"The Wyrd Magnet/Meet Martin Black" Chapter 3 - Regret (Urban Fantasy)

This is the next bit in our still-as-yet-unnamed saga. If you want more information than that, you'll need to check out the first two chapters. I am still interested in anyone else's idea for a better title. All suggestions are welcome!

Let me know what you think; I genuinely do enjoy hearing from you readers!



Chapter Three – Regret

I left the cab, pulled up my collar to keep the rain off my neck. If serendipity provided, Mari might already be here. The city’s semi-famous shopping district, with its bookstores and cafes, coffee shops and boutiques, was one of her favorite haunts. She read every word she could get her hands on and loved to sit and watch the passersby on the sidewalks. Her passion for watching and reading was matched only by her love of coffee; it was as if she lived on it. Fact is she might actually be living on it. I could never be sure. In so many ways we were exactly alike, except for that one thing.

I passed the fountain in the center of the square, pockmarked with precipitation. I thought about dropping a coin while making a wish, but I didn’t know what to wish for. Besides, those things rarely came true.

Hidden speakers played jazz near Banagon’s side door, something from the Blue Note catalog, perhaps. I slipped inside; Dean was behind the counter. He apologized, explaining that Charlie had been called away. I asked where he was.

“Off to see a manuscript, he said! I’m sorry!”

He didn’t seem to be lying and I didn’t press him.

“I’m going over to Brew Mountain. Can I get you anything?” I asked. It also paid to be polite to bookstore employees. You never knew what they knew.

“Why thank you! But no, sir, I picked up a chai latte earlier!”

“Okay. When Charlie comes back, tell him Martin Black stopped by.”

“Happy to, Mr. Black! Is there a message?”

“That should do it.”

Urban Fantasy - "The Wyrd Magnet/Meet Martin Black" - Chapters 1 and 2

About a year or so ago, I posted a much earlier version of this. I wasn't happy with it, and even a couple of (very tolerant) friends of mine critiqued the bejeezus out of it. I decided to overhaul much of it, and try it out again.

This is not part of the Heroes... universe; it stands in an urban fantasy world of its own. I'm interested in your thoughts on the first two chapters - both of which are posted here.

Furthermore, this will fall somewhere between novella and short novel length. I've bounced a few names around, but haven't decided on one. So far, I've gone with "The Wyrd Magnet" and "Meet Martin Black." Like one? Have a better one? I'm interested in your thoughts, your criticism, and quite possibly your title idea.

Feel free to post your comments below. If you want, I'm also happy to take your thoughts via Twitter, Facebook, or email.

Beware... there are some adult ideas below, and a smattering of naughty words. It's also got a bit of a post-'80s vibe, and that may be even more frightening...

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Chapter 1 – Sub-Culture

Rain spattered the windshield as my cab driver pulled up into the garish light of Club Houngan, the city’s momentary it-spot. A Wednesday-night crowd snaked around the corner; the vanguard shuffled impatiently under the canopy protecting the velvet rope. Friday or Saturday lines would reach another block or two. The cab eased alongside a row of limousines, and the driver slammed the shifter into park.

“Thirty-one forty,” he said, turning down the pounding tech-metal music. “Make it thirty-one. I don’t need your forty cents.”

“Keep it.” A pair of twenties – a decent tip, not enough to be extravagant, but enough to ensure the next time I needed him, I’d get him.

He thanked me and thumbed the button to unlock the doors. I glanced through rain-dappled glass at the red and white light reflected on the pavement. Atop the three-story building shone the gaudy neon image of a smiling voodoo priest. Charmless, it looked as threatening as a fast food sign. I pushed open the door, jogged past the limos and their lurking drivers and went straight to the canopy. The damp patrons not yet close enough to the front, those sheltered under umbrellas, coats, or fashion magazines, glared as I pushed forward. Two bouncers, eyes like gun turrets atop the walls of their bodies, turned to watch me approach. I squeezed between the velvet rope and a scrum of young females.

I’d buffed and shined myself the best I could; I’d shaved, shampooed, styled, and suited up in my finest. Even with that, I was a decade beyond the club’s freshness date.

“Back of the line, chief,” the nearest wall rumbled.

“I’m Martin Black.”

He didn’t quite blink; he also didn’t bother to check his clipboard.

“Yes, sir, I’ve been told to send you in.”

Sometimes a Story Needs No Point

--This has been cross-posted to the Writer's Washroom.

