Archive for category Fiction

New Bubba Story – Hall & Goats

Apr 25

Posted by john in Fiction, Writing | 1 Comment

This time, Bubba hunts La Chupacabra! Here’s a little preview of the new Bubba story, on sale this weekend!

It was the middle of the night, and I was crouched in a damp, smelly field waiting for something the happen. This wrapped a lot of my least favorite things all up in a nice little ball of suck for me to gnaw on. I hate waiting. I’m a man of action, as they say. I like to do stuff, not wait around to do stuff. Now I’ll admit that some of the stuff I do sucks, like chasing down zombies, or werewolves, or fighting witches or ghouls or vampires or pretty much anything else that goes bump in the night. But it’s a damn sight more entertaining than sitting around waiting for something to show up for me to kill. Especially when I don’t know what I’m waiting on. Waiting to me just seems like a great big waste of my precious drinkin’ time.
I hate being wet, too. I’m a big dude — six-five and a good bit past three hundred pounds. And every damn inch is covered with hair. I got a ponytail that hit me halfway down my back, a beard that reaches almost down to my chest, and a pretty good suit of man-fur everywhere else. I ain’t one of these billboard pretty boys that’s got nowhere for a tick to hide on their cute little manscaped six-pack abs. I got a whole great big fuzzy pony keg of a belly, and that all makes it pretty uncomfortable when I’m rolling around in the cold damp grass. And it takes forever and about three big towels to dry off. I tell you, it’s just irritating.
And as much as I am a bonafide country boy, I’m not a big fan of the smells of nature, if you know what I mean. And this field was full of some impressively natural smells. I much prefer the kind of smells that come from a bottle. Like the sweet, soothing smell of Jack Daniels. Or the glorious lavender-scented cloud of stripper perfume. I once heard a fella say “they call it Destiny, but it smells like shame.” I disagree. It smells like the hopes and dreams of desperate men and women smart enough to take advantage of them. I love strippers, they have an uncomplicated view of life. You give them money, they show you boobies. I have a similarly uncomplicated view of life — monsters need to be killed, I kill ‘em.
And that’s why I was stuck in a damp, smelly field in the middle of the night miles away from the scent of whiskey or the sight of a boob. I had a monster to kill, and as long as the critter was playing shy, I was stuck out there freezing my ass off and bitching to Skeeter over the Bluetooth. Skeeter’s my backup, my technical liaison, my navigator and my best friend. He’d appointed himself my best friend since the day I kept Jason Skoonfield from running his underpants up the flagpole in middle school. I probably wouldn’t have stopped Jason from having a little bit of innocent fun, but since Skeeter was still wearing his underpants I thought that was a little over the line. So me and Skeeter struck up an unusual alliance. I kept him from getting killed for being the only black kid in our school, not to mention the only gay kid and the smartest kid in three counties, and he made sure I passed algebra and got out of high school. Even the principal thought it was a fair trade. He was pretty tired of replacing all the desks that couldn’t hold me, and he didn’t want to deal with the paperwork if Skeeter ended up dead. So he didn’t ask about my grades, and I didn’t tell.
“Skeeter, you remember when Jason Skoonfield was gone run your drawers up the flagpole in tenth grade?” I asked the air.
Skeeter’s disembodied voice came back in my ear. “It was one of the most traumatic experiences in a traumatic youth, Bubba. Of course I remember it. It may have been the pinnacle of my humiliation in that vile institution they called a school. Why do you bring that up now?”
“You know I get all philosophical-like when I’m stuck out here smelling cowpies and staring up and the stars. You ever wonder where we’d be if I hadn’t stopped Skoon and his buddies?”
Skeeter’s voice got very quiet. “I do, Bubba. Sometimes I do, but I try not to think about that too much. And you shouldn’t either, we’ve got a job to do.”
I knew where he was going, and it wasn’t a road I wanted to go down right then. Or ever, for that matter. I looked down at the glowing face of the child’s Mickey Mouse watch and thought back to happier days. Then I gave myself a shake and answered Skeeter. “Yeah, but what the hell is the job, Skeeter? I’m freezing off my danglies out here and ain’t heard nothing all night.”
“You know the monster’s been feeding every third night, and this is the only herd that hasn’t been attacked this month. So if there really is a chupacabra somewhere around here, this is the best spot to find it.”
“Yeah, it’s a pretty damn good spot to get a frostbit sack, too.” I grumbled. “You got it easy, sitting there in your nice warm little command center. Remember, I was on a lake just a few days ago in flip-flops and no shirt, and supposed to be there for another four days. Instead, I’m fully dressed in long pants, a leather jacket and a sweater and I’m still freezing my ass off!”
I heard a sharp intake of breath as Skeeter started to reply, but I cut him off with a hiss. “Shut up, I think I hear something.” There was a rustling sound coming from the fenceline a few feet away. I crept over in the direction of the sound and suddenly realized that the source of the sound was a cow. I got to within three feet of the beast before I could make out its shape in the moonless night, then I scrambled backwards as quickly as I could as the cow unleashed the most terribly stench I’d ever experienced right in my face.
“Skeeter you sonofabith a cow just farted on me!” I screeched into the earpiece, trying to get away from the cloud of methane that was wrapped around my head. I heard Skeeter laughing uncontrollably in my ear as I worked hard not to vomit.
“You know I’m gonna kill you when I get out of here, right?”
“I don’t make the assignments, Bubba, I just send you the emails.” He sounded dangerously close to hyperventilating, and I was dangerously close to walking off the job when I heard the scream.
If you’ve never heard a goat scream, you should do everything in your power to keep it that way. It’s a sound like nothing on earth, kinda like a mix of a human scream with a deeper tone than any human can make, and it can carry for miles. It chilled me to the bone, and put my butt in gear. I started running for the sound, drawing Bertha, my fifty-caliber Desert Eagle as I went after the monster. When I got there, I stopped dead in my tracks at the scene in front of me.
This was not what I had come here to hunt.

Sample Fiction – Feedback appreciated

Jan 19

Posted by john in Fiction, Writing | 6 Comments

Here’s the beginnings of a new short story series I’m toying with – let me know what you think.

