Oct short story contest

The Return

Soft winds played a haunting melody as they blew through the cracks in the house. The aged wooden planks were missing paint and warped. An old rocking chair swayed back and forth on the porch. Beside it sat an empty flower pot with a broken lantern leaning against it. Cobwebs flickered from the supports of the chair. In the distance, unseen in the night, echoed the baleful hoot of a great horned owl. Night had settled in, blanketing the world in tender embrace as the weary were granted respite from the trials of the day. All that is but one.

The old man eased onto the porch. His tired eyes scanned the rolling hills and lightly forested fields. Wisps of stark white hair clung to his head, speckled by liver spots and fading freckles. His once sharp blue eyes were tired now, past their prime. He felt old. His body was thinner, fragile. With a heavy sigh he took his usual seat and just watched. He hoped this night would finally be different.

He’d lost track of how many years he came out to sit on his porch with that broken lantern in his lap. Decades at least. His very life seemed defined by it. He was bitter, angry at the heavens for a perceived injustice oh so long ago. The lantern was a constant reminder of his failure to protect his wife. A mockery of what could have been. An old promise said it would light when the time was right. He’d been waiting every night for so long and never so much as a flicker.

The old man sighed and began his nightly vigil. It wasn’t long before he began to nod off. The nights were longer these days and it was all he could do to try and stay awake. Autumn was here. A faint chill clung to the old house. Leaves of red, yellow and orange drifted past on the wind. Then he heard it. The subtle chime echoed over the hills and through the valleys. The old man snapped alert, his gaze automatically lowering to the lantern. His eyes widened. A spark. Small, intense but full of life.

“Have you ever given up hope?” a voice asked.

The old man started. There, standing at the bottom of the steps was a tall figure shrouded in a cloak of blinding colors. His heart quivered. “You’ve come back!”

The figure took a step closer. “I have never left. Every step you’ve taken, every breath you’ve taken I have been right behind you, catching you when you lacked the strength to continue.”

Tears welled. His strength threatened to abandon him. “I’ve missed you so much. All these years, I never dared to dream.”

The other’s voice softened, turning melodious. “Yet you still sat vigil, waiting for the chime. You were always a good man, Daniel.”

“How could I not? You said you’d come back to me, Sara. I’ve been so lonely.”

Sara reached up and lowered her hood. Her face was angelic, glowing with radiance that had been stolen during life. She was almost translucent and hovered just above the tickle of grass. “My dear Daniel, my illness was never your burden to bear. I was called away to a better place. This is not the life you were meant to live.”

“It’s the life I chose,” he defended. “I need you, Sara. Always have.”

She smiled, sad and warm. “Daniel, it’s time to let me go. You still have a life to live and there is much work to be done before you can join me.”

No. His heart stammered. Coldness spread through his veins. “But I…”

Sara reached up and gently touched his weathered cheek. “Daniel, this is how it must be. Let me go. Live your life. We will be together soon, once your task is complete.”

“Do you promise?”

She smiled again. “Always.”

He closed his eyes, relishing her touch. When he opened them again she was gone, leaving him filled with new purpose and filled with warmth. The lantern flickered once and extinguished, blown out by a kiss of wind. Daniel stood on the edge of his porch staring at the spot his wife had been and for the first time in a very long time felt free.

Been so long I almost forgot.

Got convinced to do a short story competition. Not really into small stories but this was my attempt. Opinions?

CHOICES

Wyllym stalked through the forest with the grace of a jungle cat and enough fear to keep him wary. Every shadow was a bandit; every sound an enemy about to attack. His heart beat so loudly he was sure the gods could hear. His skin was clammy, sweaty. Barely out of his teens, Wy...

