Besides the bitter cold, now I have Internet connection issues on the ol' computer. Joy.
Anyway, you don't want to hear me bellyache...I am here, though, to do some shameless promotion for a certain horror-fantasy novel I crafted and am publishing independently with big thanks to Lulu. Curious to know more? Then if you're fan of fantasy and horror fiction, this might be up your alley. As you read on, though, don't be surprised if the temperature where you are drops a few more degrees...don't be surprised if you feel a little fearful...
TO YOU, THE GENTLE READER:
The setting of "HELL KNIGHT" is in the heart of a nation known by its citizens as God's Country. The United States of America. It is in the heart of this nation a secret war is about to explode between the mortal and the immortal...
At the core of the conflict is a warrior who will come from the shadows...from a realm of indescribable, unspeakable nightmares. A realm where only evil reigns. And she can make many things possible.
Her mission will be unknowable to the mortal world, but she will have mortals serve her. They will be her army...they will kill and die for her. Her enemies are equally mysterious in their purpose, but they are monstrous. Vile beyond belief.
And they are legion.
This much the world will know...
By the sharp blades of her swords, she will make blood flow like a river.
But a detective in the heart of God's Country, haunted by her past, will become obsessed to understand the truth...understand why the bloody chaos is happening.
The truth will be beyond anything she can imagine.
It is a truth that threatens to change everything.
The truth will force a mortal detective to follow a relentless, ruthless warrior from another realm into the darkest of shadows.
Both will find an unexpected, shared destiny.
But in the end, only this warrior from another realm can do everything in her unworldly power to deny the change her enemies threaten to bring.
She will become the only hope for the mortal world...in spite of one extraordinary fact.
She came from Hell.
She is the Hell Knight.
GENTLE READER, TAKE WARNING:
"HELL KNIGHT" is for MATURE READERS ONLY.
This novel depicts extraordinary violence, mature language
and situations, and sexual content.
Want to know more?
In fact, would you like to know where you can read the first three chapters of this novel free online? You don't have to sign or log in to squat. All you have to do is go here at Yahoo! GeoCities...
http://www.geocities.com/hellknightnovel/index.html
If you enjoy the first three chapters of this 483-page novel, then just go to www.lulu.com to find out more, or go directly to these links for the eBook or softcover deluxe-size softcover...
eBook: http://www.lulu.com/content/1067597
paperback: http://www.lulu.com/content/1044061
There will be more to come, guaranteed...more about me, and more about "Hell Knight".
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
This day in history
We officially have a new President, ostensibly -- hopefully -- to lead our country to better days...at least, better than they are right now. This is a truly historic day, but of course it isn't just because we have a new President. It's historic because of the incidental fact our new President is of partly African ethnicity. (You don't want to know what I've read from some fools who aren't satisfied with that, that he isn't black enough. Chances are you might have come across those comments here and there online.)
That incidental fact alone of his ethnicity, many say, is alone reason for hope.
I hope you'll pardon me but I don't hope based on politics. Or incidental facts. Or on this massive advertisement for better days called Inauguration Day.
My thoughts turn dark and very cynical when it comes to politics. I wouldn't be overstating the fact to say I hate politics and what they've done to the process of electing one person or another to a given office. And politics have only gotten worse since the 1950's, since television (love it or hate it) began showing up in American living rooms.
Today, strangely enough, I got to watch something on cable as I ignored all of the fanfare, pomp and circumstance of Washington after Barack Obama was sworn in. "A Face in the Crowd", 1957, wasn't exactly appropriate viewing considering we're supposed to be so optomistic today, but if you want to see how politics and advertising (one and the same thing) really work it's required viewing. It predicted that image would become more important than the message, and those with the most money decided who got the most television exposure. Money, political and corporate, decided that Andy Griffith's Lonesome Rhodes would become a power -- a would-be President-maker -- in his own right, and he has never been scarier.
And that's the reality of politics in the modern day. Image and money, from special interests and big business, is what talks. Or at least approves the speeches and charts the course of campaigns. Bullshit walks.
The irony that our new President's swearing in comes the day after the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday hasn't been ignored. I definitely haven't ignored it, or one of the greatest lessons he had to teach us:
"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today."
No one voted for Barack Obama just because he was black, and the incidental fact that he is black shouldn't matter in the context of his being President. One great man dreamed that character would be judged before one's skin color one day...but according to our political process, now more than ever, it's how one looks when they make their speeches that must be judged. But hopefully, even though the political process I've learned to hate brought him to the highest office in our country, I hope that his character will shine through and indeed bring our nation to better days.
Good luck to you, Mister President.
Good luck to all of us.
That incidental fact alone of his ethnicity, many say, is alone reason for hope.
I hope you'll pardon me but I don't hope based on politics. Or incidental facts. Or on this massive advertisement for better days called Inauguration Day.
My thoughts turn dark and very cynical when it comes to politics. I wouldn't be overstating the fact to say I hate politics and what they've done to the process of electing one person or another to a given office. And politics have only gotten worse since the 1950's, since television (love it or hate it) began showing up in American living rooms.
Today, strangely enough, I got to watch something on cable as I ignored all of the fanfare, pomp and circumstance of Washington after Barack Obama was sworn in. "A Face in the Crowd", 1957, wasn't exactly appropriate viewing considering we're supposed to be so optomistic today, but if you want to see how politics and advertising (one and the same thing) really work it's required viewing. It predicted that image would become more important than the message, and those with the most money decided who got the most television exposure. Money, political and corporate, decided that Andy Griffith's Lonesome Rhodes would become a power -- a would-be President-maker -- in his own right, and he has never been scarier.