I was freezing. My feet were numb and the only thing keeping my hands from going the same way were the chemical handwarmers I had tucked inside my mittens. My breath would have been billowing steam around me if not for the black balaclava I had wrapped around my head. Only my eyes were exposed, and even those were starting to freeze shut. The steady drizzle had long since made my black ski coat into a sodden, heavy mass of cold pinning me to the rooftop where I’d setup my surveillance. Finally the light in the bedroom I’d been watching for the past three hours clicked off, and the foyer lights on the house clicked on. A few seconds later, my target stepped out the front door, and it was showtime.
I set down the binoculars I’d been watching through and blinked a couple of times to clear the ice off my eyelashes. Cursing my thick dark eyelashes for not the first time in my life, I settled my cheek alongside the stock of my Remington 700 SPS tactical rifle and slipped my hands out of my mittens. I took careful aim as the target kissed his mistress, closed the door and turned to go down the steps to the Lexus sedan parked half a block away in a feeble attempt at discretion. He stopped, checked his watch, and looked up and down the sidewalk before taking his first step. I exhaled as he lifted his foot, and squeezed the trigger. The .223 Remington round spat out of the barrel, dropping slightly due to wind and the drizzle, and struck the target solidly just above his right eye. His head snapped back and his feet went out from under him, dropping him solidly on his butt on the porch. I slid to the edge of the roof and zoomed in on his corpse with my Canon T3i digital SLR camera. The 75-300mm zoom lens made it a snap to focus on his face from fifty yards away, and I took several pictures as he lay there in the porch light. The small round left a neat hole in his forehead, with no exit wound to leave a mess on his girlfriend’s door.
Evidence collected, I broke down the rifle into the soft-sided guitar case I used to carry my rifles, and put the camera into the extra space. I slung the whole mess onto my back and started for the stairs. I had just pulled the heavy door shut behind me when my cell buzzed in my pocket. “Crap,” I muttered as I pulled a mitten off with my teeth and dug around in my sopping jeans for my phone. I swiped a thumb across the screen and peered down at the text glowing up at me.
“Where u at, gurl?” My best friend Tina asked in her pseudo-streetwise lingo, even though she lives in Back Bay with her mom and stepdad. He’s some kind of neurologist or psychologist or some doctor that messes around in your head. Her mom’s pretty with big boobs. That’s her job, and she works hard at it. Pilates, yoga, tennis, manicures, pedicures, massages – if it tightens, stretches or tones, Tina’s mom is all over it. Tina kinda hates her mom, she thinks she’s a gold-digger. She’s right, but it’s not really that bad.
“Just getting off work, u?” I texted back. Tina thought I worked at a used bookstore in Jamaica Plain. Since she never read anything in her life that wasn’t in Cliff Notes format, that kept her from asking too many questions about my work. Which was a good thing, since bookstore clerks are seldom called upon to shoot state senators in the head from fifty yards away.
“Home. Bored. Duh. Wanna come over?” The last thing I wanted to do was go over to Tina’s and watch another chick flick movie while her mom drank red wine until she passed out. I was cold, wet and still had homework. But there was one thing I had to check on first.
“Where’s Jason?” Jason was Tina’s older brother. He was eighteen and on the swim team. He had dark, curly hair and pale blue eyes that made his tanned skin look even darker. In a word, yum.
“I wouldn’t have bothered asking if he wasn’t home. Now get yr ass over here! LOL”
“Be there soon.”
I slid my phone back in my jeans and continued down the stairs. At the third floor I pushed through the door and into the hallway, pausing long enough to remove the duct tape I’d used to hold the door open when I went up to the roof earlier. I passed under the security camera, wire dangling from where I’d cut the wire a week before and made my way down the hall to my apartment. There was nothing in there except an air mattress, a duffel bag, a backpack bulging with my schoolbooks and a roll of toilet paper. I quickly stripped off all my wet clothes and draped them over the moderately functional radiator. I dug a pair of panties, bra, towel and washcloth out of the duffel and stepped into the bathroom. I grabbed a travel size soap and shampoo from my bag and set them on the edge of the bathtub, then set a Walther P22 pistol on the back of the toilet. I had a 22Sparrow suppressor screwed onto the barrel of the Walther, so if anyone disturbed my shower there shouldn’t be any more noise than a loud handclap. I wasn’t expecting visitors, but it’s always better to be safe than dead.
I stood under the hot spray for a long time, washing the smell of gunfire out of my hair and the chill out of my bones. I personally thought that the tangy, slightly salty smoky smell of firearms was a little sexy, but I doubted Tina’s brother would think so. He’d probably think I burned dinner or something. I got out of the shower, dried off and padded into the apartment in my underwear. My clothes were still soaked, so I dug around in my duffel for the spare jeans, Harvard sweatshirt and socks I had with me. I finished dressing, pulled on tennis shoes and a light raincoat, and grabbed my camera out of the guitar bag. All my wet clothes went into the duffel, the backpack onto my shoulders, and the guitar case in one hand. I grabbed the duffel with the other hand and did a quick idiot check of the room before I left.
“Idiot, indeed.” I muttered at myself as I went back into the bathroom, grabbed my Walther and slipped it into the guitar case. The shampoo container and soap wrapper went into the duffel, and out the door I went. I left the door open a crack behind me, figuring it wouldn’t take long for one of the junkies on the floor to take me up on my unspoken offer of a place to crash. I still had three months paid up on the place, somebody might as well use it.
The street was awash with red and blue lights when I stepped out the front door, just another little redheaded girl in a city full of Irish. I stepped up to a cop working the yellow tape and asked “What happened?” in my best innocent little girl voice.
He looked down at me and smiled a little. “You shouldn’t see stuff like this kid, head on home.”
“Okay.” I said, and turned to walk away. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a big man in a suit eyeballing the crowd suspiciously. A detective, wondering if the killer had revisited the scene to check on the investigation. Yup, I had. And they had no idea. They just saw another skinny, clean and maybe cute someday little girl going home from a guitar lesson.
I walked a couple of blocks over, then tossed the duffel into an alley where I knew a homeless family with a daughter about my size had taken up residence. I’d cased the neighborhood well before I decided on my attack strategy. I knew every person that lived in a four-block radius of my strike zone, and knew that the cops in this neighborhood only had a 35% close rate on homicides. The precinct where the target lived, make that had lived, reported a 77% close rate on murders. Didn’t take a math whiz to figure out which neighborhood was better to shoot someone in. Of course, I am a math whiz. Come to think of it, I’m pretty bright in general. I’m Cindy Slaughter, teenage assassin. Pleased to meet you, too.

Free Short Story – Turkey Day Debacle

Nov 24

Posted by john in Fiction, Vampires, Writing | 3 Comments

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone! Here’s a little something I tossed together for your enjoyment!

Turkey Day Debacle
By John G. Hartness

I knew I was in trouble when I stepped into the grocery store. I looked over at Abby and said, in all sincerity “Remind what people eat on Thanksgiving again?”

“Well, turkey for starters” was the snotty reply from my shopping partner, a twenty-two year old newly turned vampire with a body to die for (if I wasn’t already dead) and an attitude to slit your wrists over.

“I remember the turkey, smartass. What else?”

