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This is my writing blog. I write. Sometimes.

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A big, damned hero

Genre: Horror

Teaser: 

I grab my mimosa and return the gesture. “Here’s to the crazies.”

The glasses clink just as the front door is forced in.

Warnings: graphic gore, death, serial killer short story

My most popular (by likes):

Newbury Street (poem): 

You are in a subway station.

You’re down on your last dime and you just need two more nickels.

Slide to Unlock (multiple chapters):

After being shot in the head and, from what he remembers, dying; John Forrester wakes up in a lab. He realizes something isn’t right when he’s practically glowing and the orderlies have him restrained. Being the stubborn soldier he is, John Forrester eventually escapes, but to what?

With no identity, a new hardware-enhanced body, and some crazy feds on his tail–what’s a man on the run to do?

 

Check the menu on the side to get to my other work ! (Long form = Multiple Chapters, but, you know, definitely not novel or even novella length)

A Big Damned Hero

Genre: Horror

Teaser: 

I grab my mimosa and return the gesture. “Here’s to the crazies.”

The glasses clink just as the front door is forced in.

Warnings: graphic gore, death, serial killer short story

A big, damned hero

Once upon a time, there were these serial killers. They dominated the news. They dominated people’s dreams. Affectionately, by the caffeine crazed, sensation hazed media, the group—for no one alone could do all this, no one alone could leave such a long trail of bodies—was called the Bodysnatchers.

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Personal

Hey all!

I know I’ve been rather absent…for months…

I have had a story auto-posting, which was fun to set up. Apparently I messed the links up to the parts in the series, but now that is all fixed! You should check it out if you haven’t already–all parts now accessible from any one post in the series:

http://wp.me/p2x1Mz-h2

Next up should be a Science Fiction short story broken into 3 Parts 😀

Here’s a tease:

LunarLanding2

 

Yes it’s on the moon. And YES IT IS AWESOME.

Just sayin’

Shifter: The First Time I Shifted

This is a new story about a SHAPESHIFTER

The lore is mostly pulled from the show Supernatural with influences from Norse mythology. I claim no higher or better knowledge on shifters; I just liked this particular brand of lore. And if you ever want to discuss lore, PM me because I know nobody else who likes it D:

Warnings: cursing

—–

Shifter

The First Time I shifted

Being a shape shifter isn’t nearly as pretty as they make it in Hollywood. When the shift happens, the shifter doesn’t simply walk into the new form. Sometimes, I know, they show that it hurts. God, I think the closest they’ve come is some were wolf transformations who, in fact, hardly change at all. No, shifters have a very ugly and messy shift because we can’t be birds or cats; we just change human forms—kind of like Mystique from X-men, but not.

I say not because she’s blue. I’m not blue. To be honest, I don’t really know what I am anymore, but I remember what I used to be. Yea—that’s another thing, shifters aren’t born blue or deformed or whatever Hollywood says. We also don’t have parents that tell us “you’re a shifter sweet heart and this is how you change.” No, you just live your whole life feeling uncomfortable in your skin until you realize you can peel it off.

When I first noticed, I was twelve. I hit puberty and I changed; it was like everyone else. I had a textbook growth spurt, got boobs, and had a healthy layer of fat that no amount of running could make go away. I was also uncomfortable in my skin, but it wasn’t the same ‘oh I just hate how my nose is.’ Actually, thinking more on it, I liked the way I looked. I just kind of knew it would change. When I had told my mom this she explained it away as puberty.

So I went through middle school with an air of invisibility: I liked it that way and my friends batted for the same team. It’s when I hit high school that things changed again, just slight shifts. Like I caught myself picking up people’s mannerisms like it was my job; I nearly lost my best friend because she thought I was constantly imitating her; I wasn’t intentionally but I still joked “everything you can do, I can do better”. I could pick up and throw away accents like scraps of paper. I felt the fine tremor of thoughts that meant mood swings, emotional changes, and they were strong, nearly earthquakes when I was impersonating the person with the hormone shifts. Sometimes I could catch glimpses just inside their head.