And that's the reality of politics in the modern day. Image and money, from special interests and big business, is what talks. Or at least approves the speeches and charts the course of campaigns. Bullshit walks.
The irony that our new President's swearing in comes the day after the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday hasn't been ignored. I definitely haven't ignored it, or one of the greatest lessons he had to teach us:
"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today."
No one voted for Barack Obama just because he was black, and the incidental fact that he is black shouldn't matter in the context of his being President. One great man dreamed that character would be judged before one's skin color one day...but according to our political process, now more than ever, it's how one looks when they make their speeches that must be judged. But hopefully, even though the political process I've learned to hate brought him to the highest office in our country, I hope that his character will shine through and indeed bring our nation to better days.
Good luck to you, Mister President.
Good luck to all of us.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
The romance of the season, WANTED!
I've thought often of how we look at a given season of the year, and how we assign so much to it. Most of what we want to see in a time of year -- like the one we're in now, Winter -- is of a romantic ideal, and our anticipation of that romance. This is mostly because of outside influences, though. Those influences classic or contemporary shape our perception of what is best about a particular season. Take The Beach Boys...their many, MANY songs about endless Summer (if only) on the beach and what we're promised there overwhelms the reality, if only for a while.
But then Summer hits, and reality gives us a good kick in the ass. Blistering high temperatures alone cause a world of problems. When the well-named 'dog days' of the season arrive, life in the summertime starts to resemble a powderkeg. You've all been there.
Things are supposed to be a little different with Winter, though. I don't just mean with Season's Greetings and the buildup for Christmas and New Year's that's getting longer to endure each year. The images are constants that hit us and are remembered by us when Halloween ends, and the anticipation of the season and the best it has to offer are incredible. We see images of children and families in better-than-natural equilibrium with their snow-covered environment, whether going on a sleigh ride or snowball fighting. Lovers think of time curled together in front of a romantic fire, chestnuts roasting. There are many more examples but I won't bore you with them. You already know them.
Then Winter is official, and what we have to deal with is very different from the ideal. Comfort and joy are replaced with how dumb and foolish we can be more than half the time. The better-than-perfect times of snowball fights are replaced with the need to stay inside because the snow is often mixed with rain. Or ice. Or sleet. And again, people show how dumb they are half the time with their (lack of) ability to drive in such weather. And I don't have to remind you of the other things this season can hit us with.
Like flus and colds.
I just got hit by a flu bug today, not long after I recovered mostly from the LAST one. It makes everything hurt, and I feel the seductive need to be in bed to get away from the soreness, the cotton in my head. I will hit the sack soon...
...but I'll do so with this simple question.
Why can't we make the season the best it can be, instead of having to live with the worst it can offer half the time?
It may be useless to ask that, but I want to...I want the romance back.
But then Summer hits, and reality gives us a good kick in the ass. Blistering high temperatures alone cause a world of problems. When the well-named 'dog days' of the season arrive, life in the summertime starts to resemble a powderkeg. You've all been there.
Things are supposed to be a little different with Winter, though. I don't just mean with Season's Greetings and the buildup for Christmas and New Year's that's getting longer to endure each year. The images are constants that hit us and are remembered by us when Halloween ends, and the anticipation of the season and the best it has to offer are incredible. We see images of children and families in better-than-natural equilibrium with their snow-covered environment, whether going on a sleigh ride or snowball fighting. Lovers think of time curled together in front of a romantic fire, chestnuts roasting. There are many more examples but I won't bore you with them. You already know them.
Then Winter is official, and what we have to deal with is very different from the ideal. Comfort and joy are replaced with how dumb and foolish we can be more than half the time. The better-than-perfect times of snowball fights are replaced with the need to stay inside because the snow is often mixed with rain. Or ice. Or sleet. And again, people show how dumb they are half the time with their (lack of) ability to drive in such weather. And I don't have to remind you of the other things this season can hit us with.
Like flus and colds.
I just got hit by a flu bug today, not long after I recovered mostly from the LAST one. It makes everything hurt, and I feel the seductive need to be in bed to get away from the soreness, the cotton in my head. I will hit the sack soon...
...but I'll do so with this simple question.
Why can't we make the season the best it can be, instead of having to live with the worst it can offer half the time?
It may be useless to ask that, but I want to...I want the romance back.
Friday, January 2, 2009
It's a new year...
And I hope you understand that so far, I'm not feeling very optomistic...but I want to be.
Last year, we had to deal with a lot. This year we may have to deal with just as many problems, if not more, even with a new President at the helm of our country. I don't foresee Barack Obama being able to accomplish much at first, either, just as I wouldn't expect a lot from John McCain if he'd gotten the most votes. (It's important I state it in that way, in 'the most votes', because I don't see the election of one person or another in any office definitive unless EVERYONE votes...fat chance of that ever happening.) I see politics as creating more problems than they solve, anyway...but this topic is for another time. Maybe. I don't like talking about politics, either.
In the end, it's how we look at everything around us that ultimately affects everything. Perception of reality is just as important as reality itself. And what did we perceive? Not a lot of good, in the end. Whose fault is that? Is it the fault of our media outlets, in print and over the airwaves and online? Is it the blame of those who create the state of affairs as we must deal with them?
No.
In the end, it's our fault...all of us should be held accountable for how things got so bad in 2008, and in so many ways. Because in the end, we all didn't come together to actually solve anything. President Bush didn't create the problems, and in the end his successor President-Elect Obama won't directly be the one to solve them, either. Because it comes down to everyone getting together to make things better.
