Charles Millhouse.com

FREE GIVEAWAY of New Kingdom Creatures of Habit on Sunday 1/8

2012-01-07T14:31:00.000-08:00

New Kingdom Creatures of Habit. the first book in my new vampire trilogy will be available Sunday January 8th for FREE! on the Amazon Kindle Store. I hope you will take advantage of this wonderful story that introduces the characters Lucius Krull and Caleb Johnson and their fight for the Nebraska town of New Kingdom in the 1880's.

TSP: Why I write

2012-01-07T13:38:00.000-08:00

This is my first Saturday post that I hope (but I doubt) to do every Saturday. Subjects will very on The Saturday Post (TSP). For my first topic I have chosen – Reason for Writing – This reason varies for everyone. I write for the desire. Writers should write for the love of the craft. I will be the first to say, it’s not a craft that I have perfected nor do I ever believe that I ever will. I want to learn as much as I can and I work towards that every time I sit down at the laptop. Writing for me has always been an escape. True I would love to be a full time writer and make a living at it. But I would not be disappointed if I don’t. I just love to tell stories. Stories I like to read. Action, adventure, space, time travel and in the end I hope there are others out there who like them too. If you are writing for the money: STOP! That is the wrong reason. I say that now because I don’t make a great deal of cash at it, but I want to write for my own private joy. I sell on kindle and nook in hopes that the joy or writing will turn into a living. There are thousands upon thousands of books being released a day and I am but a single drop in a downpour of stories. I want people to find my work and enjoy it. If one person tells me they like it, I’ve done what I set out to do. So I keep writing. The reason I write: is for me. What is your reason? See you next Saturday.

Deleted New Kingdom Chapter 4

2011-12-09T22:58:00.000-08:00

During the writing of New Kingdom: Creatures of Habit I created a sub-story for Aquario Sal’veon and a character named Isidoro. During the writing process however I found the sub-story slowing down the main story. What follows is an UNEDITED version of that chapter.

New Kingdom: Creatures of Habit © 2011-2012 Charles F. Millhouse / Stormgate Publishing

The blistering sun beat down on Chamisal, New Mexico like an unrelenting god on its worshipers. Not even a breeze helped the population’s suffering from the midday heat. Children hid under the buildings, hunkering down against the ground searching for any type of cool relief.

The streets were bare, except for a select few who hid under their sombreros, or blocked the sun with a parasol waiting – hoping for the day to end. Isidoro, a short dark haired Mexican man, stood along the outside of the saloon and watched the street. He counted only three horses; each were tied at hitching posts several feet from one another and looked as if they were just as miserable as the people in the small town.

Isidoro looked for the town marshal but saw no law enforcement; in fact the only people he did see with a gun were old men who were busy seeking protection from the sun. In the middle of the town he watched the bank. Open for business, no one had come or gone from the building for nearly an hour. Isidoro checked his watch – one forty five – he tipped back his hat reveling a long scar over his right eye; he scratched it. Given to him by a Comanche more than three years ago, Isidoro had never grown accustomed to its relentless itching, especially in the extreme heat.

At the far end of the street, just at the beginning of the town Isidoro saw a lone rider slowly riding into town. The rider sat in the saddle hunkered over shielding his face from the sun and from any unwanted eyes.

Crossing the street, Isidoro stood next to the marshal’s office and looked in through the window. On the desk he saw the marshal on top of a long haired golden skinned beauty; his pants pulled down to his ankles. In this heat? Isidoro thought, only to consider that things might be easier if the town marshal was busy getting off as Aquario Sal’veon rode into town.

Looking back up the street, Isidoro lost sight of the approaching rider. He moved off the wooden sidewalk and stood in the hot street. He saw no one. This is not suppose happen, it’s not the plan, he thought and turned. Finding the street behind him also bare. Again Isidoro check his watch – one fifty five – five minutes, he put away his watch.

Back up on the sidewalk, Isidoro took his position next to the marshal’s window, looking in to see the marshal now completely naked and mounting the long haired woman, he knew it would not be long before he finished. “Come on Aquario,” Isidoro said with a whisper; he gritted his teeth tightly and took slow shallow breaths.

A long time friend of Isidoro, Aquario Sal’veon’s reputation grew from folklore and penny pulp magazines. The stories of the Mexican bandit raiding the west like some modern day Robin Hood, his dark flowing mane blowing in the wind and his glistening white teeth swooning women with his charming smile were vastly overstated and nowhere near the truth.

When Isidoro heard gunshots from around the corner of the saloon he looked up. Riding in at full gallop, the true Aquario Sal’veon rode into Chamisal; his guns blazing as he tried to keep his portly body up in his saddle. Far from fiction, Aquario’s long flowing dark mane looked more like a salt and pepper rag matted to his head. His white teeth were replaced by yellow rotting ones that looked like they were ready to fall out of his head. He looked more like the devil than Robin Hood.

When the marshal stumbled from his office; pants up to his knees, Isidoro tripped him and he landed in the hot street.

Aquario dismounted and put his foot on the marshal’s chest; he pointed his pistol into the man’s face. “Marshal, you are a piss poor excuse for law enforcement in this piss poor excuse of a town,” he said, spit dropped freely from his mouth.

At the far side of street several dozen riders rode pell-mell into town; their guns firing hailing their arrival.

“I am Aquario Sal’veon,” he told the marshal, “and this shit hole, Chamisal, now belongs to me.”

***

With night, the heat in Chamisal did not falter. Outside in the streets Aquario Sal’veon and his men drank, fired their guns, and drank some more as huge bonfires popped and cracked in the streets. The celebration lasted into the late hours of the night. Once Aquario had killed the marshal, no one stood in his way in taking over the town. Most of the people living in Chamisal fled, but Aquario’s men hunted them down, leaving their bodies for the vultures.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself Isidoro,” Aquario said in a questioning manner. “Is everything alright?”

Isidoro drank down his beer and nodded. “Why would you ask?”

Aquario waved his hand, “No real reason,” he said. “You’ve been rather docile since we took this town.”

“When have you ever known me to be otherwise?” Isidoro inquired. “I follow you because you are my friend and –”

“And you have no other place to go,” Aquario said. “You have never betrayed me and you have always helped me. But you never care to relish in what it profits for us. Why Isidoro, why?”

“I would rather keep that to myself,” Isidoro said, “That’s just leave it at that.”

“No goddamn it,” Aquario snapped. “It’s always bothered me and I aim to get to the bottom of it. You drink, but you don’t get drunk. You like women, yet I never see you bed one – or do you like men?”

“I do not,” Isidoro said emphatically.

“Then you will take this prize I kept just for you,” when Aquario motioned over his shoulder two of his men dragged the long haired golden skin beauty in front of him. “I say good enough for the marshal, good enough for my right hand man.”

“Aquario, you don’t need to do this,” Isidoro said. “I have no desire to be with this woman.”

“But you must,” Aquario said. “I could have shot her when I killed the marshal, but spared her for you.”

“Then you wasted your time,” Isidoro said, “Let her go.”

“Now you know I can’t do that,” Aquario said. “She will only try and run and if she does then I’ll have to have her hunted down and shot like an animal. So what will you have me do?” he asked Isidoro.

“Do what you must,” Isidoro answered as he drank down the last of his beer.

Aquario laughed. “You do not cease to amaze me,” he told Isidoro. “I like that. I like that indeed,” he waved at several of his men who had been waiting in the distance. “But this time I was prepared for your answer.”

The long haired woman screamed as six men carried her off.

“Have fun my boys,” Aquario said. “But when you are through with her, make sure she does not live to see the light of day.”

Isidoro shifted in his seat. “I didn’t –” he paused.

“You – you were going to say something Isidoro?” Aquario asked.

Isidoro stood; watched the men pull the woman out of sight and then with a calm voice said, “I will see you in the morning Aquario. I think I’ve had all the celebration I can handle for one night.”

