If you're like me, beginnings and endings to novels come relatively easy. Maybe a great opening scene and a bang-bang, satisfying to everyone ending take some thinking, but the general opening and closing of the novel are there almost from the inception of the idea. But, of course, more than half the novel is neither of these; it consists of the middle of the book. While I usually have a few ideas of how to bridge the gap, most of this chunk of the book is a mystery to me as I start planning. Thanks to South Park, I like to think of it as The Underpants Gnome Problem.
Sometimes this middle section of the novel seems like it'll never materialize. Little scenes come, but nothing major, nothing that will wow the reader. But fear not, there are things you can do to defeat this dreaded Underpants Gnome Problem. Here are a few things I like to do.
1) Freewrite: If you're not sure what comes next, simply grab a blank sheet of paper or open a new file in your word processor, and write. Don't worry about making much sense, simply jot down ideas that come to you. Keep your pen (or fingers) moving, and put down ideas that come to you, no matter how silly they seem. Sometimes those silly ideas turn out to be gold, either on their own, or with a bit of tweaking. Or those silly ideas might be blocking the golden ones. Whatever the problem, often freewriting will help.
2) Work on something else: Maybe your brain simply needs to marinate the idea. Work on a short story, watch TV or a movie, or read a book. While you're concentrating on these, your subconscious mind will be playing around with ideas for your novel. Give it a day or two, and then go back to it. You might find that you now have a nugget of awesomeness waiting for you!
3) Start plotting: You know how you want to start, so plot that first act. When you get to the final scene, you might be surprised to see you know where you want to go next. And if not, plot the ending. If you're still blocked, plot minor scenes from the middle, ideas that have been floating around but aren't those big blockbuster scenes you need to bridge the gap from beginning to end. Put all of these scenes on 3x5 cards and spread them out so you can see them at the same time. Chances are, something will click. You'll see ways to put these scenes together, and those big blockbuster scenes will come.
4) Know your characters: Get to know your characters. Often they will dictate how the middle of the novel should go. You know the major problems, so give your characters quirks that work with or against these problems in interesting ways. Your characters could very well be the key to getting your novel from beginning to end seamlessly.
If you try one or all of these tips, you should be well on your way to bridging the gap between collecting underpants and profit. That big dreaded question mark should fall away. Remember, whatever you choose to do, it can always be changed later, either while you're writing (there's no rule saying you can't amend your outline) or during revision. Since the middle is the biggest part of the book, it can be daunting, but these simple tips should help you out. So get out there, collect those underpants, and make a profit. I have no doubt you'll figure out how it works!
Monday, October 17, 2011
Writing Prompt #81
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm not labeling it this week, so take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
A Witch visits the used broom salesman.
A Witch visits the used broom salesman.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
#FridayFlash--Slit Wrists
This one has a few instances of "adult language."
Slit Wrists
by Eric J. Krause
"Death will come easy, just close your eyes!" he wailed at the top of his lungs, which brought out raucous shouts of "Slayer!" from the fellow metal-heads around him. Slit Wrists, the ultimate Slayer cover band, would be on stage next, and the energy in the building bordered on catastrophic. When Tom (yes, the lead singer-bassist had legally changed his name to Tom Ayala) belted out the opening scream of "Angel of Death," the club might just come down around them.
An old Metallica song blasted on the sound system while the roadies and technicians readied the stage. Heads banged and throats growled out the lyrics of "Creeping Death" as if they were watching the song actually performed. Wouldn't it be cool if someone organized a "Big Four" concert done by cover bands? He'd be there, that was for sure, and he knew most of these crazed motherfuckers would be, too. No doubt that could tour around the country, using different cover bands in each city if necessary. If he had more ambition, he'd totally make it happen.
Without any big build-up, Slit Wrists stomped out on stage and tore into it. As expected, they launched with "Angel of Death," and the crowd went ballistic. Three separate pits exploded in the tiny club, while fists, middle fingers, and devil horns shot up from those not moshing. After the first song, the band transitioned into "Killing Fields," "Disciple," and "War Ensemble."
After those four songs, with the crowd riled up to dizzying heights, Tom stopped and addressed the crowd. This was strange--Slit Wrists always played through two dozen or so songs in rapid-fire succession and left. No talking at all. If anyone but him wondered about this, they didn't show it.
"We are Slit Wrists, and we're here to slay you fuckers! This is 'Mandatory Suicide!' Die, fuckers, die!"
The crowd's reaction shot up to even higher testosterone-driven levels, and the mosh pits erupted harder than before. He seemed to be the only one in the place who didn't like that short speech. As much as he wanted to watch the rest of the show, something in the back of his mind told him to leave.