We haven't done that yet, and we may not...it might take the perception from those media outlets to show us good news to turn our outlook around, at least a little. But why can't we do that ourselves? Because we've been overwhelmed with what we had to deal with in 2008. The problems we faced, from recession at home to international uncertainty, seemed too big. We each can't find a sure solution...even Obama is getting together those he knows and trusts to form a strategy to turn the recession around. We all let doubt and fear get the best of us. We each think that we live in a bottle and that we each can't do much...and worse still, that a given problem that's affecting everyone won't affect us.
Let me make this clear: I hate fear and doubt.
What I believe in is common sense...that there can be solutions. I hope by saying that even though I'm not feeling optomistic I absolutely WANT to be to help us solve our problems, I hope at least that gets someone's attention. Whether it takes one of us or all of us, we have to rise above fear and doubt...neither of those things will help us solve anything, that's for damn sure.
I want to believe that this year will be much, much better than the last.
Maybe if we all believe that, maybe it'll be reality.
Happy New Year, everyone.
Last year, we had to deal with a lot. This year we may have to deal with just as many problems, if not more, even with a new President at the helm of our country. I don't foresee Barack Obama being able to accomplish much at first, either, just as I wouldn't expect a lot from John McCain if he'd gotten the most votes. (It's important I state it in that way, in 'the most votes', because I don't see the election of one person or another in any office definitive unless EVERYONE votes...fat chance of that ever happening.) I see politics as creating more problems than they solve, anyway...but this topic is for another time. Maybe. I don't like talking about politics, either.
In the end, it's how we look at everything around us that ultimately affects everything. Perception of reality is just as important as reality itself. And what did we perceive? Not a lot of good, in the end. Whose fault is that? Is it the fault of our media outlets, in print and over the airwaves and online? Is it the blame of those who create the state of affairs as we must deal with them?
No.
In the end, it's our fault...all of us should be held accountable for how things got so bad in 2008, and in so many ways. Because in the end, we all didn't come together to actually solve anything. President Bush didn't create the problems, and in the end his successor President-Elect Obama won't directly be the one to solve them, either. Because it comes down to everyone getting together to make things better.
We haven't done that yet, and we may not...it might take the perception from those media outlets to show us good news to turn our outlook around, at least a little. But why can't we do that ourselves? Because we've been overwhelmed with what we had to deal with in 2008. The problems we faced, from recession at home to international uncertainty, seemed too big. We each can't find a sure solution...even Obama is getting together those he knows and trusts to form a strategy to turn the recession around. We all let doubt and fear get the best of us. We each think that we live in a bottle and that we each can't do much...and worse still, that a given problem that's affecting everyone won't affect us.
Let me make this clear: I hate fear and doubt.
What I believe in is common sense...that there can be solutions. I hope by saying that even though I'm not feeling optomistic I absolutely WANT to be to help us solve our problems, I hope at least that gets someone's attention. Whether it takes one of us or all of us, we have to rise above fear and doubt...neither of those things will help us solve anything, that's for damn sure.
I want to believe that this year will be much, much better than the last.
Maybe if we all believe that, maybe it'll be reality.
Happy New Year, everyone.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Just in time for Christmas!
Seriously, I've never gone from an idea (it hit last night on Christmas Eve) to story so fast. It's the season that does it to me, I guess. Anyway, dear friends, I hope you enjoy this...and to one and all and your loved ones -- especially you, dear Yen -- Merry Chirstmas.
You'd Better Watch Out...
A different kind of Christmas story by Charles Spencer
Little Billy was always a naughty boy.
Naughty, and worse. In fact, for the entire past year, little Billy was an 8-year-old terror to his family and peers. He did a lot of bad things, from smearing his own shit on the mirrors in the girl's restrooms at his grade school to inserting himself into neighborhood snowball fights and the rest of the kids would run because his ammunition was snow-packed rocks to making his little sister trip and fall down half a flight of steps. In the worst cases, like when he nearly killed his own sister, he feigned innocence and said the classic four words, "I didn't do it!" Sometimes, he could point the way to the kid who 'really' did it (thanks to evidence he'd planted in a school locker or wherever was appropriate)...sometimes when he couldn't his parents, who both worked and therefore didn't have enough time for their kids, took too much of the blame for his actions on themselves.
But they couldn't have known about the things he did that were far, far worse. No one could have known little Billy was gradually developing a total lack of empathy for anyone and anything...he had become what psychologists would call a 'borderline sociopath', and it would only take a few years before he crossed that border. Unseen, he satisfied himself with pulling the wings off of flies and moths when they were unlucky enough to be slow in reacting to the boy. He graduated to much bigger prey very quickly. One day, unseen, little Billy took a puppy from the back yard of a neighbor...the furry little animal that couldn't have done the boy any harm was quickly carried to another neighbor's home where the parents had left for work, and he was shoved into a microwave oven in the kitchen. The boy turned it on 'high' and left to watch what would happen from outside through one of the kitchen windows.
That had been in the early fall, and the police were still investigating the incident as December was coming to a close...they didn't have a lot to work with since the cheaply-made microwave and the puppy exploded.
December was coming to a close...indeed, it was the night of December the 24th, Christmas Eve, as little Billy laid in his bed feeling restless and without remorse for any of the things he'd done. Like any little girl and boy across America and most of the world, he knew about Santa Claus. Unlike nearly every little girl and boy, though, little Billy didn't believe in Santa and he definitely didn't care. He did care about the presents that would be waiting for him under the tree tomorrow. (He stealthily found out what he'd get in spite of the rest of the family...his parents didn't hide the gifts before they could wrap them well enough.)
