internet pirate radio broadcaster as Mark Yoshimoto Nemcoff puts it, to publish a novel. But by-golley it's the one I have been looking forward to the longest. Sure I love my Scott Sigler novels and content. Mur Lafferty, well she does look nice today I'm sure, is very entertaining and knowledgeable. Grammar Girl finally got her release today. (Coincidence? I think not). Christiana Ellis, James Melzer, Phil Rossi, and P.G. Holyfield's novel is soon to be released as well, the list goes on and on when it comes to novelist with enough creative ambition to go the extra mile when the system told them to go away.

These brilliant and creative minds by-passed the traditional method and did something no publisher thought possible.

They gave us their works for free. That's right.

FREE!

And what did we do to repay them for all their hard work? We ate it up. We followed their progress and supported them as best we could. We even bought their swag when it was available. Now their hard work is finally paying off and they don't have to depend on an archaic system to get their work devoured. They give it directly to us, no strings attached. We don't even have to buy it. They give it to us no matter what. All the blood, sweat, and tears, the hard work and time, it's finally starting to pay off for the pioneers of a creative digital market.

Stop by and check out their work. It's worth it.

It's Raining Blood

It had happened again. Blood had fallen from the heavens. The humidity was, well, have you ever tried to breathe when it rains blood. It's not something that is easy to do. Especially not when you're being pursued by lycanthropes. Seriously. Who in their right mind decides to piss off a bunch of damn werewolves during a blood storm? Well, me for one, but that's not really the point. I didn't mean to get on their bad side. It just happened. Again. The first time was a mess, but I was lucky enough to have survived because of proximity to the other neighborhoods. This time though, I made a damn rookie mistake. Not that I'm a rookie. It's just that, well, I called this teenage kid the son of a worthless bitch.

The little prick knocked me off my bike with a can. And when I say little prick, that would be the understatement of the year. I honestly didn't even know what had hit me. I just knew that one moment I was cruising along Amber Blvd. on my bicycle and the next moment I was skidding along the blood soaked road, my right shoulder and arm numb from whatever had hit me and left side of my body was scuffed, scraped, and bruised. Hell, my own blood was mixing with that of the storm. I was going to have to get another series of shots. Anyway, so before I even know what I'm saying, I'm lying there on the blood soaked street and I mumble, "Dammit, son of a worthless bitch." I mean, I honestly didn't even call him anything. I was pissed. I had just been knocked into the street by who knows what. I should have known better. Really, I was riding my bicycle through the streets of Dogtown and I said bitch. Stupid mistake.

The kid was running over to check on me when he heard me muttering to myself. He went from calling out, "Hey mister, mister you okay?" to growling, "You're dead meat-bag." His transformation had begun even before I started to get to my feet. I really didn't know what was going on. I looked around and saw this metal trashcan. I mean, an honest to goodness metal trashcan with two sides caved in. One dent was from where it had struck me in the shoulder. The other, the deeper of the two, the dent that went past the center of the can and was so made with such force that the metal was jagged and split, that was from where the kid kicked it. Damn my luck. A couple lycan kids out playing kick the can and I make the mistake of mumbling bitch to myself, not as an insult to the kid, but just because "worthless son of a bitch" could be my favorite phrase in situations like that.

I really should find a new favorite phrase.

Anyway, the damn trashcan. So my eyes go wide once I realize what's happening and I turn to see this monster of a kid. Really, this kid had to be almost seven feet tall. He's big. I mean, he's big even for a lycan. I started trying to apologize. I tried to tell him I wasn't calling him names. It's just what I say when something goes bad, when my luck does what my luck does. Which is to say, my luck tends to be the kind of luck that gets me knocked down often. My mind starts racing. Run or stand my ground? They always tell you when you're growing up not to run from the lycanthropes. They like it when you run; they especially like it after they've changed. They tell you as a kid if you stand your ground you have just as much of a chance of surviving as you do if you run; but seriously, who in their right mind is going to stand there when a nine foot tall, raging lycanthrope is barreling at you. The scared little prey part of your brain, the lizard brain if you will, screams to RUN in high pitch squeal of a voice, but the logical part, the "developed" part says to stay put. They told you to stay put and you'll be fine. They're all a bunch of idiots. That "developed" part is going to get me killed one of these days.