Turns out he should have trusted that voice.
As the group pounded through the song, a strange green fog fell from the ceiling and poured from the front of the stage. It was a neat effect at first, giving the band and crowd an eerie, otherworldly glow, but it soon proved deadly. A bitter taste assaulted his tongue, followed by a burning in his throat. And he wasn't the only one to notice. A number of people fled to the exits, but those doors proved locked. Some tried to escape backstage, but something he couldn't see blocked their way. He coughed and fell to his knees, joining everyone else in the final moments of suffocation. Those in the mosh pits had already succumbed, and somewhere in the back of his mind he realized the music had stopped, the stage now empty. Slit Wrists certainly had killed tonight.
Screams died with the patrons around him. He wasn't far behind. With his last living thought, he wondered why they'd chosen "Mandatory Suicide" instead of "Chemical Warfare." That would have made more sense . . .
Slit Wrists
by Eric J. Krause
"Death will come easy, just close your eyes!" he wailed at the top of his lungs, which brought out raucous shouts of "Slayer!" from the fellow metal-heads around him. Slit Wrists, the ultimate Slayer cover band, would be on stage next, and the energy in the building bordered on catastrophic. When Tom (yes, the lead singer-bassist had legally changed his name to Tom Ayala) belted out the opening scream of "Angel of Death," the club might just come down around them.
An old Metallica song blasted on the sound system while the roadies and technicians readied the stage. Heads banged and throats growled out the lyrics of "Creeping Death" as if they were watching the song actually performed. Wouldn't it be cool if someone organized a "Big Four" concert done by cover bands? He'd be there, that was for sure, and he knew most of these crazed motherfuckers would be, too. No doubt that could tour around the country, using different cover bands in each city if necessary. If he had more ambition, he'd totally make it happen.
Without any big build-up, Slit Wrists stomped out on stage and tore into it. As expected, they launched with "Angel of Death," and the crowd went ballistic. Three separate pits exploded in the tiny club, while fists, middle fingers, and devil horns shot up from those not moshing. After the first song, the band transitioned into "Killing Fields," "Disciple," and "War Ensemble."
After those four songs, with the crowd riled up to dizzying heights, Tom stopped and addressed the crowd. This was strange--Slit Wrists always played through two dozen or so songs in rapid-fire succession and left. No talking at all. If anyone but him wondered about this, they didn't show it.
"We are Slit Wrists, and we're here to slay you fuckers! This is 'Mandatory Suicide!' Die, fuckers, die!"
The crowd's reaction shot up to even higher testosterone-driven levels, and the mosh pits erupted harder than before. He seemed to be the only one in the place who didn't like that short speech. As much as he wanted to watch the rest of the show, something in the back of his mind told him to leave.
Turns out he should have trusted that voice.
As the group pounded through the song, a strange green fog fell from the ceiling and poured from the front of the stage. It was a neat effect at first, giving the band and crowd an eerie, otherworldly glow, but it soon proved deadly. A bitter taste assaulted his tongue, followed by a burning in his throat. And he wasn't the only one to notice. A number of people fled to the exits, but those doors proved locked. Some tried to escape backstage, but something he couldn't see blocked their way. He coughed and fell to his knees, joining everyone else in the final moments of suffocation. Those in the mosh pits had already succumbed, and somewhere in the back of his mind he realized the music had stopped, the stage now empty. Slit Wrists certainly had killed tonight.
Screams died with the patrons around him. He wasn't far behind. With his last living thought, he wondered why they'd chosen "Mandatory Suicide" instead of "Chemical Warfare." That would have made more sense . . .
Monday, October 10, 2011
Writing Prompt #80
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm not labeling it this week, so take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
A ghost serenades you every night at midnight.
A ghost serenades you every night at midnight.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Query Letters for Novels
My latest manuscript, Dragon Guard, a YA modern fantasy, is all set to be viewed by agents and/or publishers. So, of course, that means it's time for the dreaded query letter. I know many authors, myself included, hate this part of the process. We spend so much time getting out long manuscript (mine is over 70K words) as perfect as we can, and we need to summarize it in just a few sentences to entice an agent or editor to even give it a look. It can be quite frustrating.
I'm not professing to be an expert on the subject. How can I? I've yet to have an agent bite on a query I've sent in. But that doesn't mean I don't know the formula for creating a good query letter. I've spent hours reading through various query letter advice, both in printed form and on the Internet, and I've found the skeleton of a letter that should be serviceable every time a query letter is asked for. If you're not sure what you're doing, follow this format, and you'll be good to go. Of course, it's simply a format, and you will still need tight and sparkling prose in the letter, but at least you don't have to start from scratch.