New Kingdom: Creatures of Habit Cover

2011-11-08T16:58:00.000-08:00

The last place Caleb Johnson thought he would end up would be New Kingdom, Nebraska. Released from the Yuma Territorial Prison in the late 1800’s, Caleb finds himself lost in memories of a life he can no longer have and unprepared for the life about to be thrust onto him. When Caleb rescues Morning Dove, an Indian Maiden, who has fell victim to a group of vampires on a blood hunt, he finds himself in a town dominated by Black Riders, witches, ghosts and a werewolf. Faced with creatures from out of nightmares, Caleb allies himself with the supernatural in his attempt to free New Kingdom from the evil that has embedded itself in the small frontier town.

Written by Charles F. Millhouse
Release date: November 25, 2011
On kindle, Nook & Paperback
Aprox: 93,000 wds

Self Published and proud of it.

2011-08-20T19:18:00.000-07:00

I’ve read where many people are talking about self publishing here lately. For the most part it has been positive, but there have been many naysayers that have given self publishing a bad rap. “If you’re not good enough” – or “You’re not a real writer if you self publish.” For me self publishing is a way to put my works out for the public to read, I enjoy the power it gives me and the creative freedom it allows me. Since the onset of the E-reader getting your writing out to readers that may have over looked it in any other form is much easier.

Granted there are some drawbacks to self publishing. Having an agent or a publicist that helps set up book signings and other licensing deals that you simply cannot get when you publish your own books. Then there is the small matter of an editor. I know my books could use lots more editing before they go to print (I’m working on fixing that problem for my next book) and the fact that self published authors have a harder time finding a following (I’m working on that too). However for me, and for many other independent writers that satisfaction of being the writer, editor, publicist, agent and publisher is simply fun. For now I wouldn’t have it any other way.

New Kingdom: Creatures of Habit Promo

2011-08-16T15:13:00.000-07:00

New Kingdom, Nebraska: A nexus of good and evil, a meeting place for ghosts, werewolves, indentured souls and godless men. When Caleb Johnson stepped out of the Yuma territorial prison in the spring of 1879, he had no idea his destination would be New Kingdom. Rescuing an Indian maid from a group of ruthless black riders who christened themselves “vampires”, Caleb comes face to face with the supernatural in its most terrifying of forms: an archangel with its own designs for Caleb and the fate of New Kingdom. By Charles F. Millhouse 93,500 words coming to kindle, Nook and in paperback October 2011.

Summer

2011-08-03T19:16:00.000-07:00

So you have to ask yourself. How is your summer? Have you enjoyed it? Or have you been bogged down by the everyday – same old same old? I’ve worked hard since January of this year on my new book. I’ve pushed a lot of things to the side, let my backyard grow out of control and to tell you the truth, it might be a little hard to get it all back into shape, but I’ve done what I wanted to do. My writing has taken control of my life; I am pushing forward one word at a time. I’ve met a lot of people on the net over the past several months who are willing to show me the way in this world of self-publishing. All of them like me – struggling to make their mark in this new world of epublishing and all only wanting to tell their story. So I ask again, how has your summer been? Oh we will always have to work, we will always have bills and we will always have worry, but we will only have now. Keep writing my friends.

Storm Crossing For $2.99 on Kindle & Nook

2011-07-07T19:35:00.000-07:00

I'm happy to announce that my novel from 2009 Storm Crossing is now on Kindle and Nook. This is one of my favorite stories and I hope in the near future to write a follow up book. I hope that if you buy a copy you will take the time to review it on the site you bought it from.

When the spiral ribbon known as Vaxton’s Void was discovered it opened up endless possibilities. Man could travel into alternate realities, meet different versions of himself and explore choices that were never made. But with every discovery for good, there are also those who chose to exploit it. Welcome to a world where travel into the muiltiverse has become a common event. Meet Gabriel Correll, the leader of an elite force of officers that patrols and chases the outlaws known as “Storms”. Enter a world where everything impossible is possible as it stands on the precipice of corruption and turmoil. Storm Crossing by Charles F. Millhouse 135,000 words.

In memory Alone now on the Nook for .99cents

2011-06-25T17:28:00.000-07:00

In Memory Alone, the first book in Talon's Epic is now available on NOOK for .99cents

In 1801, Jeremiah Talon had been the perfect British naval officer. But life can be deceiving. Awaking aboard an alien warship thousands of light years from earth, Jeremiah discovers that he has been used as a pawn to fight a galactic war between the Citadel and the rebel forces that oppose them. When he is released by one of his captors with the promise to rescue a kidnapped family, Jeremiah finds that his hopes of returning to earth have been shattered. During his journey Jeremiah finds a past he had forgotten and is left with answers to a reality he is unprepared to face.

Buy the kindle version here

Guest Blogger: Joseph Vasicek

2011-06-16T16:12:00.000-07:00

Joseph Vasicek is a fellow writer in the Science Fiction genre, his book Genesis Earth is available on amazon.com and has been setting the independent publishing world on its ear. According to his blog, Joseph has completed his first radio interview. Stop over to his site and have a look and listen.

Joseph is paying us a visit here at charlesmillhouse.com as a guest blogger, I hope you will take time to read his post as he stops by during his blog tour.

And now, Joseph Vasicek:

In April 2010, I went from being a full time college student to being unemployed. Like many of my fellow graduates, getting punted out of the cloistered halls of academia in the midst of a major recession was a harsh wake up call to reality.

At the same time, however, it opened the door for a lot of other opportunities. My biggest dream was to be a full time writer someday, so why not put everything I could into that? After all, with no one but call centers hiring, what did I have to lose?

Since then, I've been fortunate enough to get by on my own by working odd jobs. However, this means I have to constantly reinvent my daily routine. One month, I might be working nine to five doing data entry; another, I might be on the road, or working grave--or taking a few weeks off to focus on my writing. That's one of the biggest difficulties and the greatest advantage of being a freelancer: being flexible enough to get things done when everything constantly conspires to shatter your routine.

Fortunately, writing isn't just a job; it's a mindset. Even when I'm not at the keyboard, I can still be working on my next project.

Brainstorming is a large part of writing any novel, and I find that I do this best while my hands and feet are occupied doing other things. In college, I came up with a ton of ideas just while walking around between buildings on campus. Now, since most of my jobs are rather menial, I find myself doing it all the time, which is actually kind of nice.

A essential element of this process is curiosity. I believe it was Orson Scott Card who said that every day, we come across over a thousand potential ideas for a story, and a good writer will recognize perhaps three. I absolutely believe that, which is why I always keep a story notebook in my back pocket. Some random entries include:

A family history center where ancestors research their descendants.

A culture with groomswomen and bridesmen.

What if ghosts exist in the real world, and we only exist in the shadow of it?

It's important to write down every idea, even if it's obviously derivative. If you self-edit too much in the early stages, you'll kill your creative impulse.

Even though I don't always keep a steady routine, I do make a point of making (and keeping!) deadlines and daily wordcount goals. The way I see it, if I want to make a living with my writing, I need to treat it like a full-time job. I keep track of how much I write every day on a spreadsheet, and post quarterly progress updates on my blog. I might be a nerd that way, but hey, it keeps me honest.

I do think it's important to recognize that every project is different, however. Some take longer than others, for whatever reason.

Every time I finish a draft, I take a few months off to work on other projects before revisiting it. I've found that I need that much time to properly distance myself, so that when I come back I don't lose sight of the forest for the trees. I'll also send out my rough manuscript to several first readers, to get their feedback. I don't implement everything my first readers suggest--good novels are never written by committee--but I do consider their comments very carefully.

Up until the first part of this year, the next step was to send out queries to agents and editors, but with the radical ways the industry is changing, I think it's better to indie publish first and wait for them to come to you. I see myself as a self-employed small business owner, and all of the growth opportunities right now lie with ebooks, which are not only easy to self-publish, but earn the author much more than a traditional print deal. I've done the math, and all I need to break even is to sell 15 ebooks per day. Right now, one month out the gate with only one book under my belt, I'm averaging about 1.5. The more I put my work out there, the more that number will grow.