"Run stupid!" a kid calls out from behind the transforming kid. "Get on your damn bike and get out of here!"

That snaps me out of it. I hop back on my Raleigh mountain bike, noticing the seat is twisted to the left digging into my thigh and the handlebars are twisted to the right making it rather tough to get my balance at first, and do my best to start pedaling. The damn thing was still on the small bracket and in a high gear. The chain is grinding while I'm trying to get to a lower a gear so I can move faster than a walking pace, and it's then I realize I'm trying to ride up the hill. Forget that. I turn to the left, really the only way I could turn sharply because of the twisted handlebars, and I think that decision may have saved my life. That big damn kid goes flying past, his arms grasping at nothing as he closes them where I was, looking like a linebacker trying to tackle Barry Sanders in his prime. I actually felt the wind from him as he dove past me. I heard the crash of the kid hitting a car parked on the side of the street, heard the glass shatter in the windows, and worst of all I heard him roar. It's never good when they roar.

And as if that wasn't enough. A pissed lycanthrope kid is chasing me. My seat is digging into my leg, not just when I'm seated, but even when I'm out of saddle and trying to power away. My handlebars are twisted making it even more difficult to balance and speed away from the kid. And did I mention that lycanthropes are fast. There's a reason they aren't allowed to compete in sports even when they're human. I'm now heading back in the direction I didn't want to be going. I had just left Mausoleum or Ghoulington as others call it. I'm not supposed to be there anyways. Any time I'm in Mausoleum I'm on borrowed time. I'm bleeding, just a little, but I'm bleeding anyways. No matter what the PSAs try to say. No matter what anyone tries to tell you. The ghouls, they like the flesh. Especially when it's bleeding and even more so when it's fresh. It's like swimming in shark infested waters with a cut. Most are capable of controlling those urges, but there are those who embrace their feral desires. So just a recap of my situation, messed up bike, angry wolf-kid chasing me, I'm bleeding and heading into Mausoleum.

And it's raining blood.

Recovery

Still trying to recover from last night. It's not that it was a crazy night of partying or anything. Much to the contrary it was about 7 hours of sitting around a blue and green flame talking. It was a good time. It's been a while since I allowed myself to just hang out with one friend for hours on end and it was a pleasant change.

Today wouldn't have been nearly so bad, but it was Cannibal Day so I decided to crawl out of bed and grace my childhood church with my presence.

Now though, it is time to stop with the procrastination and finally get around to writing my review of Othello as performed by Shakespeare's Globe Theatre. That was an impressive performance. Of course, Eamonn Walker was unbelievable, but Tim McInnerny absolutely stole the show. And to see the stage set as part of the performance instead of during blackouts was a very pleasant change of pace compared to modern theatre.

That is all.

It had to Happen Eventually

So the Vikings finally lost. It made me a little sad. But at least they lost to the Steelers who won on 2 defensive returns. One play never should have happened because a bad call on the previous play, but the other was just impressive. Never say die with the Vikings though. On the last drive it looked like no Steelers wanted to play chicken with AD, and can you blame them? That man is a bulldozer once he lowers his shoulders with a defender in his sights. I can't wait for next with the 2nd game versus the Packers up at Lambeau Field. It's going to be epic.

When there's bad there's good

This is too cool. One of my good friends, the immortal Todd Martin has now been seduced by HorrorNews.net to review horror novels. I am thinking it is time to unleash my master plan to start write a horror novel for NaNoWriMo now.

MUWAHAHAHA!

Anyway, he just reviewed HEINOUS written by Jonathan Moon. This is pretty cool considering Todd has devoted his mind and life to the destruction and ruination of all who would dare to stand against the terrors to be within tales of horror.