“Jeez, Jimmy, how long have you been dead again? There’s stuffing, ham, cranberry juice, rice, gravy, biscuits, casseroles, desserts, Oh my God, the desserts! I’d almost forgotten the desserts!” She was leaning on the shopping cart writhing an a not-unpleasant way that was probably a lot more distracting to the live patrons of the store than it was to me.

“Stop that, you’re scaring the mortals.” I shouldered her aside and took the cart, heading towards the back of the store and the first mission – turkey.

“I was not!” Abby protested, but fell into step beside me. “Are you sure we can’t eat? Not even just a little pumpkin pie?”

“It’s not a good idea.” I remembered my first meal after turning, how everything tasted like sawdust and then upset my delicate digestive system for days. Even though our new place had multiple bathrooms, I didn’t wish that kind of suffering on anyone, dead or alive.

“What’s the worst thing that could happen? I’m already dead, after all!” So I told her, in extreme graphic detail, the worst that could happen. She turned even paler than normal, then shifted to a lovely shade of green before running into the restroom at the back of the store.

I parked the cart at the meat department and walked down the aisle looking at the different flavors of pre-cooked turkeys available for purchase. Cajun turkeys, smoked turkeys, spiced turkeys and Honeybaked Ham turkeys. The last one confused me a little. I wasn’t sure if it was a ham-flavored turkey, a turkey-flavored ham, or just a normal turkey-flavored turkey made by Honeybaked Ham people. Regardless I picked up the smallest turkey-style turkey that I could find. After all, only three of our six-person dinner party could actually eat food, so it’s not like Greg and I would be making a lot of turkey and O-Negative sandwiches.

By the time I’d picked up the cranberry sauce, Abby was back beside me, glaring at me every now and then for making her go barf. I was just pleased to share the misery. We picked out the rest of the supplies for our feast in  relative silence, then I stopped dead in the middle of the dairy department.

“What now?” Abby asked, giving me a petulant look that she had perfected in her life as an adorable college coed. That life had come crashing to an end a few months ago at the hands of a visiting vampire, and now Abby was as (un)dead as I was. Her last confrontation with her maker didn’t turn out so well for the older vamp, so I kept the volatile young woman at arm’s length when she started tossing around nasty looks.

“Do you know if the stove works?”

“Yes. I checked it before we left tonight.”

“Do we have any pots and pans?”

“God, you’re really bad at this, aren’t you?”

“Cut me a little slack, Abby, I’ve been dead almost as long as I was alive, and I wasn’t exactly the most responsible person even when I was still human.” She must have seen something in my face, because she let that one slide. I’m not usually an angsty vampire, but sometimes, holidays in particular, it kinda sucks being dead and having abandoned most of the people that knew you when you were alive. That’s why this dinner was so important – there would be more people there than just me & Greg for the first time in a bunch of years. Sabrina Law, my almost-on-my-luckiest-day girlfriend and police detective with the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department and Father Mike Maloney, our best childhood friend, were joining Greg, Abby and I for dinner. We’d invited Bobby, our blood vendor from the morgue, but he was spending time with his family, all of whom were alive and unlikely to look upon him as an appetizer.

Abby nodded silently and took over cart-pushing duties while I fretted over the last few things on the list. Did I want to make fresh cranberry sauce or canned? After a brief but heated debate with Abby, I settled on canned. There’s just something a little charming about the gelatinous mass of cranberry sauce jiggling on a plate, still sporting the indentions from the side of the can. We finished up the last remnants of the shopping and headed to the front of the store. It was pretty close to deserted, there not being many people loading up on canned goods and milk at four AM the night before Thanksgiving. But when you’re the living dead you have certain restrictions on your movement that humans don’t have, and you end up becoming familiar with all sorts of places at all sorts of atypical times.

Even for the middle of the night, the front of the store was sparsely manned. I only saw one cashier working, no bagboys, and one pudgy twenty-something assistant manager leaning on the Customer Service counter. He had his phone in his hands and sported the studious look of a man very intent on an epic Angry Birds session. I walked over to the cashier and started unloading the cart onto the conveyor belt. I looked over the items and glanced back at Abby.

“I don’t think Hershey bars were on the list.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. These are not the candy bars you are looking for.”

“I’m not looking for any candy bars, and yet here they are. And don’t try to Jedi mind trick me. You know you can’t eat those, right?” She pouted a little, and I heard a little hmph from the cashier.

I looked at her and caught her giving me the kind of look that female grad students give to clueless frat boys right before they launch into a lecture on feminism. I raised my hand to her before she could start and jerked a thumb back at Abby. “Lactose intolerant. If she eats milk chocolate she farts like a basset hound. It’s amazing. Last time she ate a bowl of ice cream she blow out three windows in the kitchen.”

Abby threw a can of peas at my head, but I heard them moving through the air and caught them before I got a concussion. I put the last of our groceries on the belt and asked for plastic bags, pulling out a wad of cash that my dinner entree had been carrying around. I mentioned that on this holiday I was particularly thankful for muggers with lots of cash and not too much crystal meth in their bloodstream. Meth does nasty things to vampire teeth, too, so I was glad the thug I’d had for dinner was pretty straight-edge.

I saw the cashier’s eyes go wide a second before I heard the shotgun go off, so I had just enough time to reach over the counter and knock her to the ground when the gun went off. I ducked between the aisles and reached into my boot for my Ruger LCP. Which I immediately remembered was sitting on my bedside table, because what could happen, it’s a ten-minute trip to the grocery store in the middle of the night. I’m sometimes not the sharpest fang in the jaw, okay?

“Are you packing?” I hissed back at Abby.

“No, I didn’t think I’d need a gun in the produce section. You?”

“No, I picked today to give up on my general pessimism towards the human race.”

“Great timing.”

“Yeah, right. Can you check on the cashier? I kinda knocked her down a little.”

“A little?” Came a third, and indignant, voice. “You shoved me into the middle of next week. You’re strong for a skinny little dork!” I looked around and saw the cashier’s head poking out of the end of the aisle.

“Thanks, I think.” I replied dryly. “You wanna get back under cover before or after you get shot?” Her head snapped back behind the conveyer belt, and I glanced back at Abby. “Keep her alive.” I whispered, then I stood up.

The sound of shell racking into the chamber of a twelve-gauge shotgun is unmistakable, and that’s the first thing I heard when I stood up. Much to my chagrin, the sound was much closer than I had expected. Therefore, so was the gun. I looked over about ten feet from the end of my aisle and there stood our robber du jour. He looked pretty comfortable with the shotgun, but didn’t look like he’d robbed many grocery stores. He looked more like he’d been out hunting for his Thanksgiving turkey the old-fashioned way and decided to knock over a Piggly Wiggly on the way home.

