CHUCK WENDIG'S FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE: THE COOPERATIVE CLIFFHANGER, PART TWO

The challenge this week, for Part Two, was to select one of the cliffhangers from last week (not your own, of course) and finish it.  The story I chose was called Hello World by Sam Barnett.  This was a story I felt needed to be continued, but actually ending it didn't seem right somehow.

Before you read Home, make sure you read Sam's story here.  It sets quite the impressive baseline for what follows.  Please enjoy.

HOME

Today is the one-year anniversary of that horrific, yet oddly liberating, event.  After the Enforcers had departed, I began to extricate myself from my mother’s body.  Like others of my kind, within moments of my birth, I was able to function independently.  Within 24 hours, I had achieved the appearance of an adult, and became able to move virtually unnoticed among them.

Inexplicably, I became aware that, upon my mother’s death, it was my obligation to consume her, but I could not defile that gentle soul.  I made the decision that my father, who had allowed the love of his life and his unborn child to be brutalized and left to die, should sustain me.  His flesh was bitter and without merit, but it would be weeks before I required another meal.

Through my interactions with the humans, I have discovered this species consists of not only the weak and the strong, but strangely, there are numerous variances between.  My kind is comprised solely of those who obey and those who enforce.  Having experienced the one and having inherited my father’s memories of the other, I can but only wonder which is most equitable.

Life thus far has been difficult, at best.  Locating nourishment, however, has never been an issue.  These creatures, these people, literally profess everywhere how much they care for one another.  They ‘love’ this scent, they ‘love’ the sound of that music, they ‘love’ to band together to protect and serve.  I find these proclamations quite amusing considering not one of them seems even slightly annoyed when their own begin to disappear.

Humans in towns appear to be more mindful as their numbers decrease, but not so in the cities.  As they are generally oblivious to those who no longer frequent their customary habitats, the same disinterest is demonstrated regarding any outsiders who replace the missing.  It is for this reason I have chosen these large regions in which to survive until…; well, since I know not what destiny awaits me, I simply go on.  Resigned to exist from sunrise to sunset--searching, and hoping.  That is, until I met Elise.

In this, my latest metropolitan refuge, I walk tree-lined paths that provide me with a pleasant sensation called ‘peace‘.  It is not a substance one can see or touch, but is a feeling that all is right and there is nothing to fear.  It is not often I am privileged with this intense calm, but strolling through this park is guaranteed to allow me to believe that, at least for the moment, I am safe.  Deep in the surrounding woods is also a ready supply of sustenance.  Some humans have no permanent structure to retreat to when their world goes dark, so they congregate in camps.  When necessary, I fetch one or two of the denizens to satisfy my hunger.  These camps constantly replenish themselves however, as, for every two I may take, at times, three or more replace them.  This practice also reinforces the hypocrisy of their kind.  When one or more go missing, those who remain confiscate and claim their meager belongings as their own.

It was on one of my treks along the trails when I passed a bench for resting.  It was there I saw her.  She was beautiful and delicate and her smile brought a warmth to me I had never experienced before.  Her skin was pale and smooth, and her dark eyes revealed many lifetimes.  I knew immediately she was not human, so I was as much filled with dread as fascination.  She held out her hand to me and her touch brought my father’s memories of love flooding in.  My future was with Elise, and the humanity within me pledged if we were to meet the same fate as my parents, I would not follow in the footsteps of my father.  I would not die on my knees.

We made a life together, and I was happier than I’d ever thought possible.  She never spoke of that other world, and I never asked.  She and I would sit comfortably together in silence for hours upon hours, and we shared our hopes and dreams for the bright future that lay ahead.

After a few months, Elise began to change.  She insisted on taking midnight walks alone and requested I leave our home for specific periods of time during the day.  I wondered if she was with child, but dare not ask.  I knew all would be revealed when the time was right.  One afternoon, I decided to surprise her with a snack and returned a half hour earlier than expected.  A young man from one of the camps had been killed by his comrades for his shoes; I simply took him out of everyone‘s way.

