WRITING SAMPLES 

CONCESSIONS

This sample is from a short story that will be featured in an upcoming self-published collection, Sinister Shapes and Sadistic Symmetries 

Concessions is a tale of a man who must concede all the wrongs he committed to the one person he ever truly loved.  

          Thomas Lang always suffered the same nightmare whenever he fell asleep.  He saw his wife, Kara just standing there without a care in the world.  Tom couldn’t tell where they were, some nondescript field under a sunless sky with his wife poised next to a grey, gnarled, tree devoid of any leaves along its monstrous branches.  A knot would always form in his throat as he looked at her.  He wanted to scream, curse, then sob for her to return home but the sounds would never come.  Muted and impotent, Thomas just stood, gazing at the form of his wife.

            Kara’s warmth, her smile and figure would sway next to the monstrous tree.  It was only when Tom felt the familiar pangs of guilt beat against his chest did she start to change.  Tinges of red, pink hints of vibrancy and life corroded to a grey hue almost matching the same color as the old tree.  The weight of life in her withered and became nothing more than bones held inside sagging bags of dried skin.  Strands of blonde hair floated from her scalp before eventually clumps would be blown away in their entirety by a numbing wind.  Thomas didn’t care about any of that, he still had his wife, still needed her.  But it was when her eyes changed that he lost any and all recognition of Kara. Emerald stones darkened into two pitch-black voids nestled within her skull.

            There never was any doubt.  Thomas knew he was planted in the middle of a dream.  But, to see his wife after six months made him wish for any modicum of reality in the dreamscape he found himself.  The blackness in Kara’s eyes started to sparkle, something swimming beneath the surface just on the brink of lashing out and attacking. Her lunge forward was just as spontaneous, a blur of violence he never thought resided inside her.  That was when Tom’s own eyes would open. 

            “Tommy, you having a stroke over there or what?”  A familiar voice asked from the driver’s seat. 

            The entire girth housed in and about Caleb was something barely contained in the confines of the driver’s side of Thomas’ sedan.  It was no surprise.  Tom knew spending three times a week at a gun range then rehydrating with beers at the nearby bar didn’t qualify as exercise to anyone but Caleb.

            “I’m alright.”  Thomas said, ignoring the coozie-wrapped, silver, can in the big man’s hand. 

            “Hell, we could have packed more guns in my ride.”  Caleb said.

            “We didn’t need any guns to begin with.” 

            Caleb shifted again and revealed a holstered pistol jutting out of side.  “One shotty and one glock might not be enough for some crazy cult of drugged up hippies.” 

            “I told you.  He’s some alternative medicine quack, a holistic doctor, a snake-oil salesman.” 

            Caleb rolled his eyes and blew a raspberry that thankfully rippled out his mouth. 

            “That’s what they all say, then we’re all getting hacked to bits and thrown in some fire pit or being fed to pigs or getting our skin sliced off and made into-.”

            “I get it!” 

            Tom didn’t look at his friend.  Instead, he gazed at the moving landscape along the straight-shot of vacant road.

            “What time is it?”  Tom asked.

            “About quarter to five.” 

            “Shit!  And its Friday, right?  I forgot to call Kara’s mom and check on Gabby again.” 

            Their daughter was a perfect amalgamation of Tom and his wife.  A pudgy child, Gabby Lang was a bright-eyed joy to both of her parents.  The child saw wonder in everything.  Even when Kara grew ill, the sunny disposition in their daughter remained a constant.  It was only when the beloved wife and worshipped mother left, did that spark in their child become doused with grief laden tears to smolder anything resembling happiness to ash.

            “Hell man, you been asleep since I took the wheel back in St. Francisville.  I figured this whole thing was taking its toll.  So, I decided to let you get some shut-eye.” 

            The urge to find Kara kept Tom awake at almost every hour.  Since she left the family on a pilgrimage for a cure, Tom morphed into an anxious wreck.  Sleeping, eating, and even conducting the basic needs of his child had to be remembered.  The only thing that remained in his psyche was finding his wife.  Even his memory began to pay for it.  His brain became a fog ridden mess.  Knowing it was too late to call, Thomas pushed the notion aside. 

            “Do you know how much further we got?”  Thomas asked.

            “Until the Waco: Part 2?  I’d guess still a ways to go until we get to this compound you talked about,” said Caleb.

            “Think we can make it there by tonight?”

            “Damn Tommy, we’ve been on the road nonstop.”  Caleb whistled.  “You think if we were heading out to rescue Kara you’d want get your strength back first.  Hell, who knows what they got in the boonies, snipers hiding in trees or bear traps laid out in the fields.”

            Thomas sighed at his gun-nut compatriot.  “For the last time, Shaw is a con man and those people who gravitate to him are harmless. Most are probably dying for God’s sake.  They’re desperate to cure whatever’s killing them.” 

INTO THE SAVAGE: NOMAD'S PURSUIT

The upcoming novella brought to you by Endless Ink Publishing.  Take a step into the savage!