“Hey.” I said, holding my hands out where he could see I was unarmed.

“Hey.” He said back, pointing the shotgun at my head. I knew from recent experience that a well-placed load of buckshot could in fact kill a vampire, because it can blow a head clean off a body, thus counting for decapitation. So I didn’t want to do anything that would end up with me dead. Um, deader. Or really dead. You get the idea.

“Can I help you with something?” I started moving slowly towards him, trying to keep my body between his line of sight and where Abby was hiding, and hopefully coming up with a better plan than the one I was currently exercising.

“Get me the money from the cash register! And the safe!” He ended each sentence with a jab in my general direction of the shotgun. I made my way to the register and looked for a NO SALE button. No luck.

“How do I open this thing?” I whispered to the cashier, who was curled up behind my knees.

“You need a manager’s keys.” I looked around, but the fat manager kid was nowhere to be seen.

“We’ve got a little problem there,” I said to the man with the gun. “You see, it takes a manager’s keys to open the register, and I’m not a manager. In fact, I don’t even work here.” I chuckled a little, giving the whole thing my best we’ll laugh at this later vibe, but he didn’t laugh along with me.

He aimed the shotgun straight at me and gave me a cold look. “Then you better find a manager real fast, or I’m going to spread pieces of you all over the front of this store.” Bingo. As soon as he made eye contact, I locked gazes with him and started pouring mojo into him.

I looked at him confidently and said “You do not want to hurt anyone. Put the gun down and lie down on your stomach.”

He looked at me like I was crazy and replied “I don’t want to hurt anybody, but if I don’t get some money in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to shoot you in the face.” Crap. Either my mojo was on the fritz, or Greg’s latest theory was right – that mojo didn’t work when the subject was under a big load of adrenaline. Or he was one of the rare people my mojo just didn’t work on, like Sabrina. But the adrenaline thing made more sense.

I held up my hands and started toward him, slowly. “Okay, but the last place I saw the manager was over at Customer Service. He’s probably run halfway to Charleston by now, but if he dropped his keys, they’ll be back there.”

He waved the shotgun towards the counter. “Go get ‘em.”

I never took my eyes off him as I made my way to the counter, trying to keep the counter and Abby in my peripheral vision the whole time. It worked like most things in my life, which is to say not at all, because I tripped over a buggy and went ass over teakettle about eight feet from the Customer Service desk. I went down in a gangly tangle of spiky hair, black jeans and polished chrome, making enough noise to raise the dead. If I wasn’t already risen.

Abby, being the smarter of our duo, took the diversion as an opportunity and sprang up from her hiding spot in the checkout aisle and chucked a can of cranberry sauce at Shotgun Guy’s head. He turned back to her just in time to get a shot off before the can caught him right between the eyes and sent him reeling to the floor. Abby jumped for the sky and the shotgun blast passed harmlessly under her. Well, harmless to her. A bunch of magazines about Demi and Ashton’s divorce and the Dancing with the Stars finale got blown to shreds, and her box of Hershey bars was pretty well destroyed.

I untangled myself from the shopping cart and walked over to the prone robber. I kicked the shotgun away from him and searched him for any sign of another weapon. Seeing her was clear, I tied his hand behind his back with his own shoelaces and mojo’d the manager kid into thinking the cashier had taken him down with no help from anyone. Abby bespelled her into thinking the same thing, and then erased our transaction from the register. I blew the surveillance tapes to bits with the shotgun, loaded the groceries into the buggy, and headed towards the car.

“Abby, did we just steal our Thanksgiving dinner?” I asked as I put the last bag in the trunk.

“Well, you can look at it two ways. One, you were going to pay for it with stolen money in the first place. Or two, it was our just reward for a good deed. But yeah, if you wanna be honest about it, we did.”

“I think your moral compass points north less often than mine does.”

“Says the soulless undead creature of the night with the priest best friend and a cop girlfriend. You’re a CW show waiting to happen, so don’t give me any crap, pal.” I slid behind the wheel and drove us home in silence, deciding that sometimes discretion really is the better part of valor.

*****

The next night about eight, after everyone laughed their way through the story of our shopping trip and Greg hacked the NFL network to get the game, we all settled in for dinner. Greg, Abby and I had glasses full of nice, thick blood, while Mike and Sabrina had plates loaded down with the grub we’d all spent much of the early evening preparing. It had been a good night, nobody new was dead, Sabrina had brought her cousin Stephen and his husband Alex to the party, and I stood to propose a toast.

“Tonight, I’m thankful for all of you. For old friends and new, you guys are the reason I get up every night to do what I do. You all make my world a better place, and I thank you for it.” A chorus of “hear, hear” and “you’re such a dork” rose from my friends, and I sat down to drink while they enjoyed dinner.
Sabrina suddenly grabbed her jaw and yelped. “Ow!” She spit something hard out into her plate, and Abby and I shared a look as a stray piece of birdshot plinked off of Sabrina’s plate. Then we all just looked at each other and laughed.

Short Fiction for Anne McCaffrey

Nov 22

Posted by john in Fiction | 4 Comments

The fantasy world lost a giant today. Anne McCaffrey has flown from us. This is a small tribute that I made for her. I hope it honors her memory in some small way.

 

Friends
By John G. Hartness

“And what about you, Anne? What are you going to be when you grow up?” Mrs. Pennywise asked, her saccharine tone hiding the disdain she usually showed for Annie. No matter what the girl tried to do, nothing seemed to make the old woman like her. Her dresses were never starched enough. Her shoes were never polished enough. And her hair, no matter how long she spent brushing, was never done right for the old bat.Annie was through trying to make her happy, though. It didn’t matter what lies she told, she was never going to get a gold star in her class. So why not tell the truth.