Lets take a look at the format of a simple but effective query letter, which is three paragraphs in length:
1st Paragraph: This is your opening paragraph. You want to grab the agent's or editor's attention right away. You want to dive into the action. Think about dust jacket/back cover summaries--the plan is to get your reader, whoever it may be, interesting in your book from the get-go. Since characters are often the most important part of any story, the sentence I usually start with is: "[Lead character] is a [occupation or vocation] who [life situation]." After that, add 4 to 6 sentences explaining the "wow" factor of the plot. This, of course, means the main thrust of the story that will get readers excited. You will likely have interesting and exciting sub-plots, but for a query letter, stick to the basic plot that runs through the entire novel. If this basic plot isn't exciting in itself, you may have trouble selling the book at all. Finish this opening paragraph with a sentence about how the novel ends. It may seem strange to do so, since back cover summaries would never tell how the book turns out, but agents and editors want to know you can bring your tale to a satisfying conclusion.
2nd Paragraph: This is the background paragraph. Here is where you put the title of your novel, the approximate word count, and relevant parts of your personal background (if you have anything relevant--no worries if you don't; simply leave that out). You should then list your writing credits, if you have any. I also put a link to my web site, which has links to some of my credits, as well as how I can be found on various social media outlets. End this paragraph with a sentence or two to the agent or publisher about why you chose to send to them. Do a bit of research--go to their web site and see other projects they've been involved in; visit their Twitter feed/Facebook profile/blog if they have any of those; check to see if they are looking for specific materials in addition to their wide interests. When you are armed with some of this information, find a way to personalize your submission to this agent or editor. A little human touch can go a long way!
3rd Paragraph: This is the "Thank you" paragraph. This is two or three simple sentences. If you are sending only a query letter, write these two sentences: "Thank you for your consideration. I hope to hear from you soon." If you are sending in a synopsis, the first 10 pages, the full manuscript, or whatever else is required in the agent's or publisher's submission guidelines, you can add one more sentence telling what you've enclosed (or, more likely nowadays, what you've pasted in the body of the email below). An example would be: "Below is my short synopsis and the first ten pages of my manuscript." You, of course, can change the order of the sentences in this final paragraph so it sounds best to you.
That's it. When you finish the third paragraph, sign your name with a simple sign-off, such as "Sincerely," and you're done. Also make sure you read the submission guidelines carefully, as some agents and editors have specific information they want in the query letters they receive. But in most cases, this simple structure will serve you well. You still have to come up with your own scintillating content, but at least now you'll know where to plug it in. Good luck!
I'm not professing to be an expert on the subject. How can I? I've yet to have an agent bite on a query I've sent in. But that doesn't mean I don't know the formula for creating a good query letter. I've spent hours reading through various query letter advice, both in printed form and on the Internet, and I've found the skeleton of a letter that should be serviceable every time a query letter is asked for. If you're not sure what you're doing, follow this format, and you'll be good to go. Of course, it's simply a format, and you will still need tight and sparkling prose in the letter, but at least you don't have to start from scratch.
Lets take a look at the format of a simple but effective query letter, which is three paragraphs in length:
1st Paragraph: This is your opening paragraph. You want to grab the agent's or editor's attention right away. You want to dive into the action. Think about dust jacket/back cover summaries--the plan is to get your reader, whoever it may be, interesting in your book from the get-go. Since characters are often the most important part of any story, the sentence I usually start with is: "[Lead character] is a [occupation or vocation] who [life situation]." After that, add 4 to 6 sentences explaining the "wow" factor of the plot. This, of course, means the main thrust of the story that will get readers excited. You will likely have interesting and exciting sub-plots, but for a query letter, stick to the basic plot that runs through the entire novel. If this basic plot isn't exciting in itself, you may have trouble selling the book at all. Finish this opening paragraph with a sentence about how the novel ends. It may seem strange to do so, since back cover summaries would never tell how the book turns out, but agents and editors want to know you can bring your tale to a satisfying conclusion.
2nd Paragraph: This is the background paragraph. Here is where you put the title of your novel, the approximate word count, and relevant parts of your personal background (if you have anything relevant--no worries if you don't; simply leave that out). You should then list your writing credits, if you have any. I also put a link to my web site, which has links to some of my credits, as well as how I can be found on various social media outlets. End this paragraph with a sentence or two to the agent or publisher about why you chose to send to them. Do a bit of research--go to their web site and see other projects they've been involved in; visit their Twitter feed/Facebook profile/blog if they have any of those; check to see if they are looking for specific materials in addition to their wide interests. When you are armed with some of this information, find a way to personalize your submission to this agent or editor. A little human touch can go a long way!