Check out the review and wet your appetite just a little for some horror fiction. - HorrorNews.net

That's something to wake up to

I woke to a text message this morning asking if I had heard about one of the instructors at my school. I was a bit freaked out to be honest. Afraid something had happened to him. Sadly though it would seem he was arrested for some alleged behavior unbecoming of an instructor. It seems a little weird because this is an instructor who when mentioning some of the more lewd behaviors of the Romans and Greeks he would get embarrassed and flustered talking about it.

It makes a bit sad because this man is one of my two favorite instructors at the school. He's definitely my favorite instructor for the regular classes.

Here's hoping that it was just someone who upset that they didn't get the grade they wanted on something, or worse yet an obsessed student who just couldn't have the instructor so they filed a complaint.

That always seems to happen around here. It happened at my middle school with 2 science teachers, at my high school for 3 other teachers. Maybe I should stop going to school. I think I may be bad luck for the weirdo teachers who do things a little different.

Fink - Survivor (SoRD)

They call me Fink. I’m not entirely sure why the name stuck. I guess it’s because I lie. It’s what I do. If I’m speaking I’m lying, at least according to most. We actually came up with a rule; I have to announce when it’s my true statement or statements of my day; yes, it’s that bad. My lies though, my tales, my way of speaking, does have its advantages. I have been able to talk my way out of more situations that would have resulted in a fight or even death than anyone else in our clan. I don’t have Crenshaw’s rage or strength. I’m not able to bulldoze my way through this new world we find ourselves in. Don’t get me wrong, I can hold my own in a fight, albeit it’s never a fair fight when I’m involved. Crenshaw appreciates that at least, the other just don’t get it sometimes. They live under the misconception that we need to live by a misguided honor system, like a bunch of damn boy scouts. Cheater is what they call you when they’re not willing to do whatever it takes to win.
That’s why I’m still alive.
That’s why I’m still here.
My name is Fink. And I’m a Survivor of the Reckoning Day.

Imp - Survivor (SoRD)

I don’t remember the way things used to be. This is the only world I’ve really known. The bigs, they talk about it all the time. The neat toys. All the bright lights. The things they used to go and do. The only thing I remember is pain. That’s, that’s all there was. Before that I think it was warm. I, I don’t really know anything else. But I like this new world. This new world is nice. I’ve got Donnie. He watches out for me. He’s the one who found me. Sometime after, um, what he calls, um, the Reckoning Day. I don’t really remember anything. There was just pain. I was stuck with these bigs. They called me their family. Told me they loved me. But they hurt me. They hurt me lots. I don’t know how long they had me. It seems like all my life I was with them, at least, all my life before Donnie rescued me. Something happened. Something bad happened. There was a fight. A bad fight. Not like how my family fought, where they got back up afterward. This fight was different. The ones who said they were my family, they didn’t get up. There was this one, this monster. There was nothing that my old family could do stop him. He killed them all. His bare hands. He, he killed them with his bare hands. There was lots of blood. I was covered in their blood. Like a red, sticky bath. I learned long ago not to scream. I just stood there. Naked. In the middle of the room. Their blood was all over me. He, Donnie, he just looked at me. He started to walk away. Then he shook his head and walked back. Donnie wrapped a blanket around me, picked me up, he carried me out of there. Out of that dark place of pain. Out of hell. Donnie calls me Imp. He tells me I’m his little Imp he rescued hell. I like being his Imp. I get things for him. Take things to people. Get things he can’t get to. It’s fun. I like the games we play. Donnie doesn’t hurt me. He doesn’t let anyone hurt me. It’s not like my old family. I don’t think they were my family. Donnie says family takes care of each other. Donnie is my family now. Donnie and his friends.
My name is Imp. I think it, I think it used to be Cary Anne or something, but now I‘m just Imp. And I’m a Survivor of the Reckoning Day.