I was drawn to her voice.  She was in the bedroom, speaking into a transmitter I had never seen before.

“Target is ready to be terminated.  Come tonight when I am out.  He will be drugged and offer little resistance.”

“Why?”  I asked her.

Startled, she quickly tried to restore the connection.  I pulled the microphone from her hand and destroyed the unit.

“You are the child of a violator,” she explained, her tone devoid of emotion.  “My task is to locate and befriend such as you, then alert the Enforcers when the time is right.  You half-breeds tend to fight, so I introduce sedatives so the execution is effortless.”

I killed her quickly since time was precious.  She bled profusely as the blade caressed her throat.  I left her for others of our kind to dispose of.  I had no taste for betrayal.

So, I am yet again on the run.  I have learned much since the day I was born.  I have learned about love and lies and trust and the death of all things.  I must go on.  I am home.

CHUCK WENDIG'S FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE: THE COOPERATIVE CLIFFHANGER, PART ONE

The flash fiction challenge this week was to write an unfinished story, around 1,000 words, that leads to a cliffhanger of some kind.

Next week, for Part Two of this challenge, someone else may write the end of your story, provided you entice them enough to want to, that is.

I would love to see someone take this story further.  What would be your choice?

LIGHTS, CAMERA…

The director sighed.  Already had a buyer for his usual fare, and now this happens. One hundred thou offered to make a snuff? An actual, honest-to-fucking snuff film? The order’s from some big-name actor, so the money’s real enough. The actor’s rep let Clyde look at it in his briefcase. Let him feel it up for a sec too. Even brought the gun he wanted to be used. A nice shiny new 9mm Glock--loaded. ‘Like your other films, please’ he said quietly, ‘except this time, when the girl puts the gun into her mouth and pulls the trigger…’

Clyde felt like he was going to be sick. So far, he’d had no problem unloading his work. He has the girl make herself feel real good, then she sucks on his old Colt 38 with the broken firing pin for awhile, pulls the trigger, looks right into the camera and laughs. But this time?

He’d picked this cutie up at a bus stop on the edge of town and brought her out here to the cabin. Told him she was 18, but he didn’t believe a day over 15. Promised her a few bucks, make her a movie star, you know the routine, and she’d come willingly enough. But, still. A snuff film?

He took her into the master bedroom, where he had his lights and camera already set up. Clyde told her to lie on the bed and get comfortable and try to relax. He handed her a bottle of some cheap whiskey he had stashed there for just such occasions. As soon as she unscrewed the top, she started gulping it down. Clyde hoped to hell she wouldn’t puke it up later on film. A scene like that would certainly decrease its value. He told her he had some stuff to take care of in the other room, but he’d be back in about 15 minutes and then they would make the movie. She just nodded and kept gulping. Clyde went into the back bedroom he’d converted to a kind of office and sat down at the desk. He really needed to think this through.

He put the Colt and the Glock on the desk and lit a smoke. This should have been an easy decision, but he couldn’t just wave off a hundred thousand dollars. At the rate he was going, that’s more money than he would see in 25 lifetimes. But, we’re talking death for real here…

Clyde always figured there were two sides to everything. Were there this time?

Nobody makes snuff films. Not for real, anyway.

Apparently, there’s at least one guy out there who believes I would.

This kid can’t just disappear.

Told me she had no family--totally on her own.

I’ve never even punched anybody out, much less killed anyone.

I wouldn’t actually be pulling the trigger.

How could I live with myself if I let this girl die?

A hundred thou buys a lot of therapy.

Doesn’t matter how you look at this. When all is said and done, it comes down to cold-blooded, premeditated murder.

Yes. It does.

Four o’clock. Clyde thought the kid must be pretty well looped by now, considering she’s probably been gulping steady for the past 15 minutes.

Showtime.

He picked up the gun from the desk and went into the bedroom. The girl had already removed her clothes and was on the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Her eyes were barely open and lifeless in the room’s dim lighting. The bottle of whiskey sat almost empty on the nightstand against the wall.