3rd Paragraph: This is the "Thank you" paragraph. This is two or three simple sentences. If you are sending only a query letter, write these two sentences: "Thank you for your consideration. I hope to hear from you soon." If you are sending in a synopsis, the first 10 pages, the full manuscript, or whatever else is required in the agent's or publisher's submission guidelines, you can add one more sentence telling what you've enclosed (or, more likely nowadays, what you've pasted in the body of the email below). An example would be: "Below is my short synopsis and the first ten pages of my manuscript." You, of course, can change the order of the sentences in this final paragraph so it sounds best to you.
That's it. When you finish the third paragraph, sign your name with a simple sign-off, such as "Sincerely," and you're done. Also make sure you read the submission guidelines carefully, as some agents and editors have specific information they want in the query letters they receive. But in most cases, this simple structure will serve you well. You still have to come up with your own scintillating content, but at least now you'll know where to plug it in. Good luck!
Monday, October 3, 2011
Writing Prompt #79
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm not labeling it this week, so take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
You must find the secret book hidden in the library.
You must find the secret book hidden in the library.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Writing Prompt #78
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm not labeling it this week, so take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
You discover the world actually does revolve around you.
You discover the world actually does revolve around you.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Writing Prompt #77
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm not labeling it this week, so take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
A picture frame brings photographs to life.
A picture frame brings photographs to life.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
#FridayFlash--The Mysterious Box
The Mysterious Box
by Eric J. Krause
The two men stared at each other across the table, poised to reach for their pistols. The box sat in the middle, beckoning to both. The only thing that kept blood from being shed was that neither knew if the secret contents were worth dying for. They'd dug it up out near Boot Hill that morning while hunting for gold, and since the vibe screamed powerful riches, neither had been willing to share.
"Why don't you boys play cards for it?" the bartender said. He had no idea what was going on. If they hadn't been so focused on the box and each other, they may have turned their ire on him for the contempt in his voice. Instead they both nodded.
"Five card draw, blackjack, or high card?" the first asked.
"Two outta three high card," the second said.
"Aces high or low?"
"Low."
For the first time since taking their seats, they tore their eyes off the other and the box and looked at the bartender. "You got cards?" one asked.
The bartender held up a pack, but didn't toss it over. "Only if you both promise to forget about your guns. At least here in my joint."
They nodded, and the cards landed on the table with a thwack. The first man opened the pack and gave it a few quick shuffles. He passed it across the table and the second guy shuffled the deck to his satisfaction. He placed the cards in the middle of the table, right next to the box.
"Who deals?" the first asked.
"I'll cut, you deal."
They looked at the cards, the box, and then at each other. "Fine," said the first.
The second cut the cards, and the first placed one before each.
"Two out of three, aces low," The bartender said, now as caught up in this business as either man. "Turn 'em over, boys."
The first man had an eight, and the second a three. They glared at each other as they took turns shuffling again. Once the deck stood ready in the center of the table, the first man cut the cards, while the second dealt them out.
"Do it," the bartender said in a strained whisper. The first man had a ten, but the second sported a queen.
"All tied up," the bartender said. Neither noticed the pair of six-shooters in his hands. Two loud pops ended the game before a winner could be declared.
"Sorry, boys, but if you two want that box so bad, it's gotta be something good." Before charging out to take control of the mystery, he listened for any commotion outside. None sounded, so he holstered his guns, vaulted over the bar, and grabbed the box. It was nondescript, wooden, and about a foot long each way around. It felt empty. He flicked the latch on top and pulled it open.
A strange red dust rose out and encircled him. Before he could move, it landed on every part of his body and soaked into his clothes, his skin, his hair. A compulsion overtook him, and he whipped out his guns faster than he ever before had and peppered the wall with precision accuracy.
He holstered his guns again and looked into the box. All he found was an old, tattered paper. It read: "You are now the best shot in the land. Use your power well, and it will bring fame and fortune. But prepare yourself for challengers. They will come fast and furious."
The doors to the saloon swung open, and the bartender jumped and grabbed for his guns.
by Eric J. Krause
The two men stared at each other across the table, poised to reach for their pistols. The box sat in the middle, beckoning to both. The only thing that kept blood from being shed was that neither knew if the secret contents were worth dying for. They'd dug it up out near Boot Hill that morning while hunting for gold, and since the vibe screamed powerful riches, neither had been willing to share.
"Why don't you boys play cards for it?" the bartender said. He had no idea what was going on. If they hadn't been so focused on the box and each other, they may have turned their ire on him for the contempt in his voice. Instead they both nodded.
"Five card draw, blackjack, or high card?" the first asked.