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In a futuristic land ravaged by near infinite wars between city nations, Ensign Grayson Wells, a man both haunted and blessed by his high genetic markings, must embark on his first real mission, to hunt down a renegade soldier responsible for unleashing a deadly pathogen through the confines of Colossal City-1, a task that seems impossible because he must delve deep within lush and wild forests with a team of rookies against a figure labelled the most vicious and savage their homeland could produce, a nomad with an allegiance only to himself.

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         Electricity surged through the back panel of the view monitor.  The blackened room lit with a fluorescent life to display a battlefield, seemingly countless miles away from where Grayson Wells stood.  The landscape was a desolate, smoking, heap.  Bodies of men and women clad in damaged battle armor sprawled among the blood-soaked ground.  He could not tell where he was taken too in the darkness of his home.  Was this some rival nation, now on the cusp of defeat?  Or perhaps was this some insurgent stronghold, infiltrated and now destined for ruin?  It didn’t matter, in the end Grayson new what the result would be.  Gunfire, lasers, and automated rifles sliced through the air amid quick explosions in the background.  There was a roar followed by a massive shadow enveloping the lens of Grayson’s outdated viewing tech.  He watched the hulking, high alloy, armor-plated, assault raiders launch forth on treads indiscriminate about the bodies they crushed underneath.

            They rolled forth, emblazoned with the familiar insignia of Grayson’s homeland, a zealous icon of a crowned tree mounted atop spidery roots covering all the known world.  The assault raiders smashed through the improvised barricades of destroyed walls and former buildings.  Each of the dozens of vehicles screeched to a stop while mounted cannons fired remotely at their distant enemies.  The cannons and unmanned rifles throttled to life in a hail of reds and bright orange lights.  In the covering fire, a remote holding Grayson watched the tank doors open.  More soldiers, heavy rifles in hand and clad in specialized grey combat armor, spilled forth from the metal wombs. 

            As the soldiers charged, a solitary figure sprinted ahead, straight into oncoming fire.  The leader raised their weapon and unleashed a series of gunfire of their own with a marksman’s precision.  In the distance, a series of red explosions marked each successful shot.  Grayson smirked, the production and camera work was superb.  The leader crashed the first line of enemy combatants, followed by a string of equally determined soldiers.  The enemy sprawled about, clad in blackish armor, an easy way to pinpoint who to cheer for, and who to fear even in the deepest sleep.  As the line of enemy infantry broke, the leader and followers pushed forward to the next line, then another, and another. 

            With each successful push towards the unseen goal, few soldiers allied with Grayson’s mandatory beloved nation fell.  But these were the martyrs, the slain saints meant to rally both soldier and citizen to an unbreakable unity meshing both into the bosom of the nation.  Grayson sighed, these were the heavy-handed parts.

            More chaos erupted and eventually the lines of enemy defense were destroyed.  Amidst smoke and rising ash, a silence covered the soldiers like an invisible blanket.  A man staggered towards their leader, their hero who ran headlong into battle absent any self-preservation.   He handed something over, a pole, draped with a large fabric. 

            The helmeted figure raised the flag high before piercing it into the bosom of enemy territory.  Their helmet flew off in revelation.  It was a man, ivory, perfect, adorned with piercing eyes and a set of artificially enhanced, white, teeth.  The crew-cut man rose his fist into the air once again, signaling for surviving soldiers’ attention. 

            “For Colossal-1!”  He shouted.

            The faceless soldiers followed suit and raised their fists high and echoed the same words.

            “For Colossal-1!”  A hivemind mouth echoed.

            The screen focused on the flag, the icon, followed by emblazoned and capitalized words:

CITIZENRY, CHIVALRY, CONTINUOUSLY FOR COLOSSAL-1.

            With the infotainment over, Grayson pressed the remote before tossing it to the side.  He checked the time and moved to the door.

            Sometimes, whenever he stood at the front stoop of his elevated dwelling, Grayson wondered what it felt like to be under the sun.  Not the neon, fluorescent, and artificial grope of manmade luminescence hanging in mockery of the primitive orb, but the actual caress of Sol itself.  His eyes stared upwards then squinted, as if he could pierce through the grey shield blocking his sight.  Grayson sighed, it would be useless anyway, even if he could see through the thick fog, the tons of thick steel would block any view of the outside world.  Sometimes, he wished seeing outside of Colossal City-1 and towards something greater.  But in this world, Grayson reminded himself not to wish for such things when he already had so much compared to countless others. 

            Both hands fell against his breathing mask and down towards the tube and into the filter box near his chest.  Everything in place, there was no worry of contamination.  He could have called for an escort, a driver to take him where he needed, but in the scant hours of the morning, it was safer, and better to cross the cityscape to the capital.  The commute through the mass transit network was calming, and a reminder of the actual world despite any creature-comforts he might receive to cloud his mind. 