That's incredibly exciting, especially to someone like me who's always dreamed of doing this for a career. Now, not only do I feel like I have nothing to lose--I feel like I have everything to gain. For a college grad who just a year ago was struggling to figure out his future, that's very encouraging indeed.

Storm Crossing: Coming Soon

2011-06-13T05:02:00.000-07:00

Doing a Kindle Edit now: COMING SOON

A Place to Meet

2011-06-05T09:29:00.000-07:00

For my fellow independent science fiction writers, I have been working on a website for us. The Independent Science Fiction Writer Website A place where self-published writers of science fiction – fantasy and horror can meet, pass ideas, promote their work and help each other out. It’s a place to pitch ideas, meet new friends and hopefully grow a community that will show the publishing world we are serious and here to stay. To become a member all you need to do is have independently published a short story, novella or novel. On the site you will find the full rules and how to join the ISFW community. It is my hope that this website will become a handy tool in all your writing endeavors. Right now it is kind of empty and it needs you, your ideas, your works and your dreams to help it grow. I hope you will have a look and join.

Crossroads of the World Youtube Promo

2011-06-02T11:52:00.000-07:00

In Memory Alone Youtube Promo

2011-05-31T12:44:00.000-07:00

In Memory Alone

2011-05-16T19:14:00.000-07:00

I'm in the process of publishing my first few books to kindle. See below for ordering information.

IN MEMORY ALONE: book one of talon's epic
In 1801, Jeremiah Talon had been the perfect British naval officer. But life can be deceiving. Awaking aboard an alien warship thousands of light years from earth, Jeremiah discovers that he has been used as a pawn to fight a galactic war between the Citadel and the rebel forces that oppose them. When he is released by one of his captors with the promise to rescue a kidnapped family, Jeremiah finds that his hopes of returning to earth have been shattered. During his journey Jeremiah finds a past he had forgotten and is left with answers to a reality he is unprepared to face.

Paperback publishing date: April 2004
Kindle publishing date May 15, 2011

Project Update

2011-05-07T05:09:00.000-07:00

I have finished the first draft of my new project and I hope I can reveal the idea to you in the next couple of weeks. I've spent four months working out the first draft while working a six day a week job, working a concession trailer with my catering partner and being a full time husband and father. I've had periods of time where I didn't even touch the book because of life getting in the way, But I am pleased how the story has gone. Over the next week or so I will be tightening up the story, cutting a few loose ends and pulling it together. I hope you'll check back here over the next month or so and I will let you all know much more about it.
Cheers

Reading and Writing

2011-04-12T18:25:00.000-07:00

It’s time to get some reading done. At present time I am reading Hellhole by Brian Herbert and Kevin J Anderson, but I’m thinking about reading something old. I mean I can read two or three books at a time can’t I?

From the book shelf I took Tarzan and the Lost Empire by Edgar Rice Burroughs. Been a long time since I read it, and I’m in the mood for some classics, which are the roots of my writing style. When I was a kid, I found the Tarzan books to be some of my favorites as well as the Conan Adventures too. I like the quick read, the adventure and the heroism that I tend to write.

I’ve been trying to read a lot more. Or at least I like to think I am. What with a full time job, being a full time husband and father as well as writing a new book I find it hard to find the time I need to read. Reading I’ve been told is key to being a good writer. I’d have to say that is so very true. Studying the styles of other writers can only help me flush out my own works. So I think it’s time to take my writing more seriously and reading is but the first step in doing that. Over the few next week’s I will be posting a few reviews of books I’ll be reading. Stay tuned

I Admire:

2011-01-24T19:04:00.000-08:00

I spoke of writers I admire in the last post. Thought I would list a few of them now, and why I like them.

· William F. Nolan: the creator of Logan’s Run, the book I grew up with. Logan was my first step in novel reading when I was 12. Mr. Nolan inspired me to read more, which in turn led me to become a writer, so if you look at it that way, William F. Nolan (we share the same middle name) is the man who inspired me to write.

· Frank Herbert: DUNE was the second book I read after Logan’s Run. It taught me to think about concepts and it taught me the value of characters.

· Edgar Rice Burroughs: And I know what you’re thinking, Tarzan. But I have always been a bigger fan of John Carter Warlord of Mars

· Robert E. Howard: I’ll have to admit, Mr. Howard isn’t one of my favorite writers, but his Conan series and Solomon Kane character are some of the best works ever written.

· Kevin J Anderson: I like his style, this modern day novelist that has, with the help of Brian Herbert, revitalized the DUNE series. But Mr. Anderson should be just as well known for his other works from Star Wars adventures, to his Saga of the Seven Suns and Captain Nemo adventure. If you haven’t read Kevin J Anderson, give him a try.

So that’s only a small list, there are many more writers I look up to and I will post more of them soon. So, who do you like to read?

A writer writes

2011-01-19T04:26:00.000-08:00

Every writer has different reasons for writing. Some want to see their names along the side some of the most prestigious authors of all time. Others do it for the money and some do it because they enjoy writing. That’s where I fit in. I enjoy writing, I love telling stories and creating interesting characters. I find myself many times not sure where my stories are going; it’s as if the characters are dragging me along for the adventure. Sometimes they might get a bit off track and I have to steer them back on, but I find it ironic that many times that I don’t know where they are leading me.

Over the past few years I have self published several of my books and with each of them, honing my writing technique as I went along. Now I’m at a crossroads, do I continue to put myself out there with self publishing, or do I go the next step? Am I ready? I ask myself, or would I prefer to play it safe and continue to self publish?

For many reasons I enjoy self publishing, I like the freedom of making my own literary decisions, not changing characters to fit a publishers demands. But in turn I would love to make a career out of writing and maybe find myself alongside some modern day novelists that I admire. I hear a lot of my writer friends say “When I become a writer…” But I say to them, just because you haven’t published a book through a major publisher, does not mean you’re not a writer. A writer writes, they tell stories, write articles, and create magic through their words.

Have a good day.

New Year, New Ideas

2011-01-17T20:41:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year
I hope everyone survived the holidays and are facing 2011 with renewed vigor, I know I am.

I am currently working on a new story set in the old west. For those of you, who know me, this type of narrative may be out of my element and I agree with you. However, I think this story might be the most ambitious project I have done to date and I am truly excited about it.

I hope in the coming weeks I will be able to share some of the story with you here on the blog and get your comments.

I have been rethinking my writing structure, making myself find the time to write every day. No matter how chaotic my life is, how frustrated I may be, I know I have to sit myself down and work on my project, giving myself simple daily goals to reach and reaching them. I’m sure every writer has faced this dilemma and I am not alone in that respect.

I also hope to post here on the site more than I have in the past year or so, sharing my writing adventure with you. You can also follow me on twitter at www.twitter.com/chuck_who

Thanks for stopping by.

Wrap Around Cover: Crossroads of the World

2010-03-30T19:39:00.000-07:00

Order a copy here

Specimen 4583 remains alive, and hiding, while the might of a galaxy is out to find him.

“In Memory Alone” was just the beginning to the Adventures of Jeremiah Talon.

Hidden in seclusion on the planet Vor’oshaven Jeremiah stumbles across the hidden library of an ancient shipbuilder, Polar. There he discovers the plans to a warship that is the key to his fight against the Citadel. Aided by his newfound friends, the construction of the ship begins. But Jeremiah needs a crew. Traveling to Starworld, he and Leax begin a mission to free a band of rebels from execution, and along the way forge alliances with those who are desperate enough to follow Jeremiah in his battles against the forces of the Citadel.