"Two outta three high card," the second said.
"Aces high or low?"
"Low."
For the first time since taking their seats, they tore their eyes off the other and the box and looked at the bartender. "You got cards?" one asked.
The bartender held up a pack, but didn't toss it over. "Only if you both promise to forget about your guns. At least here in my joint."
They nodded, and the cards landed on the table with a thwack. The first man opened the pack and gave it a few quick shuffles. He passed it across the table and the second guy shuffled the deck to his satisfaction. He placed the cards in the middle of the table, right next to the box.
"Who deals?" the first asked.
"I'll cut, you deal."
They looked at the cards, the box, and then at each other. "Fine," said the first.
The second cut the cards, and the first placed one before each.
"Two out of three, aces low," The bartender said, now as caught up in this business as either man. "Turn 'em over, boys."
The first man had an eight, and the second a three. They glared at each other as they took turns shuffling again. Once the deck stood ready in the center of the table, the first man cut the cards, while the second dealt them out.
"Do it," the bartender said in a strained whisper. The first man had a ten, but the second sported a queen.
"All tied up," the bartender said. Neither noticed the pair of six-shooters in his hands. Two loud pops ended the game before a winner could be declared.
"Sorry, boys, but if you two want that box so bad, it's gotta be something good." Before charging out to take control of the mystery, he listened for any commotion outside. None sounded, so he holstered his guns, vaulted over the bar, and grabbed the box. It was nondescript, wooden, and about a foot long each way around. It felt empty. He flicked the latch on top and pulled it open.
A strange red dust rose out and encircled him. Before he could move, it landed on every part of his body and soaked into his clothes, his skin, his hair. A compulsion overtook him, and he whipped out his guns faster than he ever before had and peppered the wall with precision accuracy.
He holstered his guns again and looked into the box. All he found was an old, tattered paper. It read: "You are now the best shot in the land. Use your power well, and it will bring fame and fortune. But prepare yourself for challengers. They will come fast and furious."
The doors to the saloon swung open, and the bartender jumped and grabbed for his guns.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Writing Prompt #76
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm not labeling it this week, so take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
You become a character in a classic video game.
You become a character in a classic video game.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
#FridayFlash--The Fortune Cookie
The Fortune Cookie
Charles set down his chopsticks and let out a sigh. He couldn't eat another bite. The Orange-Flavored Chicken at Lu's was the best money could buy, both taste and portion-wise. He'd barely touched the fried rice, but that would heat up just fine for lunch tomorrow. Of course, he still had room for the fortune cookie. It wouldn't be a Lu's meal without that.
He broke open the plastic wrapper, devoid of the usual advertising. Strange. For as long as he could remember, Lu's address and phone number adorned the wrapper. Mr. Lu must have decided to save a bit of money. Didn't really matter, as long as the cookie was still light and tasty.
It snapped in two, same as always, and the fortune fell into his palm. These were silly, but he still got a kick out of reading them. Lu's fortunes weren't really fortunes at all, but silly sayings or old proverbs. When they did predict the future, it was something mundane that didn't matter anyway. So when Charles read this one, he let out a gasp.
"Tomorrow at noon, duck." And not only that, there were five lucky numbers listed: 2, 17, 23, 38, 41.
"What in the world?" Definitely a new cookie company. Seemed a little too specific. Whoever wrote this one probably just wanted to get as many people to look silly at noon as possible. As Charles tossed his trash, for some reason he pocketed the fortune. Just for laughs. Or at least that's what he told himself.
#
At lunch the next day, Charles found himself alone on the company smoking porch. He popped a cigarette into his mouth and reached into his pocket for his lighter. His knuckles brushed against a scrap of paper, which he fished out. The fortune from yesterday. He'd forgotten he'd put that in with his change and keys this morning. Why, he didn't know, but it sounded like a good idea at the time.
He glanced at his cell phone. 11:58. Should he duck? No one was out here, so he wouldn't look goofy to anyone but himself. He lit the cigarette and looked out into the beautiful courtyard the company provided. Sure, the hours sucked and the work was repetitive and boring, but at least he got this view a few times each day.
Noon. He chuckled and bent down to tie his shoe, just in case anyone was watching from one of the windows. Why he was following the random advice from the cookie was beyond him, but why not? It wouldn't hurt anything. And he could share a goofy story with the cute counter girl at Lu's next time he was there.
Glass shattered behind him. He fell on his butt and looked up. A bullet hole spider webbed the thick window. He peeked inside and saw an upper-management-type slumped over dead, blood trickling out onto his desk from the hole in his chest. Charles figured if he could see the floor behind the dead man, there'd be a puddle of organs and gore.