It was puberty, though, as my mom had said; it was puberty that made me read people’s minds and adopt their habits. Yea, I didn’t believe it too much either. But I believed it enough to be thoroughly surprised when the ‘itching’ began. It was kind of like the chicken pox on steroids. I had this uncomfortable itch everywhere and no matter how much lotion I slathered on, it never went away. It would come in waves, last a week, last a month, and then leave me be.

Second semester of college, though, I had a bit of a fit. I’d been having needlessly itchy skin forever and, fucking screw it, I was going to give into the temptation to scratch. Sounds harmless right? I thought it did too and it was, at first. Because at first I just scratched my skin red and raw—lucky as hell my roommate was out because I was doing a fine impersonation of a mad man with my scratching. Then, though, I thought of my roommate, like really thought of her. It was as if just the thought coated me and I could feel her image, her thoughts, just nestle up against mine. Suddenly the skin I was scratching gave and a glob of me caught under my fingernails.

It wasn’t a huge bit, about the size of a quarter, but it was enough to make me let out a wretched squawk. Pain was searing through the cut and my mind was playing tug-of-war with thinking of my roommate in that creepy voyeuristic sense and wondering if I should go to the hospital. I had breathed noisily through my nose, wanting the panic and nausea to go away. The itching continued and it went bone deep. I felt it splinter into my bones, delve into my marrow and suddenly my eyes were rolling back in my head. I thought of things, of people I saw, and I was searching fervently until I decided to just settle on someone I knew best.

It happened to be my best friend from home, Kaitlin. She was nice and had an otherworldly obsession with cheetos. In middle school we were a lot closer, but we saw each other the odd weekend in high school. I remember strongly the length of her hair and the buzzing quality of her thoughts; I remember how she always was a little sad around the edges because her mom was dead. When I finally pulled myself from the reverie, most of my skin had been torn off, a wet mess on the floor, and my back ached with angry, hot licks of blistering fire. I still drove forward because, caught in frenzy, I couldn’t stop. Eventually I slew my skin and my hair, my bones stopped crackling under my skin and, when I met my eyes in the mirror, I saw Kaitlin staring back at me.

In fact, for a moment, I wondered if I had been Kaitlin all my life.

-part 1- –part 2– –part 3– -part 4– –part 5– –part 6- –part 7

Syd the Sassy Atheist 4

This part is rushed, but I can’t find the heart to flesh it out. I might pull a small rewrite on this short story for personal reasons, but have this for now 🙂

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

Syd the Sassy Ex-Atheist

The atheist quickly learns that the wolf was probably the nicest spirit in existence. After leaving the house, and walking towards town, she had been set upon by hundreds of different creatures from hundreds of different mythos. She spent no time asking them of their origins as they chased her along Main Street through the crowds going to Church. She finally found respite in a choir loft after narrowly squeezing in through an unsanctified kitchen door. Either the spirits hadn’t seen her go in or she was just small enough to fit.

Either way, she could strike off ‘running with the bulls’ from her bucket list.

There is a service going on in the church. People are in the choir loft with white robes and hefty hymnals. There’s a short man in front of them with a thin stick in his hand that he moves in jerky motions. The choir sings a much smoother tune than the conductor indicates and Syd finds herself actually enjoying it.

She never really went to church or had gone to anything that could expose her to a choir. This is really her first encounter and it’s, for lack of a better term, nice.

The rest of the church is a soft whisper as the choir works its way through a hymn. Syd crowds up to the balcony and she can see her town in their Sunday best. Miss Raynier is disorientingly beautiful in a purple dress that cuts sharply from her hip to ankles. The Dubious Tucker Twins (name aptly capitalized) are behaving themselves in the second row—their elder brother, Clayton, is not behaving so well having fallen asleep in the pew.

Syd can see her mother, sitting towards the back and considerably dressed down from the others. She looks uncomfortable—Syd supposes one would if you hardly make it to Church on more than holidays and always without your family. Sydney wants more than anything to be seated beside her mother. She wants more than anything to be among the living.

But, if she did have to hole up somewhere, she supposes a choir loft isn’t the worst. At least it appears as if nothing can get her here.