llym was no great warrior. He was born to poor parents and only taken in by Sir Theklis as charity. Tonight he was determined to prove his worth.
The wind blew through his hair, echoing the words of the old, blind man that had given him the aged parchment in his hands. Once again Wyllym looked down at the crude drawing. The old man’s words haunted his footsteps. “All of the answers you seek await you at the end of this path. Your fears, dreams and desires are all there waiting for you to claim them, but you can only have one. Choose the correct door and unending bliss will be yours. Choose wrongly and certain doom will claim you.”
Wyllym frowned, suddenly afraid. He’d overlooked the blind man’s warnings, so eager to become the man he deserved to be. Now, so close to the end, he began to regret his hasty choices. The haunting echo of the moon showered down, illuminating the forest floor. Shadows from clouds pockmarked the land. Treetops swayed gently, their branches scraping against each other in an angry symphony. The call of a giant owl warned all trespassers beware.
Wyllym glanced at the map again. Using the roughly drawn terrain features as a guide, he scanned the surrounding forest and was surprised to find himself standing at the edge of a perfect circle cut into the foliage. A faint red glow clung to the ground. Wyllym froze. What little courage he had faltered and it was all he could do not to turn and run. There was a supernatural air about the circle and he was right to fear. Places like this shouldn’t exist. Crows ringed the trees, watching his every move, judging. Taking a deep breath, Wyllym stepped into the circle.
Flares of electricity surged through his body. His muscles twitched. Tears streaked down his face. A small trickle of blood crept from his nostril. Wyllym shook off the effects and walked to the center of the circle where three aged, wooden doors stood. The choices, he breathed. His heart began to beat faster. Questions came to life. What do I really want? He glanced up at the ring of crows.
“I can be anything. I can be rich, happy, powerful. A king!” he shouted.
The crows stared down in silence. Reaching out, Wyllym tentatively wrapped his hand around the doorknob on the right. An unspeakable foulness vibrated from the door, beckoning him with wicked temptations. Wyllym’s heart churned. He was suddenly ashamed of his thoughts. His hand dropped and he stepped back.
Wyllym studied the doors, more conscious of his decision. Was greed the doom the blind man spoke of? Possibly, at least it made sense. Wyllym searched his heart for answers, fearful of what his mind might produce. He closed his eyes and let Fate decide. Wyllym reached out again and felt his hand encircle another doorknob. Turning, he gave the door a quick push. A rush of air nearly knocked him to the ground. The crows burst into flight, black feathers drifting down in a hail of caws as the mighty birds sped away.
Wyllym reluctantly opened his eyes and saw his own reflection staring back at him from a full sized silver mirror. The reflection was different somehow. He studied the lines, the angles. It was more mature, stronger and exuding confidence. It was the man he desperately wanted to become. The image smiled them and slowly changed into a golden light. Wyllym stared wide eyed as the light melted into a small beam and plunged into his chest, rendering him unconscious.
When he awoke he felt different. Wyllym slowly got to his feet and looked back at the mirror. This time the image he saw was his own reflection. He wanted to laugh or cry. All of this time and he had finally found the one thing that he’d lacked: courage. Wyllym turned and headed back towards the village, a new man capable of overcoming anything life threw against him. So it was he failed to see the blind man leaning against a nearby tree, smiling.

Whoops

So, I realize it's been a bit since I bothered to regale anyone with my thoughts and whims. I recently finished editing my version of Hammers in the Wind and put it up for sake on Amazon and Barnes and Nobles. Please check it out. In the meantime I read that the head of Disney's movie studio stepped down over the John Carter of Mars debacle. While Disney was forced to eat 200 million dollars I can't help but wonder what happened?
The movie, in my opinion, was great. It followed the Edgar Rice Burroughs novels almost faithfully and was visually rewarding to watch. I felt engaged and entertained with almost no bored moments. Disney admittedly did a horrible job of marketing this film. No sequel for you! Boom. This suggests one critical thing: arrogance. The recent success of the Pirates of the Carribbean series and High School Muscial has lulled the Disney corporation into a false sense of security. They took us for granted and decided to let the Disney name do all the marketing for iit. Such a shame.

This isn't the first time Disney has sucked the egg, so to speak. The Chronicles of Narnia started out as a blockbuster series that quickly wilted. Disney wound up selling the franchise to Hallmark by the end of the second movie because they didn't like the downturn in profits. Understandable but it raises the question of what's the point?

I think part of the problem is that the newer generations don't know who CS Lewis or EGB were. I grew up reading these stories but that was in the 70 and early 80s. We've become a world of drones, slaves to the internet and the gods of technology. There is little room left in the world for wonder or magic.