However, in Jeremiah’s way stands Marshal Xen’ilk Dron, supreme commanding officer of the Hy’dirian Citadel’s armed forces. The Marshal, bent on revenge for the death of his protégé, Darc Corrian who died while in pursuit of Jeremiah, is driven only by seeing Jeremiah’s blood on his hands. Refusing to allow even the darkest tunnels of Cassess O’Learvs to stand in his way, Dron’s one commanding order is on the minds of all who serve him: KILL JEREMIAH TALON.

“Crossroads of the World” begins the second chapter in Talon’s Epic.

Publisher	Stormgate Publishing
Copyright	©2010 Charles F. Millhouse (Standard Copyright License)
Language	English
Country	United States
Publication Date	March 24, 2010

Page Count	195 pages
Size	Pocket
Binding	Perfect Bound
Interior Color	Black And White

From The Back Cover: Crossroads of the World

2010-03-28T16:15:00.000-07:00

Here is the blurb for the back cover of Crossroads of the World. The cover will be along in a couple of days.

“In Memory Alone” was just the beginning to the Adventures of Jeremiah Talon.
Hidden in seclusion on the planet Vor’oshaven Jeremiah stumbles across the hidden library of an ancient ship builder, Polar. There he discovers the plans to a warship that is the key to his fight against the Citadel. Aided by his newfound friends, the construction of the ship begins. But Jeremiah needs a crew. Traveling to Starworld, he and Leax begin a mission to free a band of rebels from execution, and along the way forge alliances with those who are desperate enough to follow Jeremiah in his battles against the forces of the Citadel.
“Crossroads of the World” begins the second chapter in Talon’s Epic.

Crossroads of the World: Unedited.

2009-12-01T04:56:00.000-08:00

After 5 years I am nearing the finishing line. Though it only took me a few months to write the next Jeremiah Talon adventure, it seems it took me forever to start it. Below you will find a sample from the first chapter of Crossroads of the World the long awaited (at least for me) followup to In Memory Alone. Please note this is unedited so please be kind. I will have information on the release of Crossroads soon.
For ordering information on In Memory Alone please follow the link at the right of this website. Thanks for the support.

A Thousand Storms
1.
Marshal Xen’ilk Dron stood at a sharp attention as he watched his troops parade past him in the capital square. The crystal towers of the Mandrake City reached into the cloudless sky like gods of mythology; watching the bolstering creatures below as they marched in unison like gods themselves.
The Marshal drew in deep breaths as his single eye rolled steadily back and forth along its elongated eye slit, catching the gleam from the blue sun of the Citadel Home World as it reflected off the vice-shock troops black and red defense armor.
The sound of metal against metal made a familiar clatter, like swords sliding against one another. The hammering from the hilts of their long staffs of order thundered together like a thousand storms; all rolling across the sky at the same time. The Marshal felt a swelling in his chest as he watched the impressive sight. Although he had witnessed it many times over his long tenure in the Hy’dirian military he never tired of the power mustered in an attack group waiting to invoke pain and suffering on some unsuspecting land on some distant world.
In columns of four, the thousand rows of warriors came to a stop as if rehearsed many times; they turned toward their Marshal, slamming their staffs one last time leaving only the light breeze whipping between the buildings to be heard. In the background several shuttle transports waited to take the massive army to the battle cruiser in orbit over the Citadel Home World.
Xen’ilk walked along the front of the troops, looking them all over; his reflection in the armor shone back at him. He noticed the command braids on his shoulders and the metals on his chest of his black and silver uniform. His rank did not come easy, but it came to him from hard work and tenacity. He had been taught to fight for what he wanted and he had taught that same ideology to his students. Be strong, be brave and be damned if you fail. There was nothing more to life than that except maybe two things: revenge and avenge.
The strike force before Xen’ilk was designed for that purpose, the most blood thirsty of the shock troops created by the genetic engineers the Gens. The four thousand would follow any order kill any creature and sacrifice themselves to bring about the ends of their mission.
The pride festered in him like a father for his sons; for no father could be more proud than he.
While speeches were pointless, Xen’ilk walked to and fro in front of his troops whipping his walking stick against his thick leg that made a crack like a falling tree. “We ride into battle,” he told them. “We will show no mercy, we will show no compassion and we will bring about the death to beings who have had nothing but contempt for the Citadel.” The vice-shock troops made no gestures and showed no signs of caring for what they heard, they were created to kill and were engineered with no regard for frivolities. But the Marshal felt alive from his words, his blood stirred and his emotions ran high. He had been commissioned to lead the armies, destroy the enemy and he enjoyed it immensely.

Over his shoulder Xen’ilk saw the over weight theorist, Oran, who sat on his floating platform at the steps of the main capital building. Xen’ilk stepped back from his men and made a motion with his hand, telling his men to stand at ease. Again the sound of metal sliding against metal could be heard as the vice-shock troops took a step to the left and folded their arms behind their backs.

Xen’ilk’s long cape blew behind him as if it had a life of its own. The Gracoian native goose stepped toward Oran where two red hooded guards stood next to the fat theorist, their swords placed neatly in their sheaths; their authority although demanding did not seem to intimidate the Marshal as he brazened up the long concrete sidewalk; stopping only inches from the floating platform where the over weight man sat.
Oran was a large man; he wore an orange pullover drape, the only thing fitting a man of his size. To his left sat a large pan of brown food that was kept warm with a surface heater. To his right, just within hand reach was a large cup of blue liquid that had been half drunk by the enormous creature. Food lined the outside of his mouth and spots of blue from the drink soaked his clothing.
“Being protected by the crimson knights I see,” Xen’ilk said, giving the two guards a glance.
Oran smacked his lips together. “In these trying times,” he said with a mouth full of food, “One cannot be too careful.”
Xen’ilk smiled. “Since Karpopual was killed you mean.”
Oran stuffed more food into his mouth. “Your strike team is assembled I see,” the overweight man said. “Off to plunder some other unsuspecting planet?”
“Our mission is classified,” Xen’ilk said, “But I suppose you already know that or you wouldn’t have asked.
“Really Marshal,” Oran stopped chewing, “Is it necessary to send yet more men to Cassess O’Learvs? The planet has been beaten.”
Xen’ilk shook his head. “But not broken,” he said. “Their insurgent leaders, who have caused nothing but trouble since our occupation, have finally been captured. I’m being dispatched to deal with them.”
“By execution?” Oran asked. “You’ll find it won’t be that simple. You’ll create nothing but martyrs.”
“Perhaps, but dead leaders are less worrisome than live ones,” Xen’ilk said.
“And what about public opinion?” Oran asked as he nodded his head.
Xen’ilk’s lone eye rolled to the back of his head. Beyond his men, he saw a massing group of people standing in protest. He gritted his teeth and drew in a deep breath as he read the signs they were carrying. PEACE IN OUR TIME and WAR IS NOT AN END TO A MEANS. “Group Captain,” Xen’ilk said through his teeth.
One of the vice-shock troops took a step forward and turned toward the Marshal awaiting orders.
“Have that crowd disbursed,” Xen’ilk ordered in a calm tone.
“Quietly Marshal,” Oran told Xen’ilk. “We need no martyrs here as well.”
Xen’ilk made a sign motion with his hand and the vice-shook officer tapped his staff of order on the ground. Several armored troopers stepped out of rank and moved toward the protestors; who did not move or waver from their place. They fought back the trooper’s advances, but were unable to stop them. The protestors, ranging in all ages, genders and species were carried away. Someone shouted “Freedom is a fantasy!” but their words were only muffled from the shouts of the other protestors.
“There you see,” Xen’ilk said. “It’s that simple.”
“Nothing is as simple as that,” Oran said. “You’ll learn that people are willing to follow anyone who has a better idea of government than we now have.”
“You’re speaking sedition, I could arrest you here and now,” Xen’ilk looked at the crimson guard who did not waver from their spot.
“I’m speaking the truth Marshal. The people in this part of the galaxy are looking for someone to give them hope.”
“What kind of word is that? Hope,” Xen’ilk said.
It’s a word that has been becoming common. It means a desire to change. My theory is soon everyone will be using the word not only as a rally cry but also as a way of life. For with hope comes a promise for a better future.”
“What are these words you are using? Hope and promise. Is this why the Prime employs you, so you can idealize in fantasy?”
“It is my position to bring all alternatives to the Primes ears,” Oran said. “For that is the job of every theorist.”
“Is that what Karpopual’s job was for?” Xen’ilk asked. “When he led Darc Corrian to his death at the hands of specimen 4583?“
“Its name is Jeremiah Talon,” Oran said.
Xen‘ilk‘s lone eye rolled back and forth along the base of his head. “I don’t care what it calls itself.” He said. “I mean to bring it back, or kill it.”
“You better bring it back; the Prime wants to see this human for himself.”
Xen’ilk looked Oran with a curious eye. “How do you know that?” he asked,
“I have just come from the Prime myself. He wants this human brought before him.”
Xen’ilk huffed and walked back and forth, three steps one-way, three steps the other as if was thinking. “I want to kill it,” he said. “I mean to kill it. As soon as I‘m done on Cassess O’Learvs I‘ll do just that.”
Oran dusted food from his chest and took a drink from the large mug that sat next to him. “Darc Corrian meant a lot to you, but you cannot bring him back to life through the death of one being.”
“Revenge and avenge,” Xen’ilk said. “The death of my best student needs to be avenged. I mean to see specimen 4583’s blood on my hands or mine on his.”
Oran looked at Xen’ilk; he put down the food that was in his fat fingered hand. “Then you will be dishonored in the Prime’s eyes.”
Xen’ilk did not hesitate to answer. “Then so be it,” he said.
“I have theorized many outcomes for this mission of yours Marshal. Cassess O’Learvs may bring a surprise or two you must be ready for anything.
“Tell me,” Xen’ilk stepped closer.
“I cannot, I have been instructed only to give my theories to the Prime himself. But I must admit that I cannot see any one conclusion that is positive for you unless you listen to the orders of the Prime.”
“I have never disobeyed an order,” Xen’ilk said. “And after the assignment on Cassess O’Learvs I will take my desires to the Prime concerning my wishes for the death of specimen 4583.”
Oran was silent for a moment then with a long drawn in breath he said, “You won’t have to wait that long.”
“What do you mean?” Xen’ilk asked.
“That is why their here,” Oran pointed to the two crimson guards. “They are here to escort you to the Prime.”
“I am to see the Prime?” Xen’ilk asked with an astonished tone.
Oran drew a wide smile across his fat face. “You’ll be able to voice your wishes before him, is that not an exciting prospect?”
“Indeed,” Xen’ilk whispered. He had never been close enough to the Prime to speak to him. There have not been many who could say that they have had that privilege.
Oran’s hover platform moved back away from the entrance of the capital building. “Then you have no problem seeing the Prime?” he asked.Xen’ilk swallowed hard. “Why would I have such a problem?” he asked. “Of course I’ll see him,” he said as he walked past Oran’s platform and into the building. Behind him he could hear the footsteps of the crimson guard and he wondered if he was being escorted to the Prime or taken. Either way Xen’ilk would have his say. But what would be the outcome?