She walks towards the back of the singers and sits on the highest riser, out of everyone’s way. The choir goes through another song before dismissing and scattering back to the congregation. The wandering atheist remains behind, alone in the carpeted, darkened choir loft. Actually, she’s not alone. There’s someone else there, one of the tenors with dark hair cut short and bright blue eyes. He takes a seat conspicuously close to Syd and heaves a sigh of contentment.

“The choir’s amazing isn’t it?” the man poses, Syd assumes to himself. Unless he’s some crazy ghost whisperer, that is, but she doubts he’s talking to her. Of course, if she truly considers how her day has been progressing, she should quickly realize she’s wrong. And she is.

“What do you think, Sydney?” the dark haired man asks.

Syd looks at him. She’s not afraid. It’s a different feeling. Unlike the wolf or the beasts that chased her, this man seems so much more fraternal. She keeps her gaze distant, staring along the beams of the ceiling to the peak of the large stained glass window above the altar. It sparkles emerald in the mid morning sun.

“I didn’t expect Reggie to sing that well, he can actually carry a tune,” Sydney comments. The silence that ensues is filled with the tones of the preacher’s sermon. He is speaking about Jesus in the wilderness, about temptation and other intricacies that always get brought up in the Pentecost. It’s almost Easter, she realizes with a sinking a feeling, and this year she won’t be getting that chocolate bunny.

“You weren’t asking about the choir, were you?” Sydney asks as the silence lengthens. The man shifts and smiles.

“No,” he answers, “I wasn’t. But we can talk about them if you really want.”

Sydney wraps her arms around her knees and rests her chin atop them. “I don’t know what to do. I’m supposed to find this one, true religion, but I feel like I’ll get torn apart if I leave the church. And I doubt I can ask too many spirits in here.”

The man nods in Syd’s peripheral. “That’s true—there’s very few spirits that pass through here. In fact, I think I’ve been the only one in the past decade or more.”

“And how’d you die?” Syd asks, turning her head to watch him. The man has a strong profile even with some residual baby fat in his cheeks. He smoothes out his robe, fingering the gold thread on the outside seams.

“I didn’t die,” he says. Then he looks at her and Syd sees the cool fire in his eyes—one that burns so hot it’s sapphire. Fear strikes her like a hot iron plunged into chilled water. “I’m an Angel, Sydney.”

“Wouldn’t happen to be my guardian angel, would you?” Sydney forces out past the lump in her throat. God, this divine fear was no joke. If she had been a shepherd she would have said ‘nope, I’ll pass on the baby viewing. In fact, I’ll hide from you for eternity

The Angel shakes his head.

“Thought as much,” Sydney huffs, relaxing marginally. “So do you know the one, true religion?”

“Christianity,” he says without pause. Sydney looks at him suddenly, stunned by his candor and that the truth had just been literally handed to her on a blue-eyed, dark-haired, feathery-winged platter. It was unexpected, but very welcome. The angel only shrugs. “The other religions exist in the realm of the true one. There’s many circles of Hell. Many things to take you there. I’m afraid, though, there’s only one heaven.”

“But if I believe in Christianity, I can get there?” Syd asks excitedly. Suddenly the pall of fear has dropped away and she’s a little five year old with the promise of candy being wagged in her face. “I can go to heaven right?”

The Angel smiles. “You can go to heaven, but” and he pauses, which lets Sydney neatly tumble down from her euphoria to the rocky floor of reality, “but it’s more than just knowing the one, true religion. It’s believing Sydney.”

She scoffs. “well I believe.”

“Do you know the story of Thomas? How he wouldn’t believe Jesus was crucified until he saw the holes in his hands?” Sydney nods, vaguely remembering that. “It’s more than that, too. Thomas had made belief in his life and it just needed that last push. You can’t work backwards, Syd, what you’ve done so far should have taught you that.”

It all comes rushing into brilliance. The fact that she couldn’t go back to death. The fact she couldn’t go back to the doors.  There was no working backwards. Only going forwards. Trapped in a church, Sydney doubts she can go very far forward at all anymore.