I collect stories. Not short stories; those I don't collect. Not books either, though I have about 30 moving boxes packed full of books that came with me to California – and that was after I sold about two-thirds of the ones I owned.

Not books, not the written word. I collect stories – the spoken and remembered tales that happened to me or someone else.

Many of those stories, it must be said, don't have a point. I've noticed a certain tendency among both readers and writers to desire a writer – or a storyteller – to get to the point now! This has always smacked of someone needing their hand held to understand what the writer is trying to say.

Sometimes the writer is just telling a story. Like this one. Until last night, when I told my girl about this, there were maybe three or four people on the planet that knew it. I can't say why this came to mind last night, but it did. Enough time has passed, I guess, that I feel like sharing this story.

This is a true story.

I drove a Yellow Cab in Jackson, Mississippi for a time. One afternoon I took a call from the dispatcher asking me to pick up a fare in western Jackson. I was closest; I took the call. When I arrived, there was a man who said he needed to get to the farthest southeastern part of our metro area as soon as possible.

“My wife is sick,” he said. “I need to get her to a doctor.” He asked what it would cost, and I gave him a ballpark figure. He then said what cab drivers hear once or twice a day:

“I don't have any money on me.” He said when we got there, he could run inside and get his money to pay me. Cab drivers don't do this. I usually didn't do it. I'd been ripped off many times after someone had tugged my heartstrings a bit too hard.

Heroes... Chapter Eight - "The Shining Way"

Okay, welcome to Chapter 8 of Heroes..., my project that has been in progress for some time. After a delay of several months - brought on by a crippling bout of writers' block, a lack of time, and the Vista crash that cost me the last version of this, I'm finally ready to put this chapter up.

This is my second attempt to post this. I just spent hours doing the last one, and Our Lovely Host, Blogger, just failed to post it - and lost the entire dang thing. So I'm doing it again, but it's not so pretty as it was last time.

For those of you who can't remember what happened before - and for those new readers (Hi!), I've set up a couple of options for you. You can either catch up on the entire thing, or you can just read a summary of what has come before.

Read the Prologue - "Darkness"
Read Chapter 1 - "Malcolm"
Read Chapter 2 - "Dunbar"
Read Chapter 3 - "Sloan"
Read Chapter 4 - "Melbourn"
Read Chapter 5 - "Harbordown by Day"
Read Chapter 6 - "Tzal"
Read Chapter 7 - "Harbordown by Night"

If you're interested, you can also read "Melbourn's Storm" - a short story unrelated to the book, but set some time before and featuring one of Our Heroes.

Melbourn's Storm (edit)

Howdy, y'all. This is the first major edit of "Melbourn's Storm," and as always I am mas grateful to my friends in the North County Writers of Speculative Fiction, who provide needed support and feedback (of all kinds).

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This second version of "Melbourn's Storm" has been removed.  It has been replaced by this current version.

Melbourn's Storm

This is the first short story I've ever written regarding the Heroes. The time setting doesn't matter, except that it is definitely before the work-in-progress novel.

It's about 4,800 words - about 17 pages on Word. As usual, let me know what you think of this. Be kind; it's only a first go-round.

Thanks!

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This first version of "Melbourn's Storm" has been removed and replaced with this current version.

"A Chilling Wind" (edit)

This is the first (and probably final) edit of "A Chilling Wind." I got some outstanding feedback from my writer's group - the North County Writers of Speculative Fiction - and wanted to put this up with some of their suggested changes.

** Actually, this is now the last edit. I have submitted this for competition and have made a few tiny tweaks here and there.

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A Chilling Wind


Fifty-four stories over the city, a blond man stepped out onto a small patio. Shirtless, he buttoned his jeans closed as he stepped to the railing. A chilling breeze tossed the curls around his ears and neck and puckered the sweaty skin of his chest. He started to rest against the wrought-iron railing, but his left hand slipped. He wiped it on his leg and grabbed the rail again. Leaning over as far as he could, he gazed down into the steel and concrete canyons below him. In the movies, one could always hear sirens and screams and watchdogs barking. In reality, from this height the air was mostly silent; the wind across his ears was the dominant sound.

He’d left the woman in the bedroom, lying spent on damp sheets. To be honest, which he preferred to be, he couldn’t remember her name, but he thought it started with an M – a Michelle, or Melissa, or Melinda perhaps. Her two sons were sleeping in their bedroom. He’d done his best to avoid waking them as he left their mother’s bedroom and came outside. There was no reason to scare these children. It would be pointless and cruel.