Storm Crossing

2009-04-30T17:53:00.000-07:00

Welcome to a world where travel into the muiltiverse is a common event. Meet Gabriel Correll, a Chaser whose duty is to hunt down and capture outlaws known as “Storms”. Enter an adventure where everything impossible is possible.
“Storm Crossing” can now be ordered through my printer for $12.95.
I am very proud of this book and hope you will enjoy it too.

As always thanks for the support.

Publisher: Storm Gate PublishingCopyright: © 2009 Charles F. Millhouse Standard Copyright License Language: English

Country: United StatesFirst EditionPrinted: 339 pages, 6" x 9", perfect binding, cream interior paper (60# weight), black and white interior ink, white exterior paper (100# weight), full-color exterior ink

What Comes Around

2009-04-30T14:30:00.000-07:00

The Glax confessionary machine sat alone near the south entrance of the Forest Pine Mall. The confessionary appeared in several malls after its induction by the Church of Light. For the insertion of five quarters you receive this: words of wisdom and inspiration printed neatly on a 5inch by 7inch white index card, after the confession of your most secret thoughts.

Daily, Brad Johnson arrived at the south entrance of the Forest Pine Mall. Cautiously and while watching for spectators he would slip his five quarters into the thin receptacle slot of the Glax confessionary machine, his intent; to explain his daily grind, to try and place his life into perspective; day in and day out Brad worked, arriving always seven minutes early with his bagged lunch in one hand and his attaché case in the other.

“Johnson,” Brad’s supervisor, Jasper Finster, would arrive as always laboring across the eighth floor with heavy footsteps entering Brad’s office dropping stacks of paper on Brad’s desk while brushing his long, grayed, out of date hippy style hair cut to the left side then with a flat smile and a raised eyebrow, Finster would look wide eyed at Brad. “Johnson,” he would say sharply. “I want these reports posted and on my desk by five.

Brad would nod sheepishly and pull the papers towards him.

“I like you Johnson,” Finster said sarcastically. “You keep it up and you’ll go far here, maybe even get a raise,” Finster would always stop just short of the partition’s exit to remind Brad that his usual Thursday workload would be waiting for him this week like all weeks and then lumbered away.

Brad would thank him under his breath; swearing even quieter after Finster would exit his small cubical. Brad had been working for Miller and Carter insurance agency for eight years, and Brad had given up on a raise sometime ago, making just under eighteen thousand a year while others doing his same type of job were already making twenty-five to thirty thousand, It was even rumored that Finster made over a hundred thousand, but Brad didn’t put much into rumors, even if he did believe it. He simply stayed at his desk chair and push through the work hoping for better days and more pay that seemed to never come.

At his daily visit to the confessionary, much like today, Brad would complain about Finster and the abuse he took. Starting his confessions by saying, “I’m not religious nor do I attend to become religious I just need to vent my frustrations; you understand.” Then he would go into his continuous and endless complaints, but would also take time to explain the upside of his seven-minute early arrival. Mandy the red haired copy girl of the eighth floor would be out and about dropping off supplies to each cubical; where Brad would surprisingly be waiting when Mandy would enter his work space, they would exchange pleasantries and Brad would say something smart, like: “Have you read any good books lately?” Or, “do you think it will rain today?” Always kicking himself after Mandy would say something witty and exit the work area.

After a day of verbal abuse from Finster, Brad would relate his mundane life at home. Where he lived with his girlfriend Susan for nine years in an upscale apartment he really couldn’t afford, but continued to pay through the nose so Susan could bring over her rich friends and brag about how she just loved where she lived and how she wouldn’t live any place else. Brad would always excuse himself when Susan’s friends would arrive, making up a lie about how he had to much work to do. Then he would slip quietly down the back stairs and to the main lift of the apartment complex that would carry him down to the basement where he would enter “Jaspers” a small hole in the wall where Brad could drown his sorrows in a bottle of beer waiting for an adequate time to return to his lofty home.

Susan would always be waiting for him, chewing on her lower lip and tapping her right foot on the hard wood floor while keeping her arms crossed in front of her. “Where have you been,” or, “been drinking again have you?” “Would be the questions of the inquisition and Brad would cower down saying, “you’re right, I should have stayed, will you forgive me?” Susan would only keep a straight face and say, “you can stay, this time.” But Brad knew she would say that to him, since he paid for everything so Susan wouldn’t have to work.

Brad would dress early in the mornings listening to Susan’s wining about how she would never be taken anywhere saying, “If you would stop wasting your money in that damn confessionary machine, you might have enough money to take me on a vacation.” Brad wouldn’t pay her much attention as he checked his watch just before scooping up his lunch and briefcase and heading out the door hearing Susan remind him that she would be having her exercise class over at 3 o’clock and for him to stay away until at least 6:30. Brad would hesitate, wanting to tell Susan no, and that he would be home at 5:45 as usual, but Susan had been having the classes on Thursdays for some time, so he couldn’t just now out of the blue tell her no.