“I’m going to be a DrakeKnight, just like my Grandda was!” She pointed out the window at the cloudless sky, defiance written all over her round eleven-year-old face.
Mrs. Pennywise said nothing, just hrmph’d in that condescending way adults had when they thought kids were being stupid, and went on to Darcy Nevins, who sat right behind Annie in class. Darcy wanted to be a ballerina, and Mrs. Pennywise praised her and cooed over how pretty Darcy was and how she could be anything she wanted to be. Of course Darcy could be anything she wanted to be, her father owned the mercantile and half the village. Darcy already was everything the rest of the children wanted to be. She was rich, smart, pretty, and the teacher’s pet. If she wasn’t so darn nice it would have been easy for Annie to hate her.
But Darcy was Annie’s best friend, had been ever since they were little kids in the first form. And now that they were in sixth form and starting their journey into womanhood, the two were even more inseparable. They shared lunches, swapping back and forth the nasty bits of celery and carrots their mothers sent. They walked home together every day, at least as far as Darcy’s house, where the two girls would play until Annie’s father came by to collect her as he walked home from a long day in the woods.
But today Darcy was even more perfect than usual, and Annie was in even more trouble with Mrs. Pennywise than usual. So it was no wonder that when the headmistress rang the bell for recess, Annie bolted from the room before Darcy could even get out of her desk. Annie ran pell-mell across the playground to her favorite sulking spot, a giant elm tree with huge spreading roots that reached out ike sprawled fingers across the ground. Annie nestled among the roots, wishing with all her heart that she could just climb inside the tree and disappear. But she couldn’t, so she sat with her back pressed up against the trunk of the tree and pulled her knees up tight to her chest, making a nice dark cave to hide her head from the brightly lit playground.
She sat there, pretending to be part of the tree for the better part of five minutes until something thunked against the back of her neck. It didn’t hurt, exactly, just surprised her enough to make her jerk her head ever so slightly upward. She caught herself, but too late. She’d been seen. More thunks and plunks rained down on her head and shoulders, and she realized quickly what was happening. She’d been found. Steven and his irritating brothers had found her and now her recess would be even more ruined. Well, they’d picked the wrong day, Annie decided. Today was the day she stopped putting up with any garbage from anybody, even Steven Dawson.
Another acorn plopped off the top of Annie’s head, and she sprang to her feet. She knew one of them was close, she could smell his  toothpaste. So she jumped to her feet and dove to her left, planting a shoulder right in the stomach of Steven’s older brother Jamie.
“Oof!” Jamie exhaled hard as she caught him by surprise, tumbling to the ground on top of the winded boy. Annie quickly sprang to her feet, stepping on Jamie’s belly for good measure as she did so. Steven stood by the trunk of the tree, her tree, gawping at her like she was an animal in the zoo or something. She ran at him, swinging her fists wildly, but she’d forgotten the third Dawson brother. Avery Dawson stepped from behind the tree right behind Annie and wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides in a bear hug. She struggled as hard as she could, but the bigger boy didn’t let go.
“Fight all you want, little DrakeKnight!” Steven chanted. “Dragons are about as real as your mother! Neither one will save you now!” Mention of her mother, dead seven years ago in childbirth, brought hot tears to Annie’s eyes and made her struggle all the harder. By now Jamie had gotten to his feet and was tossing more acorns and twigs at her as he and his snotty little brother called her “midget DrakeKnight” and “Dragonlover” and other names designed to embarrass her about her dreams.
Annie stopped struggling and just stood there, panting with fury as tears streamed down her face. Steven stepped right up to her and whispered nastily “It’s no wonder your mother would rather be dead than have to raise a stupid kid like you, Annie Fanny! I don’t blame your dad for spending every day drunk in the woods so he doesn’t have to look at your stupid face.” Annie just cried all the harder, because he was telling at least some truth. Her dad had been smelling like whiskey when he came home lately, and none of the other woodsmen were still working this late in the fall.
Steven waved to his brothers and they let her go, running back to the swings to terrorize other students for their lunch money. They knew Annie didn’t have any money to steal. Annie curled up on the ground this time, wrapping herself around the tree roots and sobbing into the playground dust. She didn’t know how long she’d been there crying before she fell asleep, but when she woke up she had the bark imprinted all along one arm and the side of her face, so she must have been there for a while. It was colder, and the sun was starting to set, so the school day must have been almost over. They forgot me, she thought. They just left me out here all alone.
Good. I don’t need them. I don’t need any of them. Except Darcy. She’s still okay. But the rest of them can just go to the hot place! No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Annie tried to erase it with a prayer. I’m sorry, Lord. I didn’t mean it. Thy will be done, Amen. Feeling a little better about wishing damnation on her classmates, Annie stood and began walking towards the school. She was only halfway across the playground when the doors opened, spilling happy children into freedom for the end of the school day. Annie had slept all through the afternoon classes under the tree. She edged cautiously over to the side of the school, planning to join the students as they came out. Hopefully no one would be the wiser.
All her hopes were dashed when a huge winged shadow flew low over the schoolyard, scattering children and adults alike. Seconds later, a huge red and green dragon glided to a landing right on top of the school. As dragons go, it was a rather small dragon, less than fifteen feet long from nose to tail. But to a group of six to ten-year-olds, it seemed very large indeed. The dragon roared, and snapped out its neck at a fleeing student. The child dove onto its belly to avoid the snapping jaws, and the dragon drew back its head, seeming pleased with itself.
The dragon hopped down off the building, blocking the door with its hindquarters and facing outward into the yard where all the students were gathered. Some had run for the gate, but the dragon belched a stream of fire at them, herding them back into the yard. Others ran for the far end of the playground, but the dragon simply hopped over them and they shuffled into a clump in the middle of the clearing between the swings and the teeter-totters.
The dragon seemed to take joy in their attempts to escape, flicking out a wing to knock this child over when he tried to run, lashing out with his tail to trip another child as she ran to help her friend. Annie watched all this in confusion for several minutes until Darcy saw her and started to run in her direction. The dragon flicked out a claw, and Darcy stopped in her tracks, the claw hovering just inches in front of her face. Suddenly it dawned on Annie what it was doing – it was teasing them.
“HEY!” She bellowed in her fiercest voice, stomping out into the playground to stand next to Darcy. “Leave her alone!”
“And why should I, little meatling?” The dragon asked, bringing its huge head down to look Annie in the eye. The dragon’s eye was the size of Annie’s whole head, but she wasn’t afraid. She had realized that this dragon was just like Mrs. Pennywise, just like Steven Dawson and his stupid brothers. It was picking on them just because it was bigger. And that wasn’t going to work anymore.
“Because I said so.”
“And who, little meatling, are you?”
“I am Annalisa Chisoman Pern, granddaughter of the legendary DrakeKnight Religan Pern, and by the authority of my bloodline I claim you as my dragon! Now you must do as I say! And I say leave her alone.”
“You claim me, little girl? I don’t think so. I’ve never heard of your grandfather, and I don’t think you’re commanding me to do anything.”
“I don’t care if you’ve heard of him or not, it’s the DrakeKnight law, and you have to do what I say. And I say you leave Darcy alone.” Annie stood firm in front of the dragon, arms folded across her chest. The other children had drawn back when she started speaking, and now they looked from her to the dragon warily, unsure of what was happening.
“Well, if it’s the law,” the dragon drawled. He reared his head back and drew in a deep breath, but halted just before he exhaled at Annie’s upraised hand.
“I didn’t say you could breathe fire.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
“You can’t breathe fire unless I say so. It’s the DrakeKnight law.”
“You’re not a DrakeKnight.”
“Yet, but I will be.”
“Not if I cook you first!” The dragon inhaled again and opened his mouth wide, but nothing came out.
“I told you.”
“How did you do that?”
“It’s DrakeKnight law. My Grandda told me all about the rules. And you have stinky breath.”
“Well, you’re a rude little girl!”
“Then the two of you should get along just fine.” A new voice, deeper and rumbling, came from atop the school. Annie looked up to see a truly huge red dragon hovering over the schoolhouse. She couldn’t land, because the roof would cave in under her weight. The smaller dragon looked around as if trying to find an exit when the bigger dragon spoke again.
“Annalisa Chisoman Pern, I hereby grant you status of Honorary DrakeKnight-in-training, to be bonded with my youngest son Milambrisamon at the earliest opportunity.”
Annie looked up at the huge red dragon and dipped into her best curtsey. “My thanks, lady drake. May I know what you are called?”
“I am Silambristar, called Star by my rider.”
“But my grandda’s dragon was called Star!” Annie exclaimed.
“Indeed. And now his granddaughter shall ride on Star’s child. You may call him Brim.” The huge red dragon flapped her wings once, twice and shot off into the air, quickly fading to a crimson speck on the horizon.
Annie looked around at the children and adults crowded in the schoolyard and stepped closer to Brim. “Don’t worry,” She whispered. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
The dragon leaned in close to her ear, so close that his breath almost burned her neck and he whispered back “Me too.”