If little Billy had believed in Santa, he still wouldn't have cared less about the jolly old elf and that he discriminated in giving gifts only to those girls and boys who were good. The boy didn't care about anything except what he wanted. If he had believed, he would have laid in wait for Saint Nick to arrive and then he'd try to steal something, anything from his mythical bag of toys.
All the same, little Billy didn't believe.
Whether he did believe or not, however...there were some things he couldn't have known.
Little Billy hadn't been able to sleep...that was why, only a few minutes past 12:00 a.m. on December the 25th, he heard something.
It was a very slight sound, but distinctive, from above him...from the roof? It was a collection of footfalls -- no, that wasn't quite right. Little Billy couldn't help but wonder what it was. A moment later, he did feel something...it was as if something in the air had changed. There was an energy in the air he couldn't understand, and little Billy felt fear press around him like he was in the constricting coils of a python.
Someone was in the house...but as quickly as he realized that, the door to his bedroom opened quickly yet soundlessly.
Little Billy sat up in bed staring with fear at the sight he saw.
It was Saint Nicholas...Kris Kringle...Santa Claus. It was undeniable. He looked exactly like every traditional greeting card and painting and advertisement of one kind or another presented him. Tall and fat, covered in red and white except for his gloved hands and heavy boots, with a red and white cap that barely covered his elf's ears. His face was partly obscured by the snow-white hair that made up his beard...and yet...
...and yet...
...little Billy was surprised by something about Santa's expression. His eyes were hard above his red nose. Not jolly and full of joy, as any girl and boy (even little Billy) expected, but judging.
With a mystical blur of speed, Santa Claus was at his bedside and harshly grabbed the back of little Billy's neck with one huge gloved hand. The boy didn't even have the chance to scream as he suddenly saw himself rocket out of his room, down the stairs and then up the chimney to the flat roof of his home with Santa in the space of a couple of heartbeats. He didn't know anything about magic and the many things it could make possible, but he felt the urge to throw up from being carried up here so fast and his heart almost stopped when he saw the massive, unworldly sleigh and the reindeer reined to it. (Hooves, little Billy realized, he'd heard hooves...) In the sleigh were two more elves in green, one male and one female, and they looked at Santa with expressions of adoration.
But their expressions changed dramatically when they looked at little Billy, being carried to the sleigh literally by the scruff of his neck in Santa's hand. They both looked at him with hard faces, like Santa did. The lady elf said neutrally, "Tis good we have this one, finally." She spoke like she knew the boy...or knew of him.
Santa said in his deep, resonant voice, "Indeed...of all the naughty girls and boys on my list, I have waited too long for this one." His list, little Billy thought with fear...his list he checked twice...to find out...
The male elf nodded. "He is fit for nothing but the bag, then." The bag was huge and seemed to be made of thick woven fiber like burlap, and it took up most of the room in the huge sleigh.
"Open it," Saint Nick said without ceremony, and his fellow elves untied its strap that kept it closed...it opened, and little Billy couldn't see anything inside but darkness. But the bag looked full, he should have seen something, anything, in there. But there was nothing at all, only darkness that seemed to stare back at him. The great elf in red and white then turned Billy in his grip so they would look at each other. It was then Santa simply said, "I shall not see this world become even worse because of those naughty like you when you grow up. Because you are naughty, Billy, you are deserving of one thing. The Abyss."
Santa threw little Billy into the bag, then...his servants cinched it closed as they heard the boy scream. The scream didn't stop, but grew fainter and fainter. As if he was falling a great distance.
And that was the truth.
The lady elf smiled brightly and said, "Thankfully, there are not many more of the naughty to collect out there."
Her male counterpart offered, "Then we can focus on giving to the good, like always."
"True enough," Santa said as he took his seat in the great sleigh with them. It was unfortunate, but the worsening state of the world demanded that he give one more gift to everyone, besides all that he gave to the good little girls and boys. It was that he rid the world of the worst of the naughtiest of children, so they wouldn't take all things and people past the brink.
Santa managed a smile, then. It wasn't too much of a change in his normal schedule...at his speed, he would be done within half an hour, so he could get back to giving instead of taking. He took up the reins to his reindeer and commanded, "Up, up and AWAY!" The reindeer brightened as they gathered their own power and then took off pulling the sleigh behind them like a golden comet...but they didn't travel in the sky too far.
The next naughty child wasn't that far away....
This story is the copyright (2008) of Charles Spencer, and is the sole property of the author. No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted, by electronic means or otherwise, without the express permission of the author.
You'd Better Watch Out...
A different kind of Christmas story by Charles Spencer
Little Billy was always a naughty boy.
Naughty, and worse. In fact, for the entire past year, little Billy was an 8-year-old terror to his family and peers. He did a lot of bad things, from smearing his own shit on the mirrors in the girl's restrooms at his grade school to inserting himself into neighborhood snowball fights and the rest of the kids would run because his ammunition was snow-packed rocks to making his little sister trip and fall down half a flight of steps. In the worst cases, like when he nearly killed his own sister, he feigned innocence and said the classic four words, "I didn't do it!" Sometimes, he could point the way to the kid who 'really' did it (thanks to evidence he'd planted in a school locker or wherever was appropriate)...sometimes when he couldn't his parents, who both worked and therefore didn't have enough time for their kids, took too much of the blame for his actions on themselves.
But they couldn't have known about the things he did that were far, far worse. No one could have known little Billy was gradually developing a total lack of empathy for anyone and anything...he had become what psychologists would call a 'borderline sociopath', and it would only take a few years before he crossed that border. Unseen, he satisfied himself with pulling the wings off of flies and moths when they were unlucky enough to be slow in reacting to the boy. He graduated to much bigger prey very quickly. One day, unseen, little Billy took a puppy from the back yard of a neighbor...the furry little animal that couldn't have done the boy any harm was quickly carried to another neighbor's home where the parents had left for work, and he was shoved into a microwave oven in the kitchen. The boy turned it on 'high' and left to watch what would happen from outside through one of the kitchen windows.