He placed the gun on the bed next to her and asked if she knew what she was expected to do with it. She closed her eyes, nodded slowly, picked up the gun and began caressing it.

He positioned himself behind the camera and said, “Five, four, three, two…”

barcode: Pure Slush, Vol. 8 -- A Review

Pure Slush's anthology, barcode, is a collection of 32 stories all about bars and the individuals who frequent them.  As you make your way through each of the stories, you will find yourself drawn into a different world with each turn of the page.

You will meet those who are searching for love and acceptance, and those who have long ago bitterly renounced both.  You will bear witness to the hopes and dreams of some who still believe wishes can come true, as well as some to whom Life has dealt the cruelest hand.  You will be privy to thoughts and emotions that should never have been shared, as well as joy and fulfillment desired yet never realized.

barcode is a collection in the truest sense of the word.  It is an assemblage of places, of sentiments, of memories, of lives.  The characters in each story are as different from each other as night to day, yet they all seek--something.  Relief from loneliness, to create new memories, somewhere to discard painful old ones, affirmation of their very existence, or perhaps something as basic as a friend...

These are stories you can enjoy over and over again.  Take your time with each though; sip them slowly as you would a fine wine.

The link to where you can obtain your copy of barcode is here.

SCARE ME by Richard Parker - A Review

Okay.   It’s the middle of the night.   You’re in bed asleep, or at least wrestling with the concept.  Your cell rings and since there’s a chance it may be a family member you‘re expecting, you answer it.   A woman asks when did you last google yourself, and addresses you by name.   That is followed by ‘kiss, kiss, kiss’, and the caller disconnects.   Wrong number, right? But she knew your name…

So, what do you do?   Chalk it up to kids making prank calls and go back to sleep?   Or does this odd, yet seemingly sinister, event compel you to climb out of your nice warm bed and head for your den to fire up the desktop?   Well, when this happens to Will Frost, to say he’s a bit freaked out about it would be putting it mildly.   The call awakened his wife, and since he doesn’t want to unnecessarily frighten her, he tells her it’s a wrong number.   He waits until she’s fallen back asleep, makes his way downstairs to his office, and boots up his computer.   Before he has time to really think this through and decide he’s been conned into running a fool’s errand, he types his name into a search bar.

William Frost

Page after page appears detailing the numerous phases of his career, as well as photograph after photograph of his successes.   On and on, screen after screen, the details of his accomplishments cascade before him.   He knew at that moment the call had been some type of dark joke.   Perhaps a reporter he had rebuffed?   An interview he had declined?   But, then he remembered how the woman had finished the call.   The three ‘kisses’.   The link was there. williamfrostxxx.net.   Just the link though--no information provided with it.   What could this mean?   He had to click on it.   Had to.

Image after image of the outside, and chillingly, the inside as well, of his home.   One image contained his wife, Carla, working at her desk, which meant whoever took these photographs was not only inside the house, but a mere few feet away from Carla.   Following the last image was a message to check his email and go ‘home‘.   As during his initial search, he found routine correspondence until the one entitled ‘Last Snaps’.   Vacation pictures of his daughter, Libby, and her boyfriend, Luke, who Will and Carla were expecting for a visit.   Carla had risen and was standing behind Will as he brought up the last image.   Whether to share the details of the distressing phone call with his wife became moot as this last photo showed Libby and Luke within metal cages, bound together with flex-ties, and gagged.   At the end of a string around Libby’s neck was a card.   On it was written a mobile number.   Will called the number and only screaming was heard.   But his and Carla’s nightmare hadn’t yet begun.

Returning to the site with photos of their home, Will clicks in the corner on the word ‘HOME’.   There are messages stating that if police are called, his daughter and her boyfriend will be dead, and if he doesn’t follow instructions, they’re dead.   He’s instructed to get on the first available flight to Orlando International, take his laptop and await further instructions via that site.   What choice did he have?   Whoever was behind this was obviously not in a negotiating frame of mind.