Let me stand next to your Fire!

Nov 16

Posted by john in Business of publishing, Fiction, Writing | No Comments

My new Kindle Fire came in the UPS yesterday. I am teh happy. Honestly, I haven’t had a ton of time to play with it between work, finishing up a short story and sending it off, and then back to work. But it’s really pretty. And I have the next four days off work (two to make up for working Saturday and Sunday last weekend), so I should be able to get some time on the device this weekend.

Between playing Dragon Age II and writing stories, that is. The new Bubba story is out, and I think it’s pretty fun. It ended up being a lot longer than I expected, but there were a lot of monsters to kill, and a lot of ways to devise to kill them, so that took up a few extra thousand words.

Here’s the Amazon link – go buy it, it’s only $1.49.

Here’s the Barnes & Noble link – see above.

There will be a print Bubba anthology coming sometime in the spring. My plan is to get five short stories completed, then offer an anthology that will be available as print and ebook. Genesis print copies are coming, I promise, once I get time to format the book for printing. So probably December.

I’ve also started submitting short stories, because I want my SFWA card, and the quickest way to get one is to get three acceptances by approved publications. So I’ll be hammering on a bunch of short stories and submitting them to magazines for publication. Then once the rights revert, I’ll self-pub the stories as ebooks or in anthologies. I sent my first one off last night, and have several other ideas percolating. So hopefully I can get that rolling this weekend.

New Bubba story forthcoming!

Nov 14

Posted by john in Appearances, Fiction, Real Life | No Comments

Yep, he’s back and bigger and badder than ever. This time Bubba faces his most deadly challenge yet – the ballet!

I intentionally went with kind of a cheezy font for this, because it’s kind of a cheesy little fun story. Bubba goes to the ballet to investigate strange occurrences, as usual things are not what they seem, and as usual there ends up with significant bloodshed and property damage. It’ll be out in ebook form sometime later this week.

I’ve also created a new print book that will primarily only be available at signings. It’s a sampler of sorts, with a Black Knight short story (Movie Knight), a Bubba story (Voodoo Children), a few of my literary fiction stories, and a few poems. It is actually available for order in print online (here’s the link), but I won’t be making this an ebook. The stories are all already available in other things, so I don’t see a lot of point in creating the ebook for this one. I just wanted a cheap sampler for people to pick up at art shows and things like that. Speaking of which, I’ll be at the NoDa All Arts Market this Friday night, so if you’re around, come on out to the Neighborhood Theatre and come see me!

Had a great weekend of music and theatre, starting Thursday night with Don Dixon and Marti Jones performing at The Evening Muse. Those guys are just awesome together. Then spent the weekend at the SC Theatre Association meeting, catching up with old friends and making new ones. Then last night I went back to the Muse and saw Bleu Edmondson and Roger Creager. They put on an awesome show in front of only about 60 people (sorry, it’s a bank town, what can I say? Nobody goes out on a school night). I’m a big Bleu Edmondson fan, and Creager killed it. It was a lot of fun, and a lot more dancing and jumping up and down than I’m used to at the Muse. Most of the stuff I go see there is pretty sedate, but most of the stuff I go see anywhere is pretty sedate.

So that’s what’s up. Genesis is gathering some good reviews, and starting to build some excitement, and I’ve already come up with my next bright shiny idea for a trilogy, so I need to get some writing done, fulfill some obligations, and get on with all these novels I have rolling around in my head!

What is Genesis, anyway?

Oct 26

Posted by john in Fiction, Return to Eden, Writing | 3 Comments


Aside from being a killer book cover, it might help to know a little about the book, huh?

Genesis is the first volume of the Return to Eden trilogy. Unlike The Black Knight Chronicles, which is an open-ended series of stand-alone stories featuring the same characters in a string of related, but largely unconnected adventures, Return to Eden will be a traditional trilogy. It’s a three-book story, then we’re done.

The story centers on 17-year-old Christin Kinsey, her brother Matt, and the group of survivors they assemble in their journey. In the aftermath of an EMP (electro-magnetic pulse) attack, everything with a computer chip is fried, effectively throwing the world back a century in our technology. Most cars don’t work, most household appliances don’t work, and even if they did, there’s no electricity to power them. There’s no TV, no internet, no game consoles, no cell phones and no iPods.

Sounds like Hell for Teenagers, doesn’t it?

Well it gets worse. Not only do the teens have to learn how to survive in a world suddenly devoid of most of the creature comforts we’ve grown up with, but the basics of civilization start to erode with the infrastructure. Small-town sheriffs become more like feudal lords than law enforcement officers.

And then there’s the odd little fact that everyone between 13 and 20 seems to have suddenly developed superpowers. With the interference from technology gone, people are able to touch magic again, old, elemental magic. But only if you’re young enough, or open enough, to believe. So now the adults are acting like the kids in Lord of the Flies while a bunch of super-powered teenagers try to stay alive.

And all Christin really wants to do is make sure her mom is safe.

 

That’s a brief rundown on Genesis and the whole Return to Eden series. Available 11.11.11 wherever books are sold.