            Grayson almost strolled along the granite walkways to the stations.  With his officer’s coat pristine and shining in a glistening black, his status was made evident to anyone foolish enough to think of him an easy target.  Muggers, kidnappers, organ-harvesters, or worse, would see him and know, at the very least, an automatic sidearm rested casually at the hip, and at the very worst, they would know Grayson knew people in high places.  The notion would especially sink in once his mask was off, and they’d see the young man adorning posters along the walls and in the, sometimes, flashed, adverts in support of the city’s long-lived infrastructure.  For as long as Grayson could remember, there was never an incident.  Even without his station unveiled for the denizens of the city, he cut an imposing figure, lean and built for combat.  He stopped at a booth connected to a massive locked gate.  Unmanned, unfeeling, unconcerned, a red eye flashed to life at the top center of the machine.  This was the guardian blocking all passage to the station cars for sorry souls unable not pay the toll. 

            There was no need to purchase a ticket.  Instead, Grayson adjusted his jacket and maneuvered his breast-borne badge to the scanner.  An approving signal chimed into the atmosphere and the blockade of steel separated.  Same as always, Grayson’s footsteps transcended from and to the shuttle bay’s echoing metal halls.  Footsteps clamored as he strolled to his desired car. 

            Sometimes others would be waiting in the cars.  Not, bustling laborers and clerks moving from job to hovel or to some nearby dive-bar.  Instead, others distantly matching Grayson in status would sit apart.  Some were doctors, others were technicians or engineers, or the play toys of high ranking members of the city-class.  Those among him scattered throughout the seats of the seats bore the same type of masks, sometimes of the same regulated and high quality full covering.  Most often than not, many wore only the types of cheapened recycled plastic t along one’s mouth.  Such types of masks were reliable and plenty to those without the funds and backing to constitute a more expensive piece. Grayson heard someone coughing.  Ill-fitting masks, or improper maintenance, sometimes led to the type of cough he heard and would always to spiral much worse.  Grayson never stared too long as those travelling with him, yet he allowed them the privilege to look for as long as they desired.  After all, they did in front of their home monitors.  His eyes flickered to travelers taking a seat, then out to gaze into the dense copse of spires sprouting out of unseen soil and almost grazing the city’s dome. 

Though Grayson tried to avert his eyes, he noticed heads positioned into his direction.  They wouldn’t approach him, a small thing to be thankful for.  Not even the intense awe of seeing someone with a face emblazoned throughout the slums of C-1 would bring the city’s labor to interact with him.  With the back of his head exposed to the open morning air, his muscular frame and shining badge, it was easy to garner his identity.  No, Grayson’s fellow citizens would not interact with him, out of respect, fear, or hate, there was no way to tell, Grayson mused quietly.  More than likely, it was all those emotions keeping the city’s people at arm’s length.  He was a face for them, a rhetoric on their behalf, a binary to the clean-cut military man on the screen, or the female beauty heralded as Colossal-1’s future leader and savior.  

TRUTH IN SHADOWS

This flash fiction story was featured in a 2015 digital feature at Flash Fiction Magazine.

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               I gaze high into the rafters of the chapel ceiling.  The beam from my flashlight stops before the shadows, unable to pierce through the abyss.  As my eyes wander upward I remember the warnings I refused to heed.  Leave, go back home.  A force laid claim to this land long before God came into the minds of man.  Stay away, I was told.  There was nothing in that place but foulness, old and forgotten.  Here I stand.

                Vacant pews sit, broken down and weather beaten.  Along the floorboards books are strewn.  Moldy pages crumple under my feet as I move deeper into the old church.  My steps echo in the hollow structure and my focus only on a secret that fear and superstition had guarded.  I stop before the altar, the sight of such a thing an anomaly to me. 

                Research revealed to me the date of the chapel but the altar it housed appeared far older.  Assembled from large stones and engraved with symbols both foreign and unreal, the shrine seemed to honor a force other than the Holy Father.  I shine my flashlight on the altar and continue my inspection of the stones.  The etchings become more visible but remain beyond my brain’s comprehension.  

                What were these strange swirling glyphs?  Why are they arranged in much a mindboggling array? My questions are many but silence is my only answer.  I decide to continue my investigation and move past the altar before I stop.  There are no dancing shadows or phantoms in the dark that freeze my tracks.  There is just a passage at the far end that gives my heart pause.  I scramble passed the altar and descend the stairwell.

                My walking grows faster before turning into a sprint.  I gasp hard for air as I race deeper down.  My light bounces from spot to spot like the sun rising and setting in a mad dance in my grasp.  Descending further the stone walls of the church give way to clay and dirt.

                Cold beads of sweat pour down my burning face before finally, I reach the bottom.  I now stand in a tunnel, a burrow as if created by some great worm.  In my mindset even this oddity does not slow me.  Onward I go, keeping my mad pace my feet act on impulse.  The snaking corridors of packed soil ends, I find myself in a vast circular room. 

On the soft dirt the glow of my light reflects several protrusions of a yellowish, white, hue.  Shreds of clothing remain on the objects lying before me.   Skeletal hands still clutch onto lanterns, pens, journals, and other objects used to capture knowledge.   In empty eye sockets the allure of forbidden secrets still linger.

My flashlight begins to flicker, with each pause the darkness grows and the shadows creep closer.  I now know what secret waited for me.  In the nothingness of the earth I stand, the black nothing of the cold soil wrapping around my body and soul.