The angel takes a deep breath. “you need to form your beliefs, really, truly believe. And I mean in more than Nutella. And if you come to the conclusion of Christianity,” the angel advises, “you know where to find me.”

He reaches a hand forward and touches her forehead. “You can’t just have the belief,” he whispers, “It has to be a part of you. Not some facebook update. Not some t-shirt proclamation. It’s you, that simple.”

When he pulls his hand away, Syd sees blinding light. It somewhat reminds her of the light before she entered Life’s office, but this one is warmer. It’s white hot even and Syd almost feels as if she’s going to burn alive as she passes through it.

But then she comes out, the other side, awake and on her bed. Her father is in the doorway with a cup of coffee in his hand.

“I tried to wake you, but you sleep like the dead,” he comments and leaves, probably to get more coffee.

Syd breaks down into hysterical laughter because, quite honestly, her dad was dead-on.

(haha, get it, ‘dead-on’? I’m too punny)

Fin

Syd the Sassy Atheist 3

I intended this to be a 3 part. It will now be a four part. You are almost there, guys!

This part is dedicated to Soul Walker because you commented on the first part, which really made me want to finish this little project. Thanks a bunch!

Part 1 | Part 2

Syd the I-Wish-Sass-Was-an-Actual-Weapon Atheist

After a bit of haggling, Sydney gives up on the hope of being reincarnated. She had pushed Life to give her, at the very least, a fewer legged option. But Life moved no further: it was mosquito or tick. Apparently Life could only put a soul where one does not exist, so it’d be a parasitic existence one way or another. Life had the tact to mention Syd’s life, up until her death, hadn’t been essentially parasitic.

Eventually, Syd decides that being alive isn’t that important. It’s the matter of going somewhere that she deems highly important. Life agrees with that in her  trademark, caustic fashion.

“We can’t send you back,” Life says as she drums perfectly manicured, white nails on the tick display. “and it’s a little tough since you’re technically back at the start–I can’t just turn you into a ghost or spirit. You need to be on the other end of the tunnel.”

Sydney groans and drops her head into her hands. This is aggravating beyond all aggravation–worse than stubbing your pinky toe and seeing that you had the right answer on the test but changed it at last minute all rolled into one. “Doesn’t life have any options other than, you know, living?”

“I’m sorry,” Life says and she sounds sincere. It throws Sydney through a loop.

Sydney mutters something like ‘it’s okay’, even if it’s clearly not. This terrifies Syd. To think that there’s nowhere for her–at least as an atheist she had some plot in the ground to look forward to. Now she doesn’t have even that. Maybe this is why people created religion in the first place, so that they weren’t consumed by the fear of being alone and adrift for all eternity. No closure as to what could have been if things were done differently. They have their heaven or their hell: Sydney just has tick or mosquito.

Unless, that is, she drops atheism.

“What if I become religious?” Sydney offers. A spark lights in her eyes, possibly the most excitement she’s shown in ages. At least since her past birthday when her mother surprised her with chocolate chip pancakes. “Then I can just go there–heaven or hell, I don’t care!”

Life nods. “That’d work, but,” there’s a baited pause and Syd wants to reach over and hit Life into the next multiverse. “But you are past the tunnel. I can’t make those doors appear or send you back. The only way out now is the one, true religion.”

It takes a minute for it to sink in for Syd. Even then, the concept only gets ankle deep. “So, I have to believe in only one of the gazillion existing religions and hope it’s the right one?”

Life grimaces. “More or less,” she relents. “Or I could just tell you.”

“Then tell me!” Syd exclaims.

“But I won’t,” Life concludes, “Just one of my mysteries.”

Sydney drops her head into her hands again.

“…but” Life concedes, “I’ll send you out into the spirit plane. We’re in a half-way right now and I’ll just send you there. Talk to the creatures you see there. Find out the one, true religion. Then you have to believe in it and you’ll be saved.”

Sydney’s mouth twists in consternation. “Sounds simple enough”

Life laughs and snaps her fingers.

Suddenly, Syd misses the room full of squirrels.

