May I Write of Heroes – #6: Kobul

Kobul never liked missions. Kobul never liked new place. Missions on new place were boring. Missions always had lots of waiting and watching. Never enough hunting. Kobul was a hunter. Kobul was best hunter. Kobul was strong. Kobul was fast. Kobul was smart.

Big two arm pink thing was with Kobul on rooftop. Ghost thing told Kobul and him to watch for food on roof. Food attacked Kobul all the time. Kobul was never hurt. Kobul always would win. But Kobul was never allowed to eat food that attack Kobul. It angered Kobul. On old place, Kobul would eat all the food that tried to hurt Kobul or people that looked like Kobul. Sometimes people that looked like Kobul was food. Sometimes people weren’t. It was always up to those people.

Myth – Of Men and Monsters – Part 2 – Chapter 1 – Scene 1

Thought you guys might enjoy this. It’s an excerpt of what I’m working on right now.

Light filtered through her closed eyelids, washing the darkness in a warm ruddy pink. She held still as long as she could. A lingering sleepy thought crept through her slowly waking mind, convincing her that if she gave the others no reason to notice, she’d be left alone.

She had not slept well.

Story Thirty One – Management

Aaron would like me to tell you that, to fully comprehend this story, you must read all the ones that came before. Doing so is not necessary to enjoy it, but there are a bunch of Easter Eggs and this is the conclusion to the ‘Reapers’ miniseries… and it directly ties in with another, previous unrelated story…. So, basically… He’s fucking with you.

The knob turns easily enough but, as your mind was trying to tell you, music doesn’t work in this place. Not only is there a lack of radio waves, a lack of towers outputting beats to the masses, it’s worse; records, tapes, cds, nothing plays. You miss the rhythms and harmonies.

Besides the silence, there’s an undeniably calming effect to sitting in the front seat. You’d forgotten exactly how much of a difference there is. You had convinced yourself a while ago that sitting in the back, hiding from the red and the horror of this realm was the best for you. But now, with the breeze on your face and a little more connection with the new driver, you feel in control. As much as you can, at least.

Story Twenty Nine – Sherlock and Watson

As a conscientious adult, I have to warn the reader that this story is a little more on the mature side. It involves certain concepts not suitable for people below 16.
To be fair, it involves concepts not suitable for ANYONE. THIS IS NOT ABOUT HOLMES, DO NOT COME INTO THIS STORY WITH THAT ASSUMPTION. YOU READ AT YOUR OWN RISK… Thank you, that is all.

Metal cuts skin. That’s a no-brainer, really. Shears are my favorite. They’re strong enough to replace a good knife, but still have that scissors action. Two blades, slicing against each other, creating a huge amount of pressure on such a tiny point separated dermal tissue, muscles, tendons, even smaller bones.

His skin fell away quick enough. It was cold, but not frozen solid. A few sounds escaped. They were reactionary and hurried. When I’d first started, all those years ago, they’d freaked me out a bit. I got used to them over time.

I really didn’t like doing this part. It made me feel strange. It gave me the creeps. I liked everything else, though. My friend got me into it.

At orientation, he introduced himself as Dr. Watson. It was kind of funny, kind of corny, but none-the-less endearing. He’d been a little pudgy back then. The mustache showed him to be a bit older than I was at the time. Within a few minutes I was able to deduce his age, weight, name and his hopeful future medical field. He dubbed me Sherlock. We kept those names, continuing them ourselves and then letting others further the legacy.

Story Twenty Eight – Revolution

… Ok, what the holy hell? Seriously? METAPHOR?! NO ONE GETS METAPHOR ANYMORE!

Speaking without words had become more than second nature.

What do you mean, experiments?

The creature in the containment tube twitched. God brought it to a large table and laid it down lengthways so the tops of the cylinder were visible. Through the flat discs, I saw it move. It tried to breathe but sputtered on the clear inspissation. The gel, meant to hold it in safety, was choking the thing. God’s thoughts touched some activator and the glass-structure fell away.

The organism wasn’t overtly strange. It was built in practically the same way as my previous people, two legs, two arms, one head. The skin was unique. It was the color of the sands below the plateau cities. Two eyes perched above a vertical and protruding nose with only two nostrils. It was stuck between sleep and the waking world, unaware of us but fully capable of speech. Mumbles in an alien language erupted arbitrarily.

Twenty Seven – Imminution

OHHHH, I get it… sort of… wait, what?

I couldn’t speak, not like I once had. However long it was, however long I had been in the company of the creature which was most definitely not a god but could only be described as our Lord, it had been long enough for my lips to fuse in a strange evolutionary adaption. My jaw cemented to the sockets below my cheek bones. I had chosen to focus almost solely on the symbols introduced to me by the Chancellors. It was my choice, my preference to speak with the markings, transcending sounds, exporting communication through the air and showing my meaning via images pushed to the other’s mind. That conscious path sent me into this change. I worried about hunger and the need for air. I sent the question to the Lord but it was dismissed as ridiculous. I was told there were other ways to get nutrients. I wasn’t exactly excited to discover them.