One day at the confessionary machine, Brad sat in the small chair supplied for the vendor to relate their humdrum existence. With heavy breathing and ending his confession with what Susan had said about wasting all of his money in the confessionary machine, Brad said, “it’s not that I don’t care for Susan,” he told the machine quite often. “But I’m not sure I love her. If only there was a way to prove it.” As the Glax machine went from its steady hum to a loud whooshing roar, Brad waited, checking his watch and waiting some more, then once again checked his watch. The machine took longer than usual and Brad gritted his teeth together knowing he would be late making Mandy’s daily visit to his cubical. Finally Brad lightly tapped on the top hood of the white machine hoping to hurry it up. With a high-pitched wine, the machine powered down, back to its familiar soft hum. The white card slid out in the small distributes port as a soft bell sounded the arrival.

Snatching the card from the slot Brad stood from the uncomfortable metal chair, starting to place the white card away into his inside jacket pocket, but this time he hesitated, usually he won’t give the card a second glance, but this day felt different to him. He held the soft white index card up and read the crisp printed words with a bit of astonishment. The card read: WHAT DOES YOUR GIRLFRIEND KNOW, LOVE ISN’T ALWAYS THAT IMPORTANT. SUGGETION: SLEEP WITH THE COPY GIRL. Brad was shocked to read what was on the card. He looked at the machine, which hummed slightly as if proud of itself in some diabolical way. Standing completely still for a brief moment, Brad slipped the card into his jacket where he had placed all the others and strolled away from the machine, looking back every ten steps or so, finding the Glax Machine still humming.

Unfortunately Brad missed Mandy on her morning rounds, when he arrived late to the office, but on the bright side, his morning visit from Finster was missed also. When Brad arrived at his workspace he was confronted with a note, telling him to get to work and have it done before he left for the day, which was signed smugly “Finster”. Brad sat at his desk faced with an endless stack of reports to be processed and posted; there was little way he could get done before 5o’clock, he would have no choice to work through lunch in hopes of clearing out by dark.

As the clocked chimed three, Brad noticed Finster heading past his door with jacket in hand. Brad balled his hands into fists angered and raged as to why Finster would always find time to leave two hours early every Thursday. Then like lighting it came to him. Thursday, much like Susan’s exercise group. Brad wondered if there were really such a group, it would be to fortuitous for three things to all fit together on the same day at the same time, he considered, putting the three coincidences collectively. 1. An excise group he had never seen, 2. A regular Thursday workload that never gets him out of the office until after 6o’clock, and 3. Finster leaves every Thursday at the same time. Brad kicked his desk as he rolled away from it. Telling himself what a fool he had been and how could he have not seen this sooner?

Reaching for his jacket that hung on the back of his chair, Brad pulled out the card from the confessionary and looked at the words again. SUGGESTION, it said as it did before. SLEEP WITH THE COPY GIRL. Brad stood from his chair and loosed his tie. Thinking that two could play at that game.

All the way up the hall, Brad shook slightly, he had never done anything like this before, but now there was a pleasant feeling draping over him, as if something good would come out of this. Stopping at the door to the copy room, Brad wiped the sweat from his hands and reached for the handle. Taking a firm grip on it he gave it a turn, feeling the latch let loose. Brad wondered if he should barge in, take the red head in his arm and start or work into it, but he decided to open the door slowly to see if she was even in the room. As the door opened silently Brad heard a slight giggle and moan as he looked into the room. It was Finster and the copygirl pressed against one of the machines. Brad shuttered as he closed the door back quickly.

Brad arrived home at 6:45 with a wide smile. He found Susan sitting on the living room davenport with her legs crossed under her and a brandy in her right hand. He kissed her as he bent over her, full on the lips. Susan was stunned, “what was that for?” She asked, not remembering the last time he had done that. “And what’s with the smile, have you been drinking again?” “No,” Brad continued to smile as he flopped into a recliner across from Susan, while putting his feet up. “Then what is it?” Susan couldn’t remember that last time she had seen him like this. “Finster was fired today,” he gushed. “What happened?” Susan asked. “They caught him with the copygirl in a very awkward position.” “Really?” Susan asked taking a sip of brandy. “That’s not all,” Brad rubbed his nose and smiled some more. You’ll never guess who got his job.”

The end

A 70’S REVOLUTION

2009-04-30T14:16:00.000-07:00

PLEASE NOTE: This short story may offend some Christians. It was not my intent to do so, I am only telling a fictional tale

I met Jesus in purgatory at a smoke filled bar. He was drunk on whisky and playing poker with a one-armed hairy man whom had beaten him with a royal flush. I sat in silence; Jesus bummed a cigarette from me and lit it with a snap of his fingers. “Nice trick,” I told him. “But can you chew gum and walk at the same time?” He wasn’t amused. I reached for his bottle, but he pulled it away.

“Get your own,” he told me, pointing at the bar. The dimly lit establishment was crowded and hard to get through. I ordered a bottle of bourbon and paid the bartender with a two-dollar bill I found rolled up in my jeans pocket. As I fought my way back to the table, Jimmy Hendrix stopped me.

“Can you tell me where the crapper is?” he asked. I shrugged because I didn’t know, and he walked away scowling. Pouring myself a drink, I watched the Savior get beat yet again by the one-armed man. Jesus, pissed, tossed his cards on the table and took another shot from his bottle.

“I’ve been waiting,” he told me. “What took you?”

I didn’t have an answer for him. The last thing I could remember was driving my car off the road after leaving the concert in Hoboken. The fact that I was drunk and tripping on some kind of pill Ozzy had given me didn’t even enter my mind.

“Sixteen years is a long time to wait,” Jesus said. “It must have been one wrong turn to miss this place.”

“I remember standing in a long line,” I told him, “One that didn’t move very quickly.”

“We’ve had a rush as of late,” Jesus said. “It doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

“I appreciate the concern,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “But I really don’t know what all the fuss is about. I’m dead, what hope is there for me now? I’m just one step away from hell.”

“Bullshit,” Jesus said, almost falling off his seat. “Hey, hey. How about a game of five card stud?” he asked shuffling the deck.

“No cheating,” I said. “What’s bullshit?”

“Going to hell…” he paused dealing the cards between the three of us. “Heaven, hell, it’s all bogus, bedtime stories to frighten children, nothing more.”

I picked up my cards and looked them over; they were decorated with girls of the Caribbean and wore next to nothing…well I’m too kind. They were naked. I held a jack of spades, two of diamonds, king of hearts, three of clubs and eight of clubs. Not a good hand, but I was used to being dealt bad hands. Even now I was sure the Messiah himself was cheating me. “So what’s this all for…purgatory I mean, if there isn’t a heaven or a hell, then why this place? I mean it’s kind of redundant…if you know what I mean.” The one-armed hairy man laughed and Jesus gave him a smile. “What’s so funny?” I asked.

“He thinks you’re dim-witted,” Jesus told me. “Just like everyone else who has come through here without the slightest idea about how things in the universe really work.

“Why don’t you fill me in,” I said, pouring more bourbon into my shot glass.

“Look around you,” Jesus said. “Go on…have a good look. You know many of the faces here, don’t you?” I nodded yes, seeing Janice Joplin and Elvis dancing next to the jukebox. I saw Jim Morrison sitting alone at the end of the bar, drunk off his ass and not giving a care...nothing new for him.

“They’re not sure they want to leave here,” Jesus said. “They don’t want to give up who they were.”
“You mean to tell me we can go back?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” Jesus said. “They all can go back. But the ones you see here chose not to. You see, to go back you have to give up who you were in exchange for your new identity.”

I was, at first dumbfounded. Then a revelation fell on me like a ton of bricks. “That’s why the music on earth sucks now,” I said. The one-armed hairy man nodded his head in agreement.