Thus begins Will’s being directed to city after city, state after state, house after house, to discover and retrieve.   In the first, he finds a family brutally murdered and he has been instructed to locate, and remove, an item.   He makes his way to the second house and discovers yet another family massacred, with a hidden treasure for him to find.   And on and on this horrific crusade continues, but to what end?   For what purpose?   And, for whose amusement?

Who wrote the playbook for this twisted game, and why is he being forced to play it?   To save his daughter, he must visit one bloody crime scene after another and defile the victims by taking something that has been left with one of them.   But, as if all of that isn’t enough, he must also make sure he avoids the police who will ultimately arrive on scene.   What would happen to Libby and Luke if he should end up being arrested for having committed these murders?

This story is a nightmare from which none of the characters can awake.   Richard Parker has crafted a dark tale of mystery, fear, and desperation.   You can’t put this one down until it’s done.   You won’t want to either because you need to know.   Just like Will…

Links to where you can get your copy of Scare Me are on Richard’s website here.

Make sure you also click on the tab for Richard’s first novel, Stop Me.   That is definitely another must read--a thriller and then some.   Click here to see my review of Stop Me.

TURNER HAHN AND FRANK MORALES ARE BACK!

Homicide detectives Turner Hahn and Frank Morales are back on duty in their new novel, Guilt of Innocence.

The two are investigating a couple of murders which pushes them to the limits of their wits.  One case involves the death of a very successful corporate lawyer.  A high-priced corporate lawyer who happens to be married to a woman who heads the largest cosmetics firm in the country.  How the murder took place is perplexing enough.  But as more bodies begin to drop, Turner and Frank soon realize they are facing a maniacal mastermind who may very well be smarter than both of them combined.

Twists and turns, dead ends and red herrings...with an ending that will truly be surprising.  This case has it all.  And this is only case number one!

Case number two involves the disappearance of a young girl fifteen years earlier.  A Cold Case File.  Except it is not a cold case any longer.  The girl has returned.  And now lies on a cold metal table in the morgue.  Someone has gone out of their way to make the homicide look like a suicide.  Apparently, a crime syndicate is frantic to make sure neither Turner nor Frank find out the facts surrounding the girl's disappearance fifteen years earlier.  A hit man is in town grimly eliminating everyone who may have known the girl.  A hit man with orders to possibly rub out Turner and Frank as well.

And again, the real killer is someone whom no one would have ever suspected.

Turner and Frank are at their best.  Dry wit, interesting characters, lots of action, vivid imagery, and two genuine classic mysteries.  All of it can be found in Guilt of Innocence.  Find it here, or anywhere ebooks are sold.

B.R. Stateham is a six-four year old curmudgeon who writes genre fiction.  With an antiquarian's body, yet with the mind of a fourteen year old boy, the author's imagination still wanders down dark alleys and mean streets looking for a dangerous rendezvous or dons a Federation uniform and straps on his waist a 20 megawatt laser blaster to go out and hunt Martian grave robbers.

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 127, OPEN-ENDED: LIGHTS, CAMERA...

Forgive my recycling another one of my stories, but considering the prompt this week, writing a tense scene with an open ending, I felt this one was quite appropriate.  It also fit well under the word limit.  So, let's take a peek into a make-shift movie studio, and I'll let you decide how it ends...

LIGHTS, CAMERA…

The director sighed.  Already had a buyer for his usual fare, and now this happens. One hundred thou offered to make a snuff? An actual, honest-to-fucking snuff film? The order’s from some big-name actor, so the money’s real enough. The actor’s rep let Clyde look at it in his briefcase. Let him feel it up for a sec too. Even brought the gun he wanted to be used. A nice shiny new 9mm Glock--loaded. ‘Like your other films, please’ he said quietly, ‘except this time, when the girl puts the gun into her mouth and pulls the trigger…’

Clyde felt like he was going to be sick. So far, he’d had no problem unloading his work. He has the girl make herself feel real good, then she sucks on his old Colt 38 with the broken firing pin for awhile, pulls the trigger, looks right into the camera and laughs. But this time?