NaNoWriMo

I'm debating on whether I want to stick with my original idea of the Survivors of the Reckoning Day for my NaNoWriMo (November is National Novel Writing Month) flashcrazyspeedwrittennovel or if I want to work on one of the other 4 billion ideas floating around causing me brain pains. The only other real option would be to do the Waking Dream or even the Death in the Meat Locker. Granted I'd be cheating just a little on the latter since it has about 10k words already. I figure it's not too bad to hop on that idea, but I'm afraid it's going to end up being a cute little novella instead of a full-on novel sadly.

So many choices. So little time. If only I didn't have 5 tests and another 2 writing projects due in November then maybe I could really cause myself some pain and crank 2 works.

Decisions, decisions. I guess in the meantime maybe I could do another character introduction from my Survivors story. That sounds like a good time to me.

Crenshaw: Survivor of the Reckoning Day (SoRD)

December 21, 2012. It was the day our world ended. It came in a flash of light. The attacks were without warning. We never knew what hit us. The World Federation, made up of four of the world’s super powers attacked with weaponry only dreamed of in sci-fi stories. America and the British Isles were hit the hardest. Lasers. Fucking lasers from outer space. Satellites, like the “Star Wars” weaponry spoken of in the 80’s, rained fire and death on American cities simultaneously. It was all we could do to survive. D.C., New York, L.A., Denver, Houston, all gone in moments. Other cities destroyed, leaving millions dead in moments. It wasn’t nuclear. Though many of us who survived wish it had been. Then maybe, just maybe, it would’ve taken us with it in the fallout. No, these attacks left death and destruction in their wake, but none of the aftereffects of attacks we had been brought to believe would come.
Now we fight amongst ourselves in the cities. Warring tribes, struggling to survive each day. No one thinking of the future. We’re all just trying to get by just one more day. Waiting for a leader to rise. Someone to unite us. To bring us under one banner so we can rise above the chaos, the anarchy. But the leaders, they’re all dead. The Reckoning Day attacks saw to that. There’s only us left. The so-called free nations. The common citizens fighting to survive. Left to our own destruction by the World Federation. I would like to say that I am different. That I will bring the tribes, the gangs, the chaos to order, but I am no different. I am no leader. I am a survivor. I will kill my own mother, my own father, my brothers and sisters, if they look at me with malice in their eye, and think nothing of it.
I am Donovan Crenshaw. And I am a Survivor of the Reckoning Day.

D Day is Coming

The day is coming. It's only 4 days away. Get ready for it. The 27th will change your life. You don't know what I'm talking about? I don't suppose you would. You must be plugged into the messiah, the savior, Kilroy_2.0.

Kilroy_2.0 is here.
Kilroy_2.0 is everywhere.

J.C. Hutchins second novel is being released on October 27th. His first novel, with Jordan Weisman (legendary game innovator), "Personal Effects: Dark Art" is the future of novel and story-telling. It's not just a novel you sit down and read, you interact with the characters, follow the story, call the numbers, and get pulled into the story.

The point you ask, what does this matter to me? I can tell you, J.C. Hutchins will change the way you experience novels. "7th Son: Descent" is the 2nd novel to be publish by the ground-breaking author even though it was the first novel in a trilogy that gained him recognition. You don't have money to spend on a $10 novel? Hey that's cool. Check it out at his Website or BoingBoing because both are running a serialized text version of the novel. Hutch is releasing it as a PDF file to save and check out, and from what I've seen it is the actual novel, artwork or whatever extra is in it, and not just the text files.

If you start reading the text and can't wait for more you can get more background on the characters through the audio stories that have been released as a Prequel Anthology. Oh wait, and if you enjoy the story you can get the original version of "7th Son: Descent" to download as a podcast novel.

Cluttered

This may be a little cluttered and have several posts go up over the next couple days as I transfer ideas and things written elsewhere to this singular locale. I'm hoping this will work out a little better than arguing and fighting with the random updates that come up on the old stand-ins of social media. No more weird blog navigation through Myspace. No more trying to figure out where the actual posts are versus the insane clutter from news feeds on Facebook. This should be fun. I can't wait.