Fear was contagious, and there was no one for them to share their fear with. There’d be no comfort from their mother, no rescue from men in uniforms. Like most apartments in buildings this tall, the rooms were nearly soundproof, and even if he left the door to the patio open, any noise they made would simply be lost in the silence outside.

He turned and went back into the living room. Leaving the lights off, he made his way past darkened modern furniture and went into the kitchen. He found and flipped a switch. Overhead lights flickered a moment and came on. Glancing around, he found what he was looking for a few feet away. He began to reach for a knife block and stopped. He raised both his hands. His right palm was somewhat clear of blood, from when he wiped it on his jeans. The left was stained and beginning to dry. For a few seconds, he rubbed both his hands on his pants. He would wash them, but it might make the knife slip, and he wanted this over with as quickly as possible.

It was a distasteful thing, killing children.

He yanked the largest knife from the block and hurried from the kitchen. As he passed their mother’s bedroom, he pushed the door open again. “M” lay on her back on red sheets, her eyes open, her face disfigured from the beating he had given her before using a small razor to rip her throat open. He gave his handiwork only a moment’s more thought, then moved on to the boys’ room.

He was quick. In all the years he’d been doing this, he’d never enjoyed killing the children. He’d never call it a necessary evil, but it was that. Neither boy woke as he worked. He breathed a sigh of relief as he finished. It was much easier if the children never woke, never cried, or screamed or begged.

He tossed the knife to the floor and left it. Fingerprints weren’t something that worried him; no one had ever printed him. He left the bedroom and went back to the patio, flipping blood onto the glass door as he passed it. Again he grabbed the rail and let the wind caress him.

“Why do you persist in doing this?”

The blond man didn’t startle or jump at the voice from the living room. He didn’t even turn to see who it was or bother to answer.

“Not even we do this,” a dark man in the darkened room stated.

“Yes,” the blond man answered. “Yes, you do.”

“No,” the man said from inside. “My people have no hand in that. You forget what we do.”

The blond man turned around and leaned against the railing, letting the air cool his sweaty back. From here, he couldn’t quite see his opponent. A moment later, he saw a dull red glow at around head height.

“Are you smoking?” The blond man asked.

“I usually do. It’s how I handle fear.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“You. Your people. Your side.”

Reaching out to grip the railing, the blond man laughed. “You people always get things wrong. We offer hope. We offer security. We offer—”

“Safety? A world free from psycho killers, someone that will murder a single mother and her two boys – is that what your side offers?”

“Yes.”

“And you think we get it backwards. You traffic in terror, fear. It’s your side that has spent all these years trying to frighten the people – not us.”

The blond man pushed away from the railing and walked back into the apartment. His opponent sat on one of the modern chairs, a cigarette in his hand.

“It’s your side we’re keeping them from,” the blond man said. He’d had this conversation before, so many times. He had answered, using the same points he always did.

“Why?” the man asked him. “We’re not the party of the first choice. We’re the party of failed expectations. We’re those who aren’t perfect. Of course people will come to us. Your side asks for too much. You always have. You’ve seen that striving for a narrow definition of perfection doesn’t work, so you’re trying to frighten them to come to you.”

“One should always strive for perfection,” the blond man said, as he turned and walked out onto the porch again.

“One can strive and seek, but one should be allowed to fall short.”

“No,” the blond man said, as he rested against the rail. “But they do, time and again they do.”
“So instead of seeking perfection, the people seek sanctuary. That’s been your go-to move for a very long time. Offer them hope, offer them security, then offer them…”

“Salvation,” the blond man said.

“Keep doing that,” the dark man said, and stood. “Terrorize the people, frighten them. Give them enemies of the world, enemies of the country, enemies of God, enemies on their own block. Give them a world to be frightened of, and then…” He waved his hand toward the bedroom. “Show them that some things really are as terrible as they’ve been told.”

The dark man walked to the doorway and grinned at the blond man. “And you wonder why we’re going to win. We don’t have to do a thing.”

“You can’t,” the blond man said, glancing over his shoulder at his opponent. “We have all the power.”

“At this point,” the dark man said, “all you have is the power to frighten. What’s worse – the horrifying acts of a madman, or the terrifying hand of God?”

The blond man leapt up onto the rail. He wavered just a moment, then caught his balance. He raised his head and looked up into the sky. His wings unfurled, grasping at the breeze. He turned once more and looked at the dark man, waiting in the doorway for an answer. He gave him the best one he had:

“Does it matter?”

His feet left the railing and the chilling wind played across his face and body as he rose into the sky.