When I felt this, the stiffening of my mandible, I quickly realized the cause. Before my audience with this Lord came to happen, I would never have conceptualized it. The connection between cause and effect would have been wanting. I only knew the correlation because of what I had been taught when I didn’t know I was learning. Whatever I did, whatever pattern I followed, my body would alter to facilitate it. I began to move in exaggerations of normal actions. I exercised every aspect of myself. Physical and mental prowess grew. I grew. I was never questioned by God on why. He knew.

Story Twenty Three – A Strange Lord

I hope Aaron knows what he’s doing… I don’t see a death in here at all…
WAIT, wait…
No, false alarm, she lived. What the hell, man?

I didn’t know what to expect when god asked for my presence. I knew that I wasn’t prepared to be his prisoner. I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel the metal bands cutting into my wrists. The guards pushed me along the corridor at the end of their spears. They weren’t bladed, at the end of the shafts were faceted gems. Heat from the crystals radiated into my shoulder. Though I knew they were weapons, they brought a comfort. The energies soothed the bruise given to me by the priest the day before.

The building had been glorious. It was massive, even when viewed next to the four plateau cities encircling it. From the sky, from the golden air ship I had only heard described in stories, the jutting structure looked less like architecture. The spires weren’t ornate. They were gray, with small doors and cables spaced at uneven intervals. There was a slight tilt to every part. I assumed the ship was leaning, but I continued to watch. We circled around on our path to the large landing area facing the south city, my own home’s antecedent neighbor. As we moved, I could see no change in the monolith home of our lord. It was imperfect.

Story Twenty – The Madam

The conclusion to ‘Madam Delaunney’s Inn’… which is the name that Aaron finally decided up for this miniseries.

There’s nothing kind about this world. It doesn’t matter where you go or who you know, you have to live for whatever you can find. For a long time, I lived for my husband. He was a fine man. He loved me, he loved life, he loved what he did. He owned a mine and that underground business spawned a town that took his name, Gilbert.

I didn’t care what he did. It was who he was that brought me to him, not his career and not his fortune. I saw him on the street that dark April morning in London. He was different than the other proper men. He had a suit but the legs were muddied with his running through the puddles. He had money, but it was constantly being given away to anyone he thought needed it more than him. The moment a young girl tugged on his jacket tail and gave him a little yellow paper flower and he took it with a kiss on her cheek and a pat on her head, I knew I wanted him. I knew he’d been the one I was waiting for.

I left my sister in the shop and took to following him. I wanted to know more about him. I wanted to speak to him, to smile at him. I’d been waiting longer than he’d probably believe for someone with his heart. My mind made no try at masking my intentions. I didn’t want to simply talk to him or let him take my hand. I was going to claim him as mine.

Story Nineteen – The Sheriff

The story continues. Why did Babette scream? What happened during the mysterious murders? Why am I speaking like an old soap opera narrator? Find out all this and less from the perspective of Gilbert Mines’ sheriff!

Nobody never saw much of me. I’d heard tell of some lawmen ‘cross the states, pride and joys of their towns. They’d patrol the streets in broad daylight, ridin’ top a great stallion, two six guns at their side and a long rifle in their pack. They was showmen. Least that’s what they’d have in the travelin’ shows. That’s what I heard was in them books people was readin’ out east. We’d have tourists comin’ in and asking for the sheriff during the day. My deputy’d have to tell them to come back after dusk.

Nothing ever happened in Gilbert Mines during the day. Even the accidents had been at night, each time under the biggest and brightest full moon you could see. I found that sleeping in spit of the son and haulin’ my tired behind in at nightfall was the only way I could keep going from dusk to dawn. I was never needed before that, or after. And, even then, the calls for my actions were few and far between. Of course, when they did come, they were dire. There’d been three or four brawls over the last month. First one ended in a young man’s death. He’d been beaten to within an inch of his life and just couldn’t climb a safe distance back. I couldn’t count the murders. They’d happened between a patrol. I heard the screams and the… whatever that other sound could have been… and I came runnin’. I grabbed my rifle first. I followed the sounds, no screamin’ then, just an animal eatin’ whatever it’d caught. Led me straight outside the inn.

Yeah, I saw it. Swear to all things holy, it was a strange type a bear I’d never seen before. I got a few shots off. Hit it’s side twice, then it got outta range right quick almost as if it knew that’s where the danger lessened. It headed out to the old mines. I know I hit it twice, both bullets landing not two inches from each other. You never forget a night like that. The littlest details stick for the longest time.

Story Fifteen – It Spreads

Is there anything more dangerous than a crazy-ass writer?

No…

Well… 

Maybe one of these… MAYBE…

“Tacos are the source of all things good and right in this world.”

Vic had a habit of speaking to himself on long hauls. It seeped into his daily life. Even today, when he was pretty much just waiting around for his next call, he’d had three conversations already.

He pulled his pickup through the small ramp and gunned the engine. He cut in front of a tiny car of high school kids. He gave a little smile. They just looked like the type that were out for no good. They looked like the type he’d hung out with when he was that age.

The nearly setting sun tried to blind him though the windshield when he turned the corner to order. He stopped and pulled down the visor.

The window took a bit to roll down. It was sticking lately and he didn’t want to force it so much that he ripped the handle. It was an older truck, without power windows and heated seats. It had a great engine, though. That’s what he cared about.