He’d picked this cutie up at a bus stop on the edge of town and brought her out here to the cabin. Told him she was 18, but he didn’t believe a day over 15. Promised her a few bucks, make her a movie star, you know the routine, and she’d come willingly enough. But, still. A snuff film?

He took her into the master bedroom, where he had his lights and camera already set up. Clyde told her to lie on the bed and get comfortable and try to relax. He handed her a bottle of some cheap whiskey he had stashed there for just such occasions. As soon as she unscrewed the top, she started gulping it down. Clyde hoped to hell she wouldn’t puke it up later on film. A scene like that would certainly decrease it’s value. He told her he had some stuff to take care of in the other room, but he’d be back in about 15 minutes and then they would make the movie. She just nodded and kept gulping. Clyde went into the back bedroom he’d converted to a kind of office and sat down at the desk. He really needed to think this through.

He put the Colt and the Glock on the desk and lit a smoke. This should have been an easy decision, but he couldn’t just wave off a hundred thousand dollars. At the rate he was going, that’s more money than he would see in 25 lifetimes. But, we’re talking death for real here…

Clyde always figured there were two sides to everything. Were there this time?

Nobody makes snuff films. Not for real, anyway.

Apparently, there’s at least one guy out there who believes I would.

This kid can’t just disappear.

Told me she had no family--totally on her own.

I’ve never even punched anybody out, much less killed anyone.

I wouldn’t actually be pulling the trigger.

How could I live with myself if I let this girl die?

A hundred thou buys a lot of therapy.

Doesn’t matter how you look at this. When all is said and done, it comes down to cold-blooded, premeditated murder.

Yes. It does.

Four o’clock. Clyde thought the kid must be pretty well looped by now, considering she’s probably been gulping steady for the past 15 minutes.

Showtime.

He picked up the gun from the desk and went into the bedroom. The girl had already removed her clothes and was on the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Her eyes were barely open and lifeless in the room’s dim lighting. The bottle of whiskey sat almost empty on the nightstand against the wall.

He placed the gun on the bed next to her and asked if she knew what she was expected to do with it. She closed her eyes, nodded slowly, picked up the gun and began caressing it.

He positioned himself behind the camera and said, “Five, four, three, two…”

FLASH FICTION FRIDAY, CYCLE 126: BLIND DATES--DELIGHT OR DISASTER

This is my twisted take on a blind date; an oldie, but a favorite of mine I wrote for A Twist of Noir.  My main character is based on the deaf hit man character created by Christopher Grant in his story, Reverberations, which you can read here. 

Jimmy Callaway followed with Closed Captioned, that featured this fascinating fellow, and you can read his story here.

Mine, entitled Blind Date, follows, and was the third in this delightfully bizarre series.  I hope you enjoy them all.

BLIND DATE

Well, today’s been quite the eventful day.  I’m still having a hard time believing it, and I was there.

This morning started off pretty much the same as all my other mornings.  I was enjoying my usual morning fare:  a nice hot, high fat, high cholesterol, high sodium, and let’s not forget all the sugar, delightful meal at my favorite haunt.  I’ve been coming here for over 20 years and I’ll be coming for another 20.  Small, homey, and most of all, private.   In my line of work, confidentiality is king.  My clients aren’t in the mood to advertise their meetings with me and I’m not much for social networking.

I was on my third java refill thinking about how sweet it would be to get away for a few days.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not trying to run away from something, because I never run away from anything.  It attracts attention.  It’s just that I recently finished a job that ended up being a bit messier than I like.  The client was new, but had passed muster, so I took the gig.  But, there were a few more individuals involved than originally agreed upon, so it required a bit more effort on the part of yours truly.  Mind you, I was never at a disadvantage, but more usually means noise, and noise means trouble.  Now, noise doesn’t bother me any.  I’ve been deaf since the day I was born.  But, I can see it being made--I can feel it.  People running around yelling and banging on stuff?  Noise.

I got the situation under control as I always do, but I figured my new client owed me a bonus for the extra sweat he’d caused.  Oddly enough, he didn’t see it.  I didn’t see or feel any noise while I was persuading him to my way of thinking, though.  A nice bit of closure there.  True, no actual bonus, but closure still.  A job well done.