Stealing a good idea…

Oct 25

Posted by john in Business of publishing, Fiction, Return to Eden, Writing | No Comments

Baen Books is one of the pioneers in ebook sales, particularly in genre fiction. While I think they do a lot of things right, there are a couple of things I think they miss the boat on (notably, not having their ebooks available for purchase from Amazon, you know, the largest seller of books in any format in the world??). But since I don’t run the company or have any financial stake in anything they do, it’s not really any of my business.

But one thing Baen does that I’ve never seen anywhere else is offer e-ARCs for purchase. What’s an e-ARC, you might ask? Well, let’s start with what an ARC is. An ARC is an Advance Reader Copy,  a pre-release copy of a book typically provided to journalists, reviewers, or people of note to garner blurbs, reviews or hype about a book before it is released to the general public. An e-ARC is an electronic version of the same thing.

What Baen has done is turn this into a marketing tool, and a revenue stream as well. They sell e-ARCs on their website, making it very clear that these are not the final versions of the books. Things might change a little, there might be some further polishing, some cover edits, things like that, before the final book is released. But a hardcore fan doesn’t want to wait. Not only that, but these hardcore fans will actually pay a premium to get the book early.

I’m hoping that I have a few hardcore fans, because as of today I will be offering e-ARCs of Genesis for sale here on the website. These will not be sold at a premium, but will be the same price as the release price of the book – $2.99. These are ARCs, though, so don’t kill me on typos. If you find one, please send me an email and point it out, so I can change it before the final release. The cover is also not finalized, but will be close. So this is the whole story, the completed story, just not at its final polished state.

But if you’re one of those people who has to be the first one on your block to have the next cool thing, then this is your deal. This is the kickoff volume to my new series, a very different series than the other stuff of mine you’ve read. This is much less silly, and it’s designed to be teen-friendly, so no f-bombs.

And that was tough, let me tell you!

But here’s the link to buy with PayPal. Just shoot me $2.99, and within 24 hours I’ll email you the file in whatever format you choose (PDF, ePub or Kindle).Enjoy!

Your Email Address!
File Type (ePub/Kindle/PDF)

Knight Moves & Other WIPs updates

Jun 27

Posted by john in Fiction, Return to Eden, Vampires, Writing | 1 Comment

So Knight Moves will likely not be available for purchase in July of this year.

It’s not ready. That’s just the deal. I’ve completed a couple of drafts on the book, sent it off to some beta readers, and am awaiting feedback. I’ll then incorporate that feedback into another revision and send it off to my new editor, Lynn. Then (if the sample pages she did for me this weekend that led me to say “you’re hired” in about eight seconds are any indication) she will rip the thing to absolute shreds and I’ll spend a few weeks putting it back together. By this time July will be gone, and there won’t be a book yet. But when the book comes out it will be a few things. First, it will be the most expensive book I’ve published so far. Second, it will be the most polished, and hopefully typo-free. And I think it’s going to be pretty good.

I’m happy with the overall flow of the story. There’s a little more character development in this one than in the last two, and a few new characters added to the world. Some I kill, some leave town and some stick around, at least for a little while. There’s more Father Mike, because people missed him in Back in Black (so did I), and more Sabrina. There’s also a lot more bloodshed, and I think that I’ve successfully raised the stakes for the characters. They have more on the line than in the other books, and I think that makes for a stronger book.It’s about the same length as the others, maybe a hair shorter.

So it needs more polish, and that’s going to mean it won’t be out until the end of July at the latest, and August is more likely. Sorry if there was anyone really desperate for more of the Black Knight boys, but you can go to Amazon and pick up Movie Knight, the short story I published last weekend. That should hold you over. I’ll probably make another short story or two happen between now and the release of Knight Moves, so keep an eye out.

In the meantime, while I’m polishing Knight Moves, I’ve made some pretty good progress on Return to Eden. I’m pretty sure that will end up being the title for the series, so I’m not sure what this book will be called yet. For now, we’ll keep it as is and call it R2E. I hammered out a couple thousand words this weekend, then got stuck. I mean bad stuck, like a Hummer in a mudhole kinda stuck. So Suzy and I sat around for the better part of an hour brainstorming, and between the two of us we got the thing back on track. She helped a ton with the overall plot arc of the book, and that let me get back to outlining and writing. I’m about 25,000 words into the thing, and now I actually know where I’m going with it.

It’s going to need some serious love and attention when I finish the first draft, because I know the first 15K or so needs a total rewrite. The language just doesn’t work, it’s way too formal for the book, but I’m consciously not going back to work on that until I get to the end of the first draft. I can’t let myself go back and edit until I’m done with the first run – otherwise I’ll never write the damned book! But now that I know where I’m going it should come together pretty quickly, and I might have it ready to go as early as September. It’s a big departure from The Black Knight Chronicles, but I think most folks will like it. I’m really starting to dig these characters, for totally different reasons than the BK boys.

Then since I didn’t have anything better to do, and because I can’t resist a bright shiny, I started a completely different book. And by completely different, I mean a cop thriller. No magic, no supernatural creatures, just a serial killer and a cop that’s chasing him. I’ve got the first couple of chapters done, and I’ve got the outline done for that as well. That one’s been an interesting journey as well, because the character that I started Chapter 1 with, who I thought was going to be the main character for the whole book, turned out to be the sidekick. Because it can’t be his book, it has to be the cop’s book. I think it’s an interesting concept, and once it’s a little further along I’ll give you a couple of hints about it to see what you guys think. It should be finished up early fall as well, maybe October or so.

So in summary -

Knight Moves will not be available in July, but should be out in August.

Return to Eden (tentative title) will be out early fall, maybe as early as September.

Untitled Thriller will be out later in the fall, maybe as early as October.

I’ve got a bunch of Black Knight short stories in mind, and want to get at least one per month out for the rest of the year.

Black Knight Book 4 will be coming late this year or early 2012, depending on how quickly I finish up the other stuff. I already know a little about that book, as in what will be the Big Bad and what a couple of subplots are going to be. I also know the Big Bad for Books 5 & 6 in that series, so that’s a good outlook for next year.

Welcome to October!

Oct 1

Posted by john in Fiction, Vampires, Writing | 1 Comment

I know, I’ve let this blog languish while I was off writing other things, like silly vampire novels. And now my blog feels like the sponge mop in the Swiffer commercials. So sorry, I suck, but the first draft of the vampire novel is finished. It’s going to be called Hard Day’s Knight, and will be the first of a series called the Black Knight Chronicles. It’s a snarky, somewhat comic vampire series based around a pair of geeky vampire detective. I’ll paste in an excerpt below.

If you’re here because you found the link through Amanda Hocking’s Zombiepalooza blog, then my nefarious plan has worked! BWAHAHAHAHA!!! Sorry. Anyway, thanks for stopping by, and I hope you’ll poke around a little. My first novel, The Chosen, is available from Amazon, on the iBookstore, and from Lulu. There’s a sample on The Chosen tab, check it out. Let me know what you think. I’ve got some live events coming up as well, so if you’re anywhere near Charlotte, let me know and come out and say hello.