That had been in the early fall, and the police were still investigating the incident as December was coming to a close...they didn't have a lot to work with since the cheaply-made microwave and the puppy exploded.
December was coming to a close...indeed, it was the night of December the 24th, Christmas Eve, as little Billy laid in his bed feeling restless and without remorse for any of the things he'd done. Like any little girl and boy across America and most of the world, he knew about Santa Claus. Unlike nearly every little girl and boy, though, little Billy didn't believe in Santa and he definitely didn't care. He did care about the presents that would be waiting for him under the tree tomorrow. (He stealthily found out what he'd get in spite of the rest of the family...his parents didn't hide the gifts before they could wrap them well enough.)
If little Billy had believed in Santa, he still wouldn't have cared less about the jolly old elf and that he discriminated in giving gifts only to those girls and boys who were good. The boy didn't care about anything except what he wanted. If he had believed, he would have laid in wait for Saint Nick to arrive and then he'd try to steal something, anything from his mythical bag of toys.
All the same, little Billy didn't believe.
Whether he did believe or not, however...there were some things he couldn't have known.
Little Billy hadn't been able to sleep...that was why, only a few minutes past 12:00 a.m. on December the 25th, he heard something.
It was a very slight sound, but distinctive, from above him...from the roof? It was a collection of footfalls -- no, that wasn't quite right. Little Billy couldn't help but wonder what it was. A moment later, he did feel something...it was as if something in the air had changed. There was an energy in the air he couldn't understand, and little Billy felt fear press around him like he was in the constricting coils of a python.
Someone was in the house...but as quickly as he realized that, the door to his bedroom opened quickly yet soundlessly.
Little Billy sat up in bed staring with fear at the sight he saw.
It was Saint Nicholas...Kris Kringle...Santa Claus. It was undeniable. He looked exactly like every traditional greeting card and painting and advertisement of one kind or another presented him. Tall and fat, covered in red and white except for his gloved hands and heavy boots, with a red and white cap that barely covered his elf's ears. His face was partly obscured by the snow-white hair that made up his beard...and yet...
...and yet...
...little Billy was surprised by something about Santa's expression. His eyes were hard above his red nose. Not jolly and full of joy, as any girl and boy (even little Billy) expected, but judging.
With a mystical blur of speed, Santa Claus was at his bedside and harshly grabbed the back of little Billy's neck with one huge gloved hand. The boy didn't even have the chance to scream as he suddenly saw himself rocket out of his room, down the stairs and then up the chimney to the flat roof of his home with Santa in the space of a couple of heartbeats. He didn't know anything about magic and the many things it could make possible, but he felt the urge to throw up from being carried up here so fast and his heart almost stopped when he saw the massive, unworldly sleigh and the reindeer reined to it. (Hooves, little Billy realized, he'd heard hooves...) In the sleigh were two more elves in green, one male and one female, and they looked at Santa with expressions of adoration.
But their expressions changed dramatically when they looked at little Billy, being carried to the sleigh literally by the scruff of his neck in Santa's hand. They both looked at him with hard faces, like Santa did. The lady elf said neutrally, "Tis good we have this one, finally." She spoke like she knew the boy...or knew of him.
Santa said in his deep, resonant voice, "Indeed...of all the naughty girls and boys on my list, I have waited too long for this one." His list, little Billy thought with fear...his list he checked twice...to find out...
The male elf nodded. "He is fit for nothing but the bag, then." The bag was huge and seemed to be made of thick woven fiber like burlap, and it took up most of the room in the huge sleigh.
"Open it," Saint Nick said without ceremony, and his fellow elves untied its strap that kept it closed...it opened, and little Billy couldn't see anything inside but darkness. But the bag looked full, he should have seen something, anything, in there. But there was nothing at all, only darkness that seemed to stare back at him. The great elf in red and white then turned Billy in his grip so they would look at each other. It was then Santa simply said, "I shall not see this world become even worse because of those naughty like you when you grow up. Because you are naughty, Billy, you are deserving of one thing. The Abyss."
Santa threw little Billy into the bag, then...his servants cinched it closed as they heard the boy scream. The scream didn't stop, but grew fainter and fainter. As if he was falling a great distance.
And that was the truth.
The lady elf smiled brightly and said, "Thankfully, there are not many more of the naughty to collect out there."
Her male counterpart offered, "Then we can focus on giving to the good, like always."
"True enough," Santa said as he took his seat in the great sleigh with them. It was unfortunate, but the worsening state of the world demanded that he give one more gift to everyone, besides all that he gave to the good little girls and boys. It was that he rid the world of the worst of the naughtiest of children, so they wouldn't take all things and people past the brink.
Santa managed a smile, then. It wasn't too much of a change in his normal schedule...at his speed, he would be done within half an hour, so he could get back to giving instead of taking. He took up the reins to his reindeer and commanded, "Up, up and AWAY!" The reindeer brightened as they gathered their own power and then took off pulling the sleigh behind them like a golden comet...but they didn't travel in the sky too far.
The next naughty child wasn't that far away....
This story is the copyright (2008) of Charles Spencer, and is the sole property of the author. No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted, by electronic means or otherwise, without the express permission of the author.