Zombies versus Cavemen

Zombies Versus Cavemen

Thrag lived for the hunt. He saw himself as predator, and could lead his tribe to take down even the largest mastodon. But this…this was beyond what he knew. The dead rising from their graves, wearing the moldered faces of family, faces of the tribe? This was madness. Even old Turlock, the shaman, was no help.

Indeed, he had been one of the first devoured.

Thrag and a handful of the tribe had sealed themselves up in a cave. Most felt comforted that the dead weren’t getting inside. But not Thrag. He was too much of a hunter to play at being prey.

Thrag did not understand why the dead walked, and why they hungered for the flesh of other tribesmen. He understood two things: the strength of his arms, and the strength of his stone ax. Trusting in those, Thrag moved aside the barricade, his mighty arms complained at the effort of moving the boulder single-handedly. None of the other surviving tribesmen felt the desire to move out into the mass of risen flesh. They all seemed to believe that it was the will of the gods that the dead rise again as punishment for past transgressions. But Turlock was dead and now his mutilated body moved among the dead masses as it shambled about mindlessly. Without their shaman most of the tribe seemed to feel there was no way to appease the gods. Ruination and damnation were all that remained for the survivors.

Unlike the others, Thrag did not subscribe to this belief. The gods in which he believed honored bravery, strength, and the hunt. He would sooner die in battle than be hunted or cornered and left to starve.

Much to his surprise the risen were not at the mouth of the cave in which he and his tribe had sealed themselves. They were more than a stone’s throw down the hill except for two who had wandered up the hill away from the risen masses and one that did not have legs and was dragging its way up the hill toward the cave using only its arms. Thrag moved down the hill toward the injured risen without much thought to stealth. If he was to find the weakness of these unholy creatures then it would be best to attack the injured. When he got near the creature his step faltered and his breath caught. It was his own father. He had been dead for more seasons than Thrag could remember and his desire to test these risen creatures waned. “Father?” Thrag whispered hoarsely, but the only response from the risen was a low groan. It changed its coarse toward Thrag instead of directly toward the cave at the sound of his voice. “Father, what has happened?”

Thrag could see that the creature’s flesh had rotted and decomposed to such an extent that more bone was visible on the once meaty arms than flesh. He circled the creature and approached from behind, yet it did not turn to face him. Thrag then realized that the creature’s eyes had long since been eaten away and it paused momentarily after each difficult stroke to move itself to listen and sniff at the air. “Forgive me father,” he whispered and set his jaw as he raised his stone axe above his head before bringing the weapon down in a mighty arc and hacked through the risen’s left arm just above the elbow.

The creature did not cry out in pain. It did not even seem to recognize that it had been attacked other than it stopped and frantically turned its head from side to side as it tried to determine what had happened. It sniffed the air in short, rapid intakes and cocked its head to the side like a wolf as it listened. Thrag deftly stepped around the creature and brought his axe down again, this time he severed the risen’s right arm at the shoulder. Again the creature sniffed wildly at the air and cocked its head to listen. When it tried to move the stubs of its arms wiggled. When it was unable to make any progress it began to wriggle and snake its body, but only rolled from side to side and found it was nearly incapacitated.

“Evil beast, just die,” Thrag growled as he raised his axe a final time. This time he brought the axe down and severed the creature’s head. Its body wiggled for a few seconds before it ceased all movement. Its head had rolled a few feet back down the hill and Thrag poked at the severed head to turn it so he could look at the rotten face and was finally satisfied that the risen could be slain. He gripped the severed head by its crown, his massive, powerful hand dug into the soft flesh and weakened skull as he carried it back to the cave where his still living tribesmen hid. Thrag strode with purpose and confidence when he entered the cave and tossed the head down before the survivors. “The risen creatures can be killed,” he called out to his tribesmen. “Now grab your weapons and make your ancestors proud. We will wipe this scourge from the face of this land and give our dead the honored rest they deserve!” A cry rose up from the cave in support. The roar of the surviving tribesmen echoed through the cave like rolling thunder and Thrag smiled broadly. Perhaps they would survive this night after all.