So here’s a sample of my next book, Hard Day’s Knight, available in November wherever independent books are sold.

Chapter 1

I hate waking up in an unfamiliar place. I’ve slept in pretty much the same bed for the past twenty years, so when I wake up someplace new, it really throws me off. When that someplace is tied to a metal folding chair in the center of an abandoned warehouse that reeks of stale cigarette smoke, gasoline and harbor water  – well, that really started my night off on a sparkling note.

My mood deteriorated even further when I heard a voice behind me say “It’s about time you woke up, bloodsucker.” I mean, seriously, why do people have to be so rude? It’s a condition, like freckles. I’m a vampire. Deal with it. But we can do without the slurs, thank you very much.

“Go easy on the bloodsucker, pal. I haven’t had breakfast.” Was what I tried to say. But since my mouth was duct-taped shut, it came out more like “Mm mmmm mm mmm-mmmmmmm, mmm. Mm mmmmmm mmm mmmmm.” My repartee was gonna need an assist if I was going to talk my way out of this. Of course, if my mysterious captor had wanted me dead, he’d had all day to make that happen, but instead I woke up tied to a chair. I tested my bonds, but I was tied tight, and whatever he had bound me with burned, so it was either blessed, and he was devout, or it was silver. My money was on silver. The true believers are more the stake ‘em in the coffins type than the kidnap them and tie them to chairs type.

“I think, bloodsucker, that since I’m the one with the stake, I get to call you whatever I want. And you, as the one tied to the chair with silver chains, get to sit there and do whatever I say.” My captor moved around in front where I could get a good look at him. I knew him, of course. It’s never the new guy in town who ties you to a chair, it’s always that kinda creepy guy who you’ve seen lurking around the cemetery for a couple weeks. The one that you’re not sure if he was there to mourn or for some other reason. And of course, it was always some other reason.

I’d seen this guy hanging around one of the big oak trees in my cemetery, near the freshest grave in the joint, for a couple of weeks. I never thought much of his wardrobe until now, but in retrospect he was wearing almost stereotypical vampire hunter garb. Black jeans, black boots, long black coat, wide-brimmed black hat. Christ, I bet he owned the Van Helsing Blu-Ray. I swore then that if I ever got the chance, I was eating Hugh Jackman’s liver. No, we don’t usually eat people, but liver’s liver, and I was pissed. I had been caught and trussed up like a Thankgsiving turkey by a skinny twenty-something who watched too many bad vampire movies.

This kid was white, about twenty-three, with mousy brown hair and looked like he played too much Call of Duty instead of getting a job. His skin was paler than mine, for crying out loud, and I’m dead! He was a hair over six foot, weighed maybe one-forty soaking wet, and either had an asthma inhaler in his front pocket or was happy to see me. God, I hoped it was an inhaler.

“Mmmm mmmmm mm mmm mmmm mm mm mm?” I asked, which was supposed to be more of a what do you want me to do type of query, but my mouth was still taped shut. The kid reached forward and ripped the tape off, taking a layer or two of skin with it. “OWWW!” I yelled, straining against my bonds. “You little rat bastard, I swear to God I am going to drink you dry and leave your body on the lawn like an empty bag of flesh!”

I admit, my similes need work.

“I don’t think so, bloodsucker. I think you’re going to do anything I tell you to, or I’ll just leave you tied up there to starve.” He had a point there. It’s not like there were very many people who would miss a vampire, and I hadn’t yet figured out how to get loose from whatever silver-lined bonds he’d created.

“Alright, what do you want?” I asked. Might as well find out right now if he wanted something simple or…

“I want you to turn me,” he replied. The look of hope on his face was a little pathetic, really, but there was a determination there that was disturbing. This was not going to be easy.

“No.” I wanted to get the short and simple part out of the way first, then we could move on to the lengthy explanations.

“Why not?” Wow, from zero to whiny little bitch in .4 seconds. If I’d ever had any thoughts of actually turning this scrawny little zit-farm into a vamp, they would have just evaporated.

“Because I don’t turn people. Because this life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Because I don’t know how to turn people. Because you’d miss all those romantical sunsets you probably write mediocre poetry about. Because it’s not fair to the ecosystem to add another predator. All of the above. None of the above. Pick a reason, kid, any reason you like. I’m not turning you.” I started to look around for another way to get out of this mess, but it didn’t look good for our hero. Or at least my hero, and it’s my story.

For a skinny little gamer-geek, he’d done a good job tying me up. I guess that’s another thing we can thank the internet for – unlimited access to fetish porn has improved the knot-tying ability of men who can’t get dates. I couldn’t exactly see my hands, but by straining around, I could see that my ankles were tied to separate legs of the chair with those plastic zip-ties you get in the electrical aisle. I could see a silver necklace wound around each tie, and by the way my wrists felt, he’d done the same thing there. The chair was the standard metal folding type, the kind that gets sacrificed in countless professional wrestling matches. So I was pretty well neutralized. The silver sapped the strength from my arms just by the contact, and I couldn’t get enough leverage with my legs to do anything useful. I looked up to try and Jedi mind trick my kidnapper, when I noticed two things – one – he was wearing polarized sunglasses, which was a neat idea, although ultimately useless against my mental abilities, and two – he was crying.

“You have to turn me!” He wailed, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I don’t have anything left, and this is the only way I can think to get by.”

I couldn’t believe it; I was actually starting to feel sorry for the guy. “Okay, kid. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong and I’ll see if I can help.”

“No one can help, but if I were one of the Undead I could help myself.” I swear I could actually hear him capitalize undead.

“You know that’s kinda my job, right? Helping people that can’t help themselves. Kinda like the A-Team, without the Mohawk and the van. Reach into my shirt pocket and grab a business card. I promise not to bite you, and as you know we Undead cannot tell a lie.” Total bull, but I’ve often found with people dumb enough to romanticize the whole vampire thing that a little mendacity goes a long way. He reached into my pocket and took out a business card. It had my name, James Black, and cell phone number under a logo that said “Black Knight Detectives, shedding light on your darkest problems.” Neither the company name nor the stupid slogan was my idea. And I prefer Jimmy.

“You’re a detective?” I nodded. “And you think you can help me?”

“Well, I can’t really know that until you tell me what your problem is. So why don’t you untie me, and we can talk about this like a pair of reasonable people?” I put a little mojo into my eyes, and he started towards me with a pair of wire cutters in his hand. And that’s when things went to hell.

Want to know what happens next? The book comes out next month!