Monday, December 22, 2008
"Mother's Day", a short story
Don't worry, friends, my calendar isn't off...I know Christmas is only a few days away. (Where the blue blazes does the time go, anyway? I know I'm not the only one to think time is running by too fast.) What I have here in this short story I wrote some time ago is a special tribute to mothers, but it's written in my own blood-soaked way. You'll get a good idea of what kind of horror and fantasy (not so much fantasy in this instance!) I like to write. Strap yourself in and enjoy...
MOTHER'S DAY
A tribute written by Charles Spencer
The woman stared at the zombie horde without fear.
There were dozens of them shambling toward her on the field of the desolate, abandoned military base as she waited for them in front of a fortified bunker, and they could only be described as zombies. They were in varied states of decomposition, from some that could still be recognizable as human to those that were literally falling apart, bit by bit, with each step they took. Their stench preceded them and steamrolled the woman's senses like a freight train at full throttle. Those zombies that still had eyes, while the others who lost theirs to decomp used their sense of smell to compensate in searching for living prey, looked at her without humanity. Without soul. They were capable only of looking at the woman who stared back at them in turn with the pure, ravenous hunger for healthy flesh and blood that made them zombies. Of course their hunger was directed at those uninfected, like the woman they approached eagerly, for to feed on each other's rotting meat and gangrenous fluids would have provided little sustenance.
For this woman, for all the uninfected, these stupid yet deadly creatures could only be called zombies. It was the only way the uninfected could hold any form of order. Perhaps even hold to their sanity.
But the woman, a soldier who didn't overlook the irony she was about to face battle in this desolate base her superiors decided was to be abandoned in the frantic early days of The Global Plague so its personnel and resources could be directed to more strategic locations, knew no fear as the stupid yet deadly horde approached her, still about eighty yards distant. She was beautiful by the collective standard Humanity used to judge such things, her skin as pale as a DaVinci sculpture under strawberry-red hair shorn short close to her scalp. Her uniform, however, was dirty and worn from days of running since she escaped the uninfected enclave overrun by zombies, and obscured for the most part the rest of her beauty. She had been running for days, holding with her close nearly every waking moment (and especially when she allowed herself to sleep) what she valued the most in this ruined world. Here, finally, what she valued above all other things was in the bunker behind her, sealed behind an electronic lock. She wouldn't let the zombies even get close to what she valued more than her own life as she stood before the bunker.
She would have suffered anything before that happened.
The zombies seventy yards distant, she raised the carbine she held at her side to her shoulder, an M-16A2. On semi-auto, she began firing carefully at the creatures, willing her hands not to shake as she held the rifle. Nearly each bullet she sent was a headshot, one of the only ways known to truly neutralize zombies. (Another method, decapitation, wasn't so guaranteed since the infected rarely hunted independently...sometimes in pairs, but more often in groups that could number as many as hundreds. They held the rudiments of the pack mentality of animals searching for the same thing: food.) Her carbine went dry and she switched clips briskly as the horde attempted to quicken their pace with threatened, collective moans of effort mixed heavily with anger. The woman's ordinarily soft eyes stayed hard and narrow with intent as she continued to fire...every few seconds, the back of a zombie's head exploded violently into the air as a bullet sheared through their animal brain. But she was only whittling them down...like a knife would slowly shave away at a thick piece of wood a bit at a time.
But she already had known it would take time, too much time, to destroy this horde that had been hunting her and what she most treasured for the better part of a day. Their numbers were their greatest advantage. But she was a few hours ahead of the things that wanted to feast on her.
That meant she had at least a little time, before the zombies arrived, to prepare for them. When she found what was at the base, she knew that she could. And she would do anything to protect what she most treasured. She would even die, and gladly.
The horde reached within fifty yards of her. Just as she realized it would happen at any moment, one of the shambling things broke the invisible laser beam that crossed its path. Before The Global Plague, what seemed to her a lifetime ago, she had received many commendations as a soldier...because of her proficiency in the fields of electronics and mechanical engineering.
In the little time she had, the woman put that proficiency to use.
The laser beam came from one side of the field where the zombies were, and the moment it was broken it triggered the .50-caliber Browning belt-fed machine guns resting atop three Humvees, which were left behind in the rush by those who abandoned the base long ago. They still worked, were still able to fulfill the purpose for which they were made, and did so by firing simultaneously on the horde, their barrels weighted down by the woman to guarantee their aim across the field would be stable.
The bullets ripped across the field, and literally tore the lion's share of the remaining zombies apart in the process. Limbs were sheared away from some...others seemed to explode under the withering assault and the air surrounding them turned into a gentle mist of crimson. Those that weren't destroyed immediately by the Brownings were put down by the woman and her rifle.
The woman, in her soul, couldn't afford to look at the creatures before her as once human. Once uninfected. Once alive and full of dignity and freedom and hope. She could only afford to see them as enemies, targets that had to be destroyed by any means. For the sake of what was left in this ruined world for her to protect. For the sake of her protection of what was closest to her heart, she could only see them as monsters...as zombies.
It was the only way the survivors of The Global Plague could describe such infected, ever since a long-forgotten faction of terrorists who hated and feared a world that wasn't in their image unleashed their viral weapon. The biological agent, untried outside of the controlled conditions in which it was created before it was deployed into the lower atmosphere of the planet, was believed by the terrorists to be completely lethal. If only it had been.
But in this ruined world, as the woman approached the remains of the horde, she still had something she held more sacred than anything, even her duty to the remnants of her nation and those she swore her life to protect. She would do anything for the sake of protecting what was most important to her, as she surveyed the bodies of the zombies and had to use her .45-caliber pistol to execute the few that still twitched and moaned hungrily in spite of their being ravaged by the woman's trap. She would rather have gone to Hell itself if she couldn't protect what she most treasured.
