This WIP is down. In September 2012, Lore magazine will publish a much better version of "Melbourn's Storm." As such, any version of the story is unavailable except through them.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
"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.”
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.”
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
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...
--------------------
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.”
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...
--------------------
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.”
Sunday, March 28, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, December 14, 2009
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).
------------------------------
This second version of "Melbourn's Storm" has been removed. It has been replaced by this current version.
------------------------------
This second version of "Melbourn's Storm" has been removed. It has been replaced by this current version.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
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!
-----------------------------------------------
This first version of "Melbourn's Storm" has been removed and replaced with this current version.
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!
-----------------------------------------------
This first version of "Melbourn's Storm" has been removed and replaced with this current version.
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