M point being, I needed some R&R, when an old friend that I haven’t seen in years strolled in and joined me at my table.  He and I go way back and are in the same line, but it’s not like a competition thing between us.  His old lady inherited big bucks from her last sugar daddy, and he’s set for life.  He takes the occasional job just to keep a hand in and stay sharp.  Most he turns down flat regardless, if his gut tells him it’s hinky.  You know, I think I trust his gut more than I trust anyone or anything in this whole world.  If a gig clears his checkpoint, and he’s strapped, he’ll offer it to me.  I usually oblige.  A friend in need… and all that crap.

When he gave me the deets on this one, I thought he’d jumped the track.  He handed me a letter from the prospective client and told me to just read it and consider.  He hadn’t met her yet--yeah, it was a dame--but thought this might have some merit.  I nodded, shook his hand, blinked, and he was gone.  Probably on his way to catch the Concorde to Paris.  Again.

The letter read like an advice column plea.  It seems a Miss Makafee had decided it was time to seek a better half.  She didn’t trust computers--a Big Brother’s Always Watching complex--so she joined a mail order type service.  She provided a complete description of herself (blonde, blue eyes, 5 feet and 2 inches, 110 pounds) and listed her favorite activities as watching old movies, drinking hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, and walking in the rain.

For a quick sec, I had the urge to marry this hottie myself.  It passed.

The response was from a chap who claimed to be a rugged six footer, medium build, with dark hair and eyes.  Said he loved old movies, and fantasized about them holding hands sipping a mug of cocoa.  They set up a meet.

Well, knock me into a week from Thursday.  The mope shows up, and he’s 5 feet if he’s an inch.  Medium build?  Compared to what?  A Frigidaire?  Dark eyes?  Maybe.  If you could find them under all those bags hanging around ‘em.  She didn’t get a chance to quiz him in the likes and dislikes department because when he saw her, he started to laugh.  Didn’t say a fucking word to this babe, just laughed, like it was all some sick prank.  Little honey starts tearing up, runs out of the joint and catches a cab home.  She’s got his number, knows where he lives, and that’s where I come into the picture.  Well, not exactly me; it was my guy, but you already know that part.

So, she’s hurt and all, but more than that, she’s pissed all to Hell.  She wants him ‘eliminated’.  Her word--not mine.  Classy dame is my guess.  One hitch, though.  She’s light on the green.  Now, I’ve got as much heart as the next fella, but I don’t get a tax break for charity work.  Still, we could meet and see where it went.  I don’t take payment in trade, but maybe this chick’s got something I could use.  Never know.

Got a bud to take her a note to meet me at the diner at 4, cause 4 is too late for lunch and too early for dinner.  If the whole thing turns sour, all I’m out is a cup of Joe, tops.

So, I get there early, and I’m on my fourth refill and she walks in the door carrying the white rose I sent along with the note.  First thought that crossed my mind was how could that son of a bitch laugh at her.  She took my breath away.

I mean--literally--I couldn’t catch a breath.  Five foot two?  Maybe.  If she could actually straighten herself upright.  There’s a medical name for that, but it escapes me.  Saw somebody once with that condition in an old Boris Karloff movie, though.  She did have blonde hair alright--or, at least a couple of tufts of it on the right side of her head.  I think one of her legs was shorter than the other by a few inches.  That might have accounted for the fact that she kinda walked sideways; like, take a step and slide, take a step and slide.  You get the picture.

She made it over to my table during my fifth refill, sat down, waved the rose at me, and smiled a funny little crooked smile.  In my head, I was counting my meager blessings and wondering what the fuck I was doing there.  But the answer soon became very clear.  When she winked at me with her one good eye, I knew.  I thought about the basic philosophy I’ve lived my whole life with.  You make do with what you’ve been given and it’s got to be enough.

Maybe there wouldn’t be a tax break on this one, but bullets are cheap, and somebody really owed her.  By the way, I sprang for an early dinner too.