“But once you choose, there’s no changing your mind…it’s like a game,” Jesus said.

“I’ve never been good at games,” I said. “My sister always beat me at jacks.”

“There’s only one rule to this game,” Jesus told me. “There are no rules.” “That’s comforting,” I said. “Can I have time to think about it?”

“Time is nothing here,” Jesus said. “But while you decide, have a look at your choices.”

“I have –”

“Three,” Jesus said, “like a game show.”

“As long as I don’t become a pig in a poke,” I told him.

“Let’s play.” I was led to three doors in the back of the bar, ironically each were numbered 1, 2 and 3. I stood before them waiting for Monty Hall to come out and offer me two hundred dollars instead of picking a door, but Jesus had other ideas. “Behind each door is a life,” he said. “You pick one and you go back to earth. Simple, don’t you think?”

“Do I have a choice or do I just pick one…like pot luck?” I asked. Jesus wasn’t amused. “Door one is a male,” he said ignoring me. “He will be a carpenter and a father of three.” Working hard labor wasn’t my idea of the kind of life I wanted to lead. “Door two is a homosexual, who will –”

“Next,” I demanded. “Even as a rock star I didn’t trip the lights fantastic.”

“Finally,” Jesus said. “Door three is a female who will be the head of the news department at a local television station in Denver.”

“Not very impressive, are they?” I asked.

“What do you want?” Jesus asked. “A miracle?”

“Frankly, yes,” I said. “I mean look at me. I’m a rock star who died before his time. I lived the fast life, cars, women…and you offer me a life of a man who likes men…Jesus, Jesus. No wonder no one else left here…if you offered them the same three choices.”

“I do the best with what I have,” Jesus said. “It’s a boring life. Why the hell do you think I drink so much?”

“I apologize, I can’t think of much incentive to chose one of your choices,” I said. “But in turn I can’t think of anything to keep me here.” About that time music keyed up. On the stage was Lynard Skynard with Karen Carpenter on the drums. I rubbed my eyes, never believing I would ever see something like that. The floor cleared of tables and riff-raff as the residents of purgatory moved out on it to dance. Only the hairy one-armed man remained, drinking from my bottle of bourbon.

“Is it always like that?” I asked Jesus, who was tapping his sandaled feet and swaying to the music. “Sometimes it’s better,” he said. “If I choose to stay –”

“Is that what you’re asking?” Jesus asked. “Because I can’t discuss it unless you’re ready to make a decision.”

I bit my lower lip. I didn’t know what to say. If I went back to earth I might never sing again, if I stayed here I would never live again.

“You were right,” Jesus said, “when you said there was no more good music on the earth. It’s all up here.”

Choices, I thought. My life was full of choices. Even death seems to be filled with them. I had lived and died a singer. I would rather stay dead then go back and lose who I once was.

“Why is it so hard?” Jesus asked. “You didn’t have this apprehension the last time you were here.”

“The last time?” I asked. “How many times have I been through here?”

“How long is time?” Jesus asked. “I can’t begin to think how many times everyone has passed through here. Nor do I want to try.”

It boggled my mind, to think I have had many choices to become someone totally different from the last life. But, I was at an impasse. Back at the table the one-armed hairy man had emptied my bottle. “You owe me another one,” I told Jesus. “I can’t make this decision sober.”

“Tell you what,” Jesus said shuffling the deck of cards. “Sit down, play me some cards. I’ll get you some more bourbon and you make your choice tomorrow.”

I sat at the table and reached for Jesus’ bottle of whisky. “Get your own,” he told me pulling the bottle away and pointing at the bar. So, here I sit. I’ve lost track of time and I’m forty dollars in the hole to Jesus Christ. I sing with Elvis and have seen Jim Morrison cry. Maybe after I get Janice Joplin to smile I’ll make my choice.

End.

PLEADING IN SILENCE

2009-04-30T14:09:00.000-07:00

It all started in the 1980’s when a few restless senators’ wives decided to clean up the music industry by adding restrictions to how songs were written and performed. Although their attempt failed, it did garner a warning label, telling people what albums contained questionable lyrics. The seeds were sown.

Abby and Melissa Granger rushed up the stairs of the old Liberty Hotel, both gasping for breath, as they fought the smell of alcohol and urine. The hotel had been condemned, becoming a refuge for the homeless and the oppressed. It had become the same for the twin sisters, but as fate would decide, it would not be safe for long. The sound enforcers had chased them both, since Melissa escaped from the city lockup with help from Abby. Melissa had been suffering since her arrest. Her neck had become infected from the torture the Reverberation Community had inflicted on her. Cutting her tongue from her mouth as an example to all who would break the allotted sound decibels for their district. From the growing disease that lived in her throat, Melissa had lost the use of her voice box, and her mind, causing her to become mute and mad. Tears constantly hung in the bottom of her eyes, her mind locked away from the world in which she lived, unable to cry out in rage over the insanity that had invaded her soul.

Strong with resentment against those who had harmed her sister, Abby pushed on up the stairs, her tight grip on Melissa unrelenting. Knowing that if she relaxed it for but a moment, her sister would buck and run like a wild horse released from its stable.

Echoed footfalls of the sound enforcers could be heard several flights down and Abby fought to continue on as Melissa pulled on her, pleading in silence for her to stop.

Up to the next floor, Abby recoiled in fright, being approached by a man, that smelled like he had been dipped in a vat of whisky “I could sure use a hit,” the smelly man said, reaching out for Melissa. Slapping the man away, Abby tried to enter the next stairwell, but the outer door would not budge, it fought Abby as she pushed against it. With the palm of her hands red from the unproductive battle with the door, Abby pulled Melissa into the closest apartment, closing its door behind them. She took time to rest her back against it. Rats crawled along the base of the bare wall. The uncarpeted floors were stained, and the paint of the ceiling had become brittle with age; hanging like flaking skin. The empty dwelling echoed as Abby pulled Melissa across the bare floor, stopping at a window, barely large enough to fit a man. Abby rubbed the years of dirt from the glass and peered out to find a rusted fire escape. Pulling hard with her free hand, Abby forced the window open with hidden strength; able to break the seal of paint and grime that held the window, grunting as she lifted it. The deafening silence outside made Abby nervous, but she thought only about reaching the top of the building before the sound enforcers could finally catch up with them. Abby went through the window first, refusing to release Melissa’s hand as she tested the strength of the rusted metal. Helping her sister out, she followed Melissa up the ladder, shoving her along. At the next landing, Abby broke back into the hotel; unsure she wanted to continue on the fire escape that seemed less safe then facing armed policemen. Once in the empty apartment, Melissa rushed ahead of Abby. Abby fell, trying to catch her fleeing sister. Standing back to her feet, she ran to catch Melissa who had made it out into the hall. Sorry for her actions, Abby dove towards Melissa forcing her to the floor. Abby then noticed her left pant leg ripped and blood oozing from the material. As she limped, Abby led Melissa back into the stairwell; the two continued their ascent. But Abby stopped. The footfalls of the approaching sound enforcers had stopped and Abby, concerned that they were up ahead hesitated. She looked up, listening. The sound enforcers never gave up. Abby knew for a fact, once they started coming for you, they didn’t stop.

As they continued, Abby tried to keep her thoughts focused on better times when they were young and lived with their grandmother. The pair had loved living on the farm with her. They would wake to the smell of blueberry muffins baking in the oven and the sound of a rooster crowing in the distance. Both Abby and Melissa worked their share and never once thought about how things were in the city; their grandmother had kept them oblivious of those evils. But the sisters had found out, the hard way. Abby fought back her desire to cry when she thought of their grandmother, who died holding both their hands. She told them: “I don’t want to go, but I can’t stop it. Remember,” she said in her final breath. “While you live, you have voice.” Abby stopped on the stairs, her knee soaked in blood and Melissa pulling on her arm, wanting to go. Melissa pointed down the stairs; her feet swayed back and forth like a nervous cat. Abby shook her head NO, and pulled Melissa on up the stairs. They entered the sixteenth floor unchallenged. Abby knew if the sound enforcers were ahead of them, they would have surely doubled back by now. With only two floors before the roof, Abby became more confident that she and Melissa would make it. Then it would be all over.