Motivation

April is here and I am feeling it. With a little luck I will be able to throw about five more titles up on Nook and Kindle within the next 60 days and I will have this train rolling. Volume is a big deal. So to celebrate I have decided to give you a little taste of my next novel: Hammers in the Wind. Enjoy-or not- and let me know what you think.

ONE

High pitched screams pierced the wood and stone halls of Chadra Keep. Badron, the liege lord of Delranan, sprang from his ancient throne at the council table he and his captains were in meeting at. His pale blue eyes boiled from shock to feral rage. The voice drove his actions. His very family was under attack in what was supposed to be the most secure place in his kingdom. More screams and blood choked cries went up from the halls. Badron snarled grimly. The house guard was locked in brutal struggle somewhere deep within the wooden halls of the Keep. Those men fighting and dying would need to fend for themselves. His own blood was more important than any in the kingdom.

Badron drew his sword, trusted and battle tested. The most senior lords and captains of Delranan followed him. Eight in all, they comprised a most lethal band of warriors. Their deeds had forged the kingdom from a pack of warring tribes and clans into a singular monarchy that quickly became the strongest of the northern kingdoms. They wordlessly chased at the wolf skin cloak of their king as he charged into the royal sleeping chambers.

Badron appeared an unstoppable force. Long red hair, now streaked through with gray, flowed angrily down broad shoulders. His normally pale blue eyes seethed red with rage. Wrath commanded him, wrath so strong it could threaten the foundations of the world and make the old gods of Malweir tremble in fear. Muscles bunched under his jerkin. His bulk nearly filled the doorway. Badron felt the old energy flow into him. His was a warrior’s life and this night but an extension of it. The sound of glass breaking drew his attention. Badron bellowed and charged, heedless of any lurking dangers.

Fleeting visions of battle appeared through the flickering torchlight. The flash of a sword. A spray of blood. The ruins of a body lay in the middle of the hall, a crumpled mass of flesh. Badron knelt beside the corpse. The smell of blood kissed the stagnant air. Deep cuts and gashes immolated the young guard. Badron tried to close the eyes, if no other reason than to avoid staring down into the pure agony, but rigor mortis had already begun to set in. A feathered spear broken at the hilt was embedded in the lad’s throat.

“Pell Darga,” growled Jarrik. He rubbed his bald head and spat.

The king brought his gaze up to his friend and captain. “Rouse whatever watch remains, Jarrik. I want these monsters run down and skinned alive. The rest of you with me.”

Badron led them further into the keep. The inner doors to the royal chambers were smashed to ruins. One lay in splinters across the hall while what was left of the second hung in shreds by a single hinge. Smoke curled up from the ceiling. Blood stained the floor and walls in ragged patterns. Bodies lay here too. He grimaced. From the looks of it all of his private guard had been caught unawares and slain. Their furs and spiked helms lay stained in growing pools of blood. Badron splashed his way past.

At last they came unto the king’s chambers. The doors were similarly smashed, leaving a gaping maw, dark and inviting. Sinister shadows leaked into the hall. Unknown fears danced around the men and threatened to weaken their resolve. Preparing his mind for the worst possibility, Badron bunched his shoulders and surged forward. Nothing in this world meant so much to him as the memory of his late wife Rialla and the children he’d sired.

Rough hands snatched at his collar and jerked him back. “No my lord, we cannot afford to lose you,” Argis whispered harshly.

He gestured with his head and two of the largest guards crept forward to flank the doors. Satisfied the king wasn’t going to do anything rash, Argis released him and tossed his torch to the nearest man. Inion snatched it and stared at his battle brother. A hint of smile, no more than the slight curve of his lips, caressed his face. Long had it been since they’d last gone to war. Inion hefted his tulwar and threw the torch into the bedchamber. He charged in after, Argis immediately following with a litany of battle cries. Berserker strength churned inside them.

Badron impatiently waited. Sounds came back to him, making the hairs on his neck stand. The breaking of furniture. A crash in the dark. He forced himself to stand by and wait while others rushed to defend his honor. The idea pained him, but he must be king before warrior. That was the price for the gift he’d usurped from his brother long ago. Inion reappeared a heartbeat later. Disbelief stained his naturally dark eyes. He mouthed words that were incoherent babble.