He looked up near the top of the buildings forming the triangular courtyard. Nothing. At that moment, his bravery--or shock; he wasn't sure which--wore off, and he dashed away. Should he tell anyone, or simply hope there were no cameras out here to pick up his presence? Had the cookie really saved him? Somewhere in the back of his mind, those five lucky numbers danced. He'd have to hit a convenience store on the way home to play the lottery.
Charles set down his chopsticks and let out a sigh. He couldn't eat another bite. The Orange-Flavored Chicken at Lu's was the best money could buy, both taste and portion-wise. He'd barely touched the fried rice, but that would heat up just fine for lunch tomorrow. Of course, he still had room for the fortune cookie. It wouldn't be a Lu's meal without that.
He broke open the plastic wrapper, devoid of the usual advertising. Strange. For as long as he could remember, Lu's address and phone number adorned the wrapper. Mr. Lu must have decided to save a bit of money. Didn't really matter, as long as the cookie was still light and tasty.
It snapped in two, same as always, and the fortune fell into his palm. These were silly, but he still got a kick out of reading them. Lu's fortunes weren't really fortunes at all, but silly sayings or old proverbs. When they did predict the future, it was something mundane that didn't matter anyway. So when Charles read this one, he let out a gasp.
"Tomorrow at noon, duck." And not only that, there were five lucky numbers listed: 2, 17, 23, 38, 41.
"What in the world?" Definitely a new cookie company. Seemed a little too specific. Whoever wrote this one probably just wanted to get as many people to look silly at noon as possible. As Charles tossed his trash, for some reason he pocketed the fortune. Just for laughs. Or at least that's what he told himself.
#
At lunch the next day, Charles found himself alone on the company smoking porch. He popped a cigarette into his mouth and reached into his pocket for his lighter. His knuckles brushed against a scrap of paper, which he fished out. The fortune from yesterday. He'd forgotten he'd put that in with his change and keys this morning. Why, he didn't know, but it sounded like a good idea at the time.
He glanced at his cell phone. 11:58. Should he duck? No one was out here, so he wouldn't look goofy to anyone but himself. He lit the cigarette and looked out into the beautiful courtyard the company provided. Sure, the hours sucked and the work was repetitive and boring, but at least he got this view a few times each day.
Noon. He chuckled and bent down to tie his shoe, just in case anyone was watching from one of the windows. Why he was following the random advice from the cookie was beyond him, but why not? It wouldn't hurt anything. And he could share a goofy story with the cute counter girl at Lu's next time he was there.
Glass shattered behind him. He fell on his butt and looked up. A bullet hole spider webbed the thick window. He peeked inside and saw an upper-management-type slumped over dead, blood trickling out onto his desk from the hole in his chest. Charles figured if he could see the floor behind the dead man, there'd be a puddle of organs and gore.
He looked up near the top of the buildings forming the triangular courtyard. Nothing. At that moment, his bravery--or shock; he wasn't sure which--wore off, and he dashed away. Should he tell anyone, or simply hope there were no cameras out here to pick up his presence? Had the cookie really saved him? Somewhere in the back of his mind, those five lucky numbers danced. He'd have to hit a convenience store on the way home to play the lottery.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Writing Prompt #75
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm not labeling it this week, so take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
You can't let the clock strike twelve!
You can't let the clock strike twelve!
Thursday, August 18, 2011
#FridayFlash--Church Bells
Church Bells
by Eric J. Krause
The church bells sounded down the street, as loud as if he were right next door. The ceremony was about to begin. Soon there'd be another Mrs. McGillicutty in town. Jonah was a good kid; no doubt he'd picked a woman who'd be as loved as the elder Mrs. McGillicutty.
He picked up his Jack and Coke and drained it in one swallow. His refill had more Jack than Coke.
Weddings always turned him introspective, made him melancholy. His had been wonderful, the highlight of his life. And Shirley couldn't have been a more beautiful bride. God, she'd been a looker back then. Back before it had all gone wrong.
He didn't like shouldering all the blame--Shirley had hit the bottle almost as hard as him when they lost their son--but he couldn't denounce he owned most of it. He'd been the one to turn violent when he had too much drink in him. She merely grew weepy. And helpless.
The next glass held all Jack except for a slight splash of Coke for flavor. The bride's limo sped past. Those church bells must've been the signal for her driver. Either that or she was running late. He tried to wave, but his hand wouldn't obey. Hell, what did it matter? She didn't know him, and he didn't know her. He couldn't even remember her name, though it'd been plastered in the paper often enough this week. And why not? She was marrying into local royalty, wasn't she?