The men gathered at the mouth of the cave with their stone axes in hand and their clubs rested on their shoulders. The women and children remained in the cave, no longer did they huddle in the shadows, but they did not emerge to watch the remaining men march to battle. “Take the heads of these risen creatures,” Thrag growled. The men watched as the creatures slowly shambled up the hill toward the sound of the cry that had erupted from the cave. Thrag raised his axe above his head and let out a mighty cry that was followed immediately by the other hunters of the tribe. There were only fifteen of them now, but if the rest of the risen creatures were as fragile as his own father then they just might be able to put their ancestors to rest once and for all. The tribesmen rushed down the hill at the unholy army before them; their own bloodlust matched that of the risen dead. Thrag led the charge into their enemies, lost in his own rage he tore through anything that stood in his path.

As the hunters fought their way through the risen masses they lost track of how many destroyed creatures they left in their wake. It was as if all their burial grounds had risen from the grave. There were so many creatures to fight through. Thrag, along with his tribesmen, noticed that as they tore through their enemies the creatures became quicker. It was as if the more recent dead possessed a quickness and strength the first risen did not. Thrag noticed too late that four of the creatures had moved to flank the band of hunters. They did not move like the shambling, slow moving creatures. These four moved on all fours, their powerful arms and legs driving them forward at speeds that would rival that of the tribe’s hunting wolves. He called out a warning to his tribesmen, but it was too late and two of the creatures leapt over two of the slower risen and drug two hunters to the ground with them.

The slower creatures fell onto one of the men. Their mouths worked frantically as they bit and gnawed on the leg of the nearest hunter to them. Thrag rushed to aid the fallen hunter, Shamafu. His friend struggled to wield his club while on his back. Shamafu brought the weapon up in both hands and managed to block an attack from the faster creature as it tried to bring both its club-like fists down on his chest. Thrag ignored the slower risen for the moment, span around and swung his axe through the top of the creature’s head. It stood there for a second, then turned its head slowly to look at Thrag before it fell to the ground. Shamafu kicked his legs as he tried to free them from the creatures, but they had both fallen across his legs and were gnawing on his left leg. Thrag kicked one of the creatures in the side, knocking it off the hunter, then swung the axe in an upward motion and ripped the head from the risen that remained on his friend. Another hunter broke from the group and brought his club down on the second creature’s head as it rose to its hand and knees. The dark blood and gore exploded from its skull to cover the man’s legs below his knees and he smiled grimly back at Thrag. The other fast moving creature lay in a butchered heap among the hunters, but it had not been dispatched before it was able to kill a tribesman. Thrag turned to his slain comrade and with no satisfaction used his axe to cut off the man’s head before he suffered the same fate as the other risen dead.

There was a brief respite from the onslaught. The creatures waited about twenty feet away from the band of hunters uncertain as to what to do after the faster creatures had been dispatched. Thrag looked about quickly to locate the other two threats he had seen flanking them moments before and noted with some satisfaction they had circled back around behind the slower mass of creatures. He looked down at Shamafu and tears welled in his eyes. The two of them had been friends since birth and now he watched in despair as his friend struggled to his feet. The other hunters stood more than an arm’s length away, uncertain as to what they should do now. Thrag gripped his axe tightly in his sweaty hand, the muscles in his powerful arms flexed as he gripped and re-gripped his weapon trying to decide what should be done.

“I can still fight,” Shamafu growled and reached his left hand up to his friend. Thrag paused for only a moment before he gripped his friend’s wrist and pulled him to his feet. That was all he needed to know. It was still his friend before him and not one of the creatures. “It will take more than that for those risen beasts to kill me.” Thrag smiled at his friend’s grim determination and clapped him on his meaty shoulder, then turned to face the horrors that awaited them.