It’s lonely on the spirit plane. It’s like the real world but just a step above. She’s back in her bed, where she had fallen asleep–and consequently died–and drifts from her body. It’s like snapping electrified wires as she pulls away. Then she feels the drain. Like all her strings had been cut and she almost falls to her knees.

Except there’s no falling because that necessitates weight and Syd, being a spirit, is weightless.

“Well, this is is different,” Syd mutters to herself.

Despite having no physical body, Syd feels chilly. She wraps her arms around herself as she takes in the look of her room. There’s no signs of forced entry. No indication her parents snapped on their free loading daughter and killed her. There’s no visible reason for Syd to be dead–even her corpse looks as if it’s just sleeping peacefully.

But she knows she’s dead. This isn’t some coma or new age out of body experience. Syd is dead and she can feel it in her bones, assuming she had them.

Which she guesses she doesn’t anymore. Maybe that kooky philosopher was right: “you don’t have a soul; you are soul, you have a body.” It does little to stop the footloose atheist from missing her body very much.

She examines her body a moment longer. Her right arm had been thrown over her head, her nose nestled into her upper arm. One leg is bent and sticks up like a mountain on the bed. Slowly, it’s beggining to relax as the muscles lose their ability to contract. Rigor Mortis will set in soon after and Syd wants to turn her body to see if the bruising has started. She reaches forward to shift her physical arm.

“I wouldn’t try to get back in there,” a voice behind Syd explains. “Something might be in there.”

Syd wheels around and is greeted by a black cloaked figure. He pulls back the dunn hood to reveal rich black tresses and ebony skin. “I am your reaper,” the man introduces himself–he is easily seven foot and broader than a boat across. Syd watches as he reaches out a hand with the skeletal bones tattooed in silver on the back. “Come with me to the afterlife.”

“What religion are you from?” Syd asks candidly.

The reaper’s brow furrows. “I’m not a religious figure.” he explains as if to a five year old. “reapers are above that. Now come with me.”

Syd crosses her arms and refuses to budge. “I’ve been reaped, buddy, so you’re a little late to the party.” She points a finger in his face and hits him right on the nose with the tip of her pointer. “Now who are you?”

He smiles, showcasing a set of sharp canines. He turns a hand over to show the golden imprint of a paw on his palm. While Syd examines that, the rest of him changes. His dark braids shrink back to pointed ears. His nose elongates and his face narrows. He eventually collapses to as high as Syd’s waist.

“You’re a wolf,” Syd points out as the reaper-wolf stares at her with pitch eyes. A bright red tongue lolls from his mouth.

Then the wolf speaks without moving its mouth. The voice is as rich as the earth. “I am brother wolf,” he states and then corrects himself. “I am a brother wolf. Brother Wolf is elsewhere. I’m sorry to say, but you’re small beans for who he picks up.”

Syd shrugs. “None taken. So are you with the one, true religion?” she asks, not willing to waste anytime. This out of body experience is seriously freaking her out and she’s nervous that the longer she stays out, the harder it will be to go anywhere–knowledge of the one, true religion or not.

Brother wolf for his part can’t really help her case. “I’m part of a religion. But you can come with me–I can take you to the afterlife. Essentially I am a reaper.”

That’s…tempting. She considers it for all of point 2 seconds before a little voice in her head chimes in “he could be lying. He might not even be brother wolf. he could be something else, something worse…:”

“I think I’m good,” Syd asserts and walks past the canine. He follows along at her heels.

“It’s dangerous here,” the wolf warns and she can feel the cool of his coat as he brushes by. He’s trying to herd her somewhere. She pointedly walks forward, trying to outpace him. “A spirit death it different than a real one. You’re out of second chances.”

“I know,” Syd says and turns on the wolf, looking him right in his bottomless eyes. “Which is why I’m not wasting my second chance on a dog.”

She’s not entirely sure she cowed him, but the wolf stays behind. The spirit plane is vast before her–just the same as earth but incorruptible, untouchable. She sees no spirits outside the door. She’s unsure if that’s a good or a bad thing.