When the woman was done, she returned to the bunker, knowing she would have to modify the trap she created considerably just in case more zombies searching for food came upon the base.
She bypassed the electonic lock for the bunker again, as she did when she first arrived, and she entered.
The woman's beautiful face softened the moment she saw the one she most treasured again.
The child, a little girl only eight years old, asked softly, "Is it over?"
The woman nodded. "Yes, it'll be okay. We're safe...and hopefully, it won't be too long before a rescue team comes for us." She had found a damaged SINGCARS in the bunker, and as she waited she repaired it and managed to get through to a field commander. It would be a few hours before help arrived, but for the first time in days she had reason to hope.
So did the little girl, who like the woman had red hair. Her pale skin was luminous. "Are you okay?"
The woman lowered on one knee in front of the girl and wondered if the child would escape freckles, like she did growing up. Her smile was soft when she answered, "As long as I'm with you, honey."
The little girl knew it was the truth, looking at the one she most cherished in turn. "And I'll be okay when I'm with you. Always." The girl's eyes became solemn and full of adoration. "I love you, mommy."
Again, the woman was so thankful for her treasure it threatened to bring her to tears. She wrapped her arms around her daughter and they held each other tight in the silent half-light of the bunker. "I love you too, baby. I love you so much."
"I know as long as I'm with you, the monsters won't get us," her daughter said, full of confidence.
"Oh, they will never get ahold of you," the mother said, not caring for herself but for the one she brought into this world. "The monsters will never get you as long as I'm here. Never."
They waited barely three hours together before the rescue teams arrived.
This story is the copyright (2007) of Charles Spencer, and is the sole property of the author. No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted, by electronic means or otherwise, without the express permission of the author.
MOTHER'S DAY
A tribute written by Charles Spencer
The woman stared at the zombie horde without fear.
There were dozens of them shambling toward her on the field of the desolate, abandoned military base as she waited for them in front of a fortified bunker, and they could only be described as zombies. They were in varied states of decomposition, from some that could still be recognizable as human to those that were literally falling apart, bit by bit, with each step they took. Their stench preceded them and steamrolled the woman's senses like a freight train at full throttle. Those zombies that still had eyes, while the others who lost theirs to decomp used their sense of smell to compensate in searching for living prey, looked at her without humanity. Without soul. They were capable only of looking at the woman who stared back at them in turn with the pure, ravenous hunger for healthy flesh and blood that made them zombies. Of course their hunger was directed at those uninfected, like the woman they approached eagerly, for to feed on each other's rotting meat and gangrenous fluids would have provided little sustenance.
For this woman, for all the uninfected, these stupid yet deadly creatures could only be called zombies. It was the only way the uninfected could hold any form of order. Perhaps even hold to their sanity.
But the woman, a soldier who didn't overlook the irony she was about to face battle in this desolate base her superiors decided was to be abandoned in the frantic early days of The Global Plague so its personnel and resources could be directed to more strategic locations, knew no fear as the stupid yet deadly horde approached her, still about eighty yards distant. She was beautiful by the collective standard Humanity used to judge such things, her skin as pale as a DaVinci sculpture under strawberry-red hair shorn short close to her scalp. Her uniform, however, was dirty and worn from days of running since she escaped the uninfected enclave overrun by zombies, and obscured for the most part the rest of her beauty. She had been running for days, holding with her close nearly every waking moment (and especially when she allowed herself to sleep) what she valued the most in this ruined world. Here, finally, what she valued above all other things was in the bunker behind her, sealed behind an electronic lock. She wouldn't let the zombies even get close to what she valued more than her own life as she stood before the bunker.
She would have suffered anything before that happened.
The zombies seventy yards distant, she raised the carbine she held at her side to her shoulder, an M-16A2. On semi-auto, she began firing carefully at the creatures, willing her hands not to shake as she held the rifle. Nearly each bullet she sent was a headshot, one of the only ways known to truly neutralize zombies. (Another method, decapitation, wasn't so guaranteed since the infected rarely hunted independently...sometimes in pairs, but more often in groups that could number as many as hundreds. They held the rudiments of the pack mentality of animals searching for the same thing: food.) Her carbine went dry and she switched clips briskly as the horde attempted to quicken their pace with threatened, collective moans of effort mixed heavily with anger. The woman's ordinarily soft eyes stayed hard and narrow with intent as she continued to fire...every few seconds, the back of a zombie's head exploded violently into the air as a bullet sheared through their animal brain. But she was only whittling them down...like a knife would slowly shave away at a thick piece of wood a bit at a time.
But she already had known it would take time, too much time, to destroy this horde that had been hunting her and what she most treasured for the better part of a day. Their numbers were their greatest advantage. But she was a few hours ahead of the things that wanted to feast on her.
That meant she had at least a little time, before the zombies arrived, to prepare for them. When she found what was at the base, she knew that she could. And she would do anything to protect what she most treasured. She would even die, and gladly.
The horde reached within fifty yards of her. Just as she realized it would happen at any moment, one of the shambling things broke the invisible laser beam that crossed its path. Before The Global Plague, what seemed to her a lifetime ago, she had received many commendations as a soldier...because of her proficiency in the fields of electronics and mechanical engineering.
In the little time she had, the woman put that proficiency to use.
The laser beam came from one side of the field where the zombies were, and the moment it was broken it triggered the .50-caliber Browning belt-fed machine guns resting atop three Humvees, which were left behind in the rush by those who abandoned the base long ago. They still worked, were still able to fulfill the purpose for which they were made, and did so by firing simultaneously on the horde, their barrels weighted down by the woman to guarantee their aim across the field would be stable.