The creatures that had showed caution just minutes earlier now moved toward the hunting party with more confidence. Again Thrag raised his axe, now covered in dark, sludge-like blood, and the hunters bellowed another war cry. This time the creatures roared back at them, drowning out all thought, then rushed the remaining hunters. The group of hunters were an unbreakable wall as the initial rush came upon, but as the fight continued their attacks carried less power and precision. Swings that had earlier felled the risen creatures in one mighty attack now missed their target and left the creatures either maimed or merely knocked them back for a moment before they attacked again with renewed vigor.

The cries of his tribesmen fueled Thrag’s rage as he heard them call out in pain or saw them fall under the risen horde. Shamafu continued to fight along beside him, his injured leg slowed his attacks, but even with the injury he continued to fight back the sea of risen creatures before them.

There was no end in sight. The hunting party’s numbers had been reduced to nine, but then three of the fast, dangerous creatures rushed out mass of rotten flesh and threw their bodies into the hunter to Thrag’s right and Shamafu’s left. When the hunters farther out on the line turned to face the new threat they were overwhelmed by other risen creatures and they were dragged down. The feeding frenzy that followed reminded Thrag of ants when they swarmed over a fallen piece of food that had been left out over night. He reached down and grabbed a club to wield in his left hand and continued to battle. At this point he realized he would not survive the night, but he would not stop. He would never stop.

What seemed like an eternity later Shamafu staggered to a halt. His massive club drug the ground and for a brief moment the creatures backed away just out of reach. Shamafu swung the club in a slow, lazy arc, and the effort caused him to fall to his knees. He cried out in pain at the sudden pressure and jolt to his injured leg. Thrag stepped back to his friend as he tried to stay between Shamafu and the horde they faced. It was then that he realized they were the only two left. One of the fast moving creatures burst out of the wall of enemies with a roar to Thrag’s left. He pivoted quickly and swung his mace low expecting the creature to try to stay below an attack that would normally strike a man in the chest. His anticipation was rewarded and he caught the creature near its waist. Its momentum caused it to flip forward and land on its back at Thrag’s feet. He had already started to swing his axe in a mighty overhand arc and brought it down severing the creatures head.

“I am finished my friend,” Shamafu said hoarsely, barely above a whisper as he looked up at his friend. Thrag turned to face his friend and nodded to him. Shamafu closed his eyes for a moment then lifted his chin and opened his eyes, “Thank you, my friend.”

Thrag yelled with the force of his swing, wanting to ensure that his friend’s death would be as quick and as painless as possible. The stone axe tore through Shamafu’s thick neck, his red blood sprayed across Thrag’s stomach to contrast the black sludge that was already smeared and splattered on him. In that moment Thrag would have let the horde take him. He was utterly alone. His hunting party was dead. His close friend was dead by his own hand. Surely the death of the tribe was certain now as well. But the creatures did not attack. They encircled him, but did not charge. There were still untold numbers of them. As far as Thrag could see the night writhed with their movement. He dropped his weapons and knelt at his friend’s corpse and wringed his hands in the blood that pooled that Shamafu’s headless corpse. He spread his fingers across his own face and smeared the blood from his forehead to his chin. He looked up and smiled at the horrors around him.

Thrag gripped his friend’s mace as he stood. He had never noticed how large, how heavy the weapon truly was. It was no wonder Shamafu had exhausted himself wielding it. He realized at this moment his own weakness. Thrag raised the weapon above his head as he had many times before and let out one last war cry. His voice carried the anger and pain at having failed his tribe. He knew now that none would survive this night. All he could do was send as many of the risen back to the grave as possible. One creature staggered toward him and he swung the mace down into its shoulder, crushing it to the ground. He gripped the weapon with both hands and span around catching another risen as it approached from behind, knocking it’s head over the few creatures who had gathered behind him. Then the onslaught came. He wasn’t even able to swing the weapon again as the risen fell upon him, dragging him to the ground. He struggled as the creatures tore at his flesh, but there was nothing he could.

The last thing Thrag saw was two of the fast moving creatures and several slower risen as they rushed up the hill toward the open cave.