Badron pushed forward, forgetting all restraint. “Speak man, what of my family?’

The stunned captain could only point back at the broken door.

“Is she?” he whispered.

Inion could not bear to look his king and friend in the eye. “I don’t know, sire. There are traces of blood but no bodies. It is clear that there was a struggle.”

Emotions collided with a wall of confusion. Badron was beyond enraged and on the verge of breaking down. He’d never truthfully cared much for his daughter. In fact he constantly blamed her for the childbirth death of his precious Rialla. But Maleela was still his flesh and blood.  He punched a massive fist into the nearest wall.

“Find my daughter or I’ll have your heads on pikes by dawn. No one sleeps until the Pell Darga are found and killed. And bring me my son.”

America or American't?

When did we become a nation that settled for a step above the worst? has our society declined so much we have lost the national identity that once made us strong? I argue yes. Medicricy is the currency of the day. My favortite example is in sports. Take a football team that absolutely crushes another team by at least 30 points. The winning coach is going to come to the interview and say the other team 'is a great team'...blah blah blah. If they were so great why did you win by so much?

Schools teach our children that finishing last is ok. Bull! There is no reason on God's green earth why anyone should want or accept their child finishing last in anything. Current generations of Americans are a poor representation of what made this country great. Take away what happened to the Indian tribes- because that happened everywhere in the world- men and women came here and MADE this a country. They took what the wanted and didn't settle for anything less than total freedom. The British learned this lesson from us twice the hard way.

And our children are taught how wrong it was to do what we did. How wrong it was for slavery to happen, how we still have to feel like we need to atone for the sins of the fathers. Guess what, slavery has existed since the beginning of time. Why doesn't anyone else get persecuted for it? Don't get me wrong, the act of slavery is abhorrable and a stain on humanity, but it doesn't solely belong to America.

Everything today is I can't. My children don't even try to do their homework before I hear I can't. They don't even try to make their own beds before I hear I can't. The media punishes successful men and women who just happen to be more successful than others. How is that a crime? The beauty of this nation is that every single person has the ability to try to make a name for themselves. The only thing keeping them back is laziness and sloath.

We're not Americans anymore, we are American'ts. Disgusting.

Excitement and the let down

Have you ever picked up a book and thought, this is going to be good. I mean it has to be because the cover is so great, right? Wrong. I am finishing reading Peter Orullian's The Unremembered. It is a new take on an old story, most closely reminiscent of Terry Brooks original Sword of Shananra. The book moves swiftly with a few dull spots. Let's face it, we all find characters that don't interest us in most books. But what I find lacking is a sense of action.

Purpose is hidden behind forked tongues and half answers, which is a wonderful way to continue the plot and engage the reader, but there is so little action I wonder what the author was thinking when he penned almost 900 pages. If good and evil are heading for a long awaited reckoning shouldn't there be some sort of battle involving a host of armies from both sides?

Instead of gripping the reader at the precise moment and letting him/her see the full fury of the world he created, the author leaves a sense of unfinished business. I realize that sequels are the big deal these days. Please go read the Malazan Book of the Fallen series. But what enticement is there to get me to read a 2nd book?

Humanity is Doomed

What is wrong with our society? I can sum it up in two words: Kim Kardashian. Seriously, what talent or ability does she give to the world? Has she written a piece of literary genius, cured a disease, said anything intellectual at all? Ummm, no. But she did get naked for Playboy and let a homemade sex tape out. So why is this hugely untalented woman gracing our television sets, magazine covers, even the evening news? Because we have lowered our standards so far there is nothing else to do.

I blame the internet and technology. Anyone who knows me knows I still enjoy writing a book with a pen and paper. I would rather read a book than watch tv. Technology has dumbed us down to the point where useless people become living martyrs. Not one member of the Kardahian family is worth the sweat or effort of a single US Soldier, but they are reveled by millions of people aching to see wht happens next.

Amercia needs to wake up! Is this the future you want for your children? I say no. My daughter has a Nook, laptop, notebook and a cell phone (All against my wishes) and I have taken almost every one of them away from her. They are detrimental to children and reduce adults to mindless drones who have to have their fix....

When is enough enough?