The bullets ripped across the field, and literally tore the lion's share of the remaining zombies apart in the process. Limbs were sheared away from some...others seemed to explode under the withering assault and the air surrounding them turned into a gentle mist of crimson. Those that weren't destroyed immediately by the Brownings were put down by the woman and her rifle.
The woman, in her soul, couldn't afford to look at the creatures before her as once human. Once uninfected. Once alive and full of dignity and freedom and hope. She could only afford to see them as enemies, targets that had to be destroyed by any means. For the sake of what was left in this ruined world for her to protect. For the sake of her protection of what was closest to her heart, she could only see them as monsters...as zombies.
It was the only way the survivors of The Global Plague could describe such infected, ever since a long-forgotten faction of terrorists who hated and feared a world that wasn't in their image unleashed their viral weapon. The biological agent, untried outside of the controlled conditions in which it was created before it was deployed into the lower atmosphere of the planet, was believed by the terrorists to be completely lethal. If only it had been.
But in this ruined world, as the woman approached the remains of the horde, she still had something she held more sacred than anything, even her duty to the remnants of her nation and those she swore her life to protect. She would do anything for the sake of protecting what was most important to her, as she surveyed the bodies of the zombies and had to use her .45-caliber pistol to execute the few that still twitched and moaned hungrily in spite of their being ravaged by the woman's trap. She would rather have gone to Hell itself if she couldn't protect what she most treasured.
When the woman was done, she returned to the bunker, knowing she would have to modify the trap she created considerably just in case more zombies searching for food came upon the base.
She bypassed the electonic lock for the bunker again, as she did when she first arrived, and she entered.
The woman's beautiful face softened the moment she saw the one she most treasured again.
The child, a little girl only eight years old, asked softly, "Is it over?"
The woman nodded. "Yes, it'll be okay. We're safe...and hopefully, it won't be too long before a rescue team comes for us." She had found a damaged SINGCARS in the bunker, and as she waited she repaired it and managed to get through to a field commander. It would be a few hours before help arrived, but for the first time in days she had reason to hope.
So did the little girl, who like the woman had red hair. Her pale skin was luminous. "Are you okay?"
The woman lowered on one knee in front of the girl and wondered if the child would escape freckles, like she did growing up. Her smile was soft when she answered, "As long as I'm with you, honey."
The little girl knew it was the truth, looking at the one she most cherished in turn. "And I'll be okay when I'm with you. Always." The girl's eyes became solemn and full of adoration. "I love you, mommy."
Again, the woman was so thankful for her treasure it threatened to bring her to tears. She wrapped her arms around her daughter and they held each other tight in the silent half-light of the bunker. "I love you too, baby. I love you so much."
"I know as long as I'm with you, the monsters won't get us," her daughter said, full of confidence.
"Oh, they will never get ahold of you," the mother said, not caring for herself but for the one she brought into this world. "The monsters will never get you as long as I'm here. Never."
They waited barely three hours together before the rescue teams arrived.
This story is the copyright (2007) of Charles Spencer, and is the sole property of the author. No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted, by electronic means or otherwise, without the express permission of the author.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Getting there, slow but sure
From the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary:
progress
(The intransitive verb, specifically.)
1 a (1): a royal journey marked by pomp and pageant (2): a state procession
b: a tour or circuit made by an official (as a judge)
c: an expedition, journey, or march through a region
2: a forward or onward movement (as to an objective or to a goal): advance
3: gradual betterment; especially: the progressive development of humankind
I've been thinking about progress in that it means 'gradual betterment', or society in general progresses forward over a period of time.
I've been thinking about it because in this day and age, things should be easier than they were ten years ago. Right? Things can change for the better in a decade.
Right?
Well, the answer is yes and no. Take the holiday season, for example. Even with the Internet, miniturization of technology to create widgets like 'smart phones', and going green, things haven't really improved when the holiday season hits. We still can't quite drive safely on snow- and ice-slick streets. Instead of communicating with one another better, we're each more isolated than ever. We still get a little stupid, and in too many ways to count. And of course, it's a game of catch-up just to get one thing or the other done. Many will be fortunate to be done Christmas shopping by the 24th.
Which is my way of explaining why I'm still trying to get my ducks in a row with this blog at this time, and I must offer my apologies.
Things will be up and running on all cylinders here soon, guaranteed, and on a regular basis...happy holidays!
progress
(The intransitive verb, specifically.)
1 a (1): a royal journey marked by pomp and pageant (2): a state procession
b: a tour or circuit made by an official (as a judge)
c: an expedition, journey, or march through a region
2: a forward or onward movement (as to an objective or to a goal): advance
3: gradual betterment; especially: the progressive development of humankind
I've been thinking about progress in that it means 'gradual betterment', or society in general progresses forward over a period of time.
I've been thinking about it because in this day and age, things should be easier than they were ten years ago. Right? Things can change for the better in a decade.
Right?
Well, the answer is yes and no. Take the holiday season, for example. Even with the Internet, miniturization of technology to create widgets like 'smart phones', and going green, things haven't really improved when the holiday season hits. We still can't quite drive safely on snow- and ice-slick streets. Instead of communicating with one another better, we're each more isolated than ever. We still get a little stupid, and in too many ways to count. And of course, it's a game of catch-up just to get one thing or the other done. Many will be fortunate to be done Christmas shopping by the 24th.
Which is my way of explaining why I'm still trying to get my ducks in a row with this blog at this time, and I must offer my apologies.
Things will be up and running on all cylinders here soon, guaranteed, and on a regular basis...happy holidays!
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