Shirley hadn't, but she knew it going in. He wished it could have been different, but they married for love, not money or fame. He downed the rest of his Jack and grimaced. But that was true for most people. All these damn newspaper stories on the McGillicuttys and their ilk sometimes made the common man forget that.
He didn't bother pretending with his next refill. It held all Jack, no Coke. Trouble? You betcha, but he was beyond caring. If he knew what was coming next, though, he might've. Not likely, but maybe.
Those church bells chimed again. This time telling people to take their seats; the bride she was a-comin'. No backing out now, Jonah McGillicutty. It was for better or for worse time.
When Shirley walked down to the tones of that ancient organ, it looked to be for the better. Too bad everything ended up for the worse. He slugged down the Jack and didn't bother pouring more. If he wasn't going to mix it with Coke, might as well take it straight from the bottle.
Shirley stood staring at him from the sidewalk, as fresh and pretty as their wedding day all those years back. He shook his head and blinked hard. When the liquor allowed him to refocus on the yard, not only was she still there, but she now stood in the middle of the lawn.
"Shirl?" he managed to croak out. No, that wasn't her, but an illusion brought on by Mr. Jack and the thoughts of weddings. His Shirley hadn't moved in over ten years. She lay right where he put her--buried in cement under the porch.
The world spun, and by the time he caught himself and righted his perspective, she stared at him from the base of the steps. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the church bells. No doubt Jonah McGillicutty had received the instructions to kiss his bride. In a few minutes time, they'd ring again, this time as the newlyweds dashed to their waiting limo. When he and Shirley made that sprint, not to a limo, but to his old Ford pickup, the guests had tossed rice. Now they'd blow bubbles; the elder Mrs. McGillicutty had never met an environmental cause she didn't like. Not that it mattered to him. He wouldn't be around for that final volley of church bells. That he knew for certain.
Shirley now stood above him, her perfume a mix of decay and that lavender scent he always adored. Her face held the same slack expression she wore that night after he choked her to death. He hadn't wanted to, but she made him. Divorce? No, that wasn't an option. Sure she'd caught him in the act with Sandi Lee Parker, but if she'd taken care of her wifely duties, he never would have strayed. Yeah, the loss of little Edgar to crib death had devastated him, too, but he still had urges. And she had plenty of time to grieve.
As she stared down at him, he wondered if she'd choke his life away. Tit for tat. She wouldn't need to get rid of his body or keep a dirty secret for so many years. She'd be able to simply blink out of existence and head to Heaven, Hell, or wherever. Maybe they'd be square and she'd drag him along.
Whatever she decided, she took too long, and he couldn't bear the wait. He grabbed the bottle of Jack, still half-full, and slammed that bitter liquid. He sputtered a few times, but managed to down it all. The bottle tumbled from his grasp, and through his murky, black-lined vision, he couldn't see her. He'd bested her again. Or so he thought. As the dark closed around him, her quiet chuckle, the one he loved to draw out of her when she was alive, sounded in his ear.
Down the street, the church bells sang to the town, proclaiming another couple now lived in holy matrimony. And he'd been right; he wasn't around to hear it.
by Eric J. Krause
The church bells sounded down the street, as loud as if he were right next door. The ceremony was about to begin. Soon there'd be another Mrs. McGillicutty in town. Jonah was a good kid; no doubt he'd picked a woman who'd be as loved as the elder Mrs. McGillicutty.
He picked up his Jack and Coke and drained it in one swallow. His refill had more Jack than Coke.
Weddings always turned him introspective, made him melancholy. His had been wonderful, the highlight of his life. And Shirley couldn't have been a more beautiful bride. God, she'd been a looker back then. Back before it had all gone wrong.
He didn't like shouldering all the blame--Shirley had hit the bottle almost as hard as him when they lost their son--but he couldn't denounce he owned most of it. He'd been the one to turn violent when he had too much drink in him. She merely grew weepy. And helpless.
The next glass held all Jack except for a slight splash of Coke for flavor. The bride's limo sped past. Those church bells must've been the signal for her driver. Either that or she was running late. He tried to wave, but his hand wouldn't obey. Hell, what did it matter? She didn't know him, and he didn't know her. He couldn't even remember her name, though it'd been plastered in the paper often enough this week. And why not? She was marrying into local royalty, wasn't she?
Shirley hadn't, but she knew it going in. He wished it could have been different, but they married for love, not money or fame. He downed the rest of his Jack and grimaced. But that was true for most people. All these damn newspaper stories on the McGillicuttys and their ilk sometimes made the common man forget that.
He didn't bother pretending with his next refill. It held all Jack, no Coke. Trouble? You betcha, but he was beyond caring. If he knew what was coming next, though, he might've. Not likely, but maybe.