Continuing on, Abby’s thoughts again wandered back. She could remember the first time they seen the city. Their grandmother had left it in her will that both Abby and Melissa should be warded to her half sister. Abby had hated the old witch from the beginning. Rules, rules, and more rules had been put on the twins. Living in the country the two lived in wide-open spaces, without a police official or a Reverberation Community outpost anywhere to be seen. Living away from the city, Abby never had to worry about speaking up, or how loud to play her music. Abby had felt trapped. After two hundred years of oppression, many in the city felt the same as Abby. The censorship of the early twenty-first century had spread, normal life had succumbed and society had learned to follow the rules put before them. The government would tell you what to think, what to listen to and how loud you to listen to it. The sound enforcers upheld the laws put into place by the Reverberation Community that answered directly from the government itself. Finally after years of the government thinking for her, Abby began to think for herself. She began to have hopes of a future free of control and a future of free voice. Melissa had become the focal point for Abby’s rebellion.

Melissa pulled hard on Abby’s hand, forcing herself free when Abby least expected it. Melissa ran down the stairs. Abby gave chase, but her crazed sister leapt over several banisters, putting considerable distance between the siblings. Abby followed. Her leg ached and her left side hurt, but she kept on. Freezing when she heard the returning approach of the sound enforcers. Abby forced herself not to cry out and give her position. The thought of the inevitable knotted in her chest. Holding back, she watched. Hating herself for her decision.

Melissa couldn’t cry out when she saw the sound enforcers, although Abby could hear her sister grunt her condemnation for their actions. Abby peeked around the corner from her hiding place, watching her sister fighting back the sound enforcers advance, but falling to their attack when she was shot with a affixation dart, a silicon compound covered her nose and mouth suffocating her into death. Abby drew back into her hiding place breathing hard and biting on her fingernails; fighting the realism of her sister’s death. Leaving drops of blood on the floor, Abby pushed on, fighting to climb the stairs, using the weak railing as a brace, trying to finish what she had started. So much had been lost, not only to her, but to the world.

Breaking out onto the roof, Abby limped to the edge of the building. From the ledge she could see the entire city. She stood out as far as she dare and took in deep breaths. The sound enforcers followed Abby out onto the roof, advancing on her, their weapons in hand. Abby looked back. The fear that had been her constant companion since she helped Melissa break free from jail had diminished. For the first time since she came to the city she would not be afraid of what to say. She heard the charging of the sound enforcers’ weapons behind her, when she took in her final breath. “I have voice!” she shouted out over the city. It echoed out like a sonic blast, pigeons on rooftops took flight in fear. The few people on the streets below looked up, their heartstrings tightly pulled by her words. Abby met her death with a feeling of completion and satisfaction, knowing her voice had perhaps stirred the blood of the fearful. For someone, longing for a chance to be free, her rally cry had been heard.

end.

In Memory Alone: From Chapter One.

2009-04-30T14:00:00.000-07:00

“Captain!” Charles York fought his way to the quarterdeck of the Honor’s Moon, fiercely pushing crewmembers out of his way (with no concern for politeness).

“Captain Talon,” the second officer’s face was covered with black soot and cannon grease, a cut above his right eye left a steady stream of blood racing down his face. “Sir, I beg your pardon Captain.”

“Mister York, you are injured,” Jeremiah pulled his handkerchief out of his vest pocket and handed it to the young officer.

“Mister Hart’s compliments, sir. He reports we have taken heavy damage on the port side,” his voice was filled with dismay and disbelief of their situation as he held the white cloth firmly on his forehead. “We are taking on water…I fear the worse.”

Jeremiah looked out over the deck at his crew. They were like ants whose hill was kicked over by a child; they scurried from one side to the other shouting commands to one another. Jeremiah was silent; he held his right hand up to his black beard and pulled lightly on it. “Standby to repel boarders Mister York,” was all Jeremiah said.

Charles gave no verbal response but ran, almost sliding down the ladder toward the center of the ship, and began shouting: “Arm yourselves, standby for boarders.”

“Lad,” Jeremiah called to midshipmen Hall. “Go down below and help with repairs,” he knew the young boy would be better off. “I want Mister Hart to send all able-bodied men up here to repel the boarders.” Hall said nothing, as he turned and exited the quarterdeck, not looking back at his captain.

Pulling out his looking glass from his blue coat pocket, Jeremiah held it to his right eye and peered out over the calm waters of the Bay of Biscay, two hundred and seventeen miles off the coast of France. He swallowed hard.

End simulation.

“What did you think of that?”

“I saw nothing there,” a cold sharp voice replied.

“Nothing that made me believe this subject is worth studying.” The image of Jeremiah Talon faded from an eighteen by eighteen foot screen as Darc Corrian watched it turn to white.

“You don’t see the stern pressure to win the battle in the aliens face and readiness to defend?” the long ridged neck of Sovereign Hapic stretched high as the eyes on his pointed head looked at the commander with a bit of disappointment.

“I must not be looking at what you are witnessing, all I see is a battle,” reminding the Sovereign that the alien was of a primitive race, from an even more primitive world. “I do not understand how this backward being is going to teach us anything about anything, why is this creature so important?”

Hapic cocked his head, “this is a battle driven by a man who has a reason to live, yet decides to risk his very life for battle.” Hapic sighed and motioned Corrian to follow him out of the observation complex and into a long hall made out of clear shavivian glass.

Standing in firm erect attention along the transparent corridor were the sinister looking vice-shock troops, dressed in black and red defense armor, and armed with staffs of order. Sworn compatriots of Darc Corrian, who are guided by his own commands and sworn to die for him.

They even give the Sovereign chills, reminding him of his cold home world, Glashia. Hapic kept his hands to his side and his lone eye firmly placed to the floor as he and Corrian slowly but steadily walked past the troops. The Sovereign stared at the stars that caught his attention off to the right, endless sparks of light holding in space, hanging there like they were sown on tapestry; a billion gleaming jewels placed ever so carefully as if put there by old women that stitched it into the universe. Hapic’s mind wondered, his thoughts rethinking the command decision to place a first class law enforcer like Corrian on his ship; this annoyed Hapic. With the attacks from the revolutionary army no longer a threat, Hapic had been surprised that the Citadel had gone into a frenzy of speculation that these rabble may indeed become a deeper threat than they had been before. “You have never pair bonded have you commander?” Hapic asked, as they continued to walk.

“I have,” Corrian exclaimed with a huge chunk of pride leaping of his throat. “Twice and I have sired several future warriors for the Hy’dirian Citadel.”

“Then you loved your bonders?” Hapic asked.

“I’m afraid I do not care for the tone of your voice. I, like all the men of my race do not love,” the titanic commander seemed to choke on his pronunciation of the word. “We care for only the preservation for our race, love is a weakness,” he paused. “I am appalled at your question.”

“But don’t you see?” Hapic asked. “That is why the alien did not fear, he did not falter, yet he loves and cares for his bonder.”

“I did not see this, you must be mistaken,” Corrian choked out the next word, “sir.”

“I am not mistaken, I know what it is I saw,” Hapic said. “I wish to view this again,” Corrian turned back toward the chamber, while Sovereign Hapic stood idly by looking at a diagram of the Citadel pride interstellar destroyer, wishing he could go home and put this tour of duty behind him.
Hapic’s duty to the Prime and the Citadel had become nothing more than performing like a trained animal. Only Hapic wasn’t an animal, and his conscience thoughts warned him to get out while he could. But…

“Are you coming?” Corrian’s rough voice barked as he briskly strolled up the hall. Like an animal, Hapic felt caged.

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