Those church bells chimed again. This time telling people to take their seats; the bride she was a-comin'. No backing out now, Jonah McGillicutty. It was for better or for worse time.
When Shirley walked down to the tones of that ancient organ, it looked to be for the better. Too bad everything ended up for the worse. He slugged down the Jack and didn't bother pouring more. If he wasn't going to mix it with Coke, might as well take it straight from the bottle.
Shirley stood staring at him from the sidewalk, as fresh and pretty as their wedding day all those years back. He shook his head and blinked hard. When the liquor allowed him to refocus on the yard, not only was she still there, but she now stood in the middle of the lawn.
"Shirl?" he managed to croak out. No, that wasn't her, but an illusion brought on by Mr. Jack and the thoughts of weddings. His Shirley hadn't moved in over ten years. She lay right where he put her--buried in cement under the porch.
The world spun, and by the time he caught himself and righted his perspective, she stared at him from the base of the steps. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the church bells. No doubt Jonah McGillicutty had received the instructions to kiss his bride. In a few minutes time, they'd ring again, this time as the newlyweds dashed to their waiting limo. When he and Shirley made that sprint, not to a limo, but to his old Ford pickup, the guests had tossed rice. Now they'd blow bubbles; the elder Mrs. McGillicutty had never met an environmental cause she didn't like. Not that it mattered to him. He wouldn't be around for that final volley of church bells. That he knew for certain.
Shirley now stood above him, her perfume a mix of decay and that lavender scent he always adored. Her face held the same slack expression she wore that night after he choked her to death. He hadn't wanted to, but she made him. Divorce? No, that wasn't an option. Sure she'd caught him in the act with Sandi Lee Parker, but if she'd taken care of her wifely duties, he never would have strayed. Yeah, the loss of little Edgar to crib death had devastated him, too, but he still had urges. And she had plenty of time to grieve.
As she stared down at him, he wondered if she'd choke his life away. Tit for tat. She wouldn't need to get rid of his body or keep a dirty secret for so many years. She'd be able to simply blink out of existence and head to Heaven, Hell, or wherever. Maybe they'd be square and she'd drag him along.
Whatever she decided, she took too long, and he couldn't bear the wait. He grabbed the bottle of Jack, still half-full, and slammed that bitter liquid. He sputtered a few times, but managed to down it all. The bottle tumbled from his grasp, and through his murky, black-lined vision, he couldn't see her. He'd bested her again. Or so he thought. As the dark closed around him, her quiet chuckle, the one he loved to draw out of her when she was alive, sounded in his ear.
Down the street, the church bells sang to the town, proclaiming another couple now lived in holy matrimony. And he'd been right; he wasn't around to hear it.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Writing Prompt #74
Here is this week's speculative fiction prompt. I'm labeling it as science fiction this week, but take it whatever direction you choose. Have fun with it!
The tender, tasty meat at that new restaurant comes from space aliens.
The tender, tasty meat at that new restaurant comes from space aliens.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
#FridayFlash--The Last Time
The Last Time
by Eric J. Krause
Rich watched her sleep. So peaceful, his Mary. He hated seeing her in so much pain, which was why the night was fast becoming his favorite time.
Every morning, as he cooked her breakfast, he wondered if it would be the last time. As he gave her a kiss when she left for work or on an errand, he wondered if it would be the last time. Anything she did, he wondered if it would be the last time.
She murmured a few words, which brought tears to his eyes. This was it, the moment he'd feared for so long. He placed a kiss on her forehead for the last time, placed the barrel of the gun to her temple, and pulled the trigger.
He ignored the gore on her pillow and put the gun in his own mouth. She hated him, was tired of their life together, but he couldn't divorce her, and he wouldn't tolerate cheating. Now her dream mumbles convicted her. And him. He pulled the trigger for the last time.
by Eric J. Krause
Rich watched her sleep. So peaceful, his Mary. He hated seeing her in so much pain, which was why the night was fast becoming his favorite time.
Every morning, as he cooked her breakfast, he wondered if it would be the last time. As he gave her a kiss when she left for work or on an errand, he wondered if it would be the last time. Anything she did, he wondered if it would be the last time.
She murmured a few words, which brought tears to his eyes. This was it, the moment he'd feared for so long. He placed a kiss on her forehead for the last time, placed the barrel of the gun to her temple, and pulled the trigger.
He ignored the gore on her pillow and put the gun in his own mouth. She hated him, was tired of their life together, but he couldn't divorce her, and he wouldn't tolerate cheating. Now her dream mumbles convicted her. And him. He pulled the trigger for the last time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)