Six-Gun Conjurer (Lucky 7 Sneak Peek)

Fellow writer Ellie Garratt bestowed a special gift upon me last Monday, in the form of a tag.  It seems there is a blogtastic exercise rolling around the internet, and I've been given the opportunity to participate.  How fun!

How this works is pretty simple: 

1. Go to page 77 of your current Manuscript/Work In Progress.

2. Go to line 7.

3. Copy down the next 7 sentences or paragraphs, and post them as they are written.

4. Tag 7 other authors.

My current work in progress has yet to reach page 77, so I'll go back to my last finished work, tentatively entitled The Six Gun Conjurer.  I suppose you can still call this a work in progress, since the last round of revisions won't be complete until it goes to the publisher later this summer.

"Do ye be needin' a spot of help, boys?" Flaherty asked, the leprechaun looking as spiffy as ever in his tweed suit.

"Not your kind of help," Ron grumbled, disinclined to trust the magic-using dwarf whose intentions were questionable at the best of times.

 "Well, tough, you've got it," Flaherty argued.  "I"ll not see me adopted home town wrecked like this.  Who'll vote for me then?"

Ron wanted to laugh.  The leprechaun who would be mayor was more interested in securing votes than actually helping anyone.  His valiant effort to quell the disturbance was about personal gain.  If it could win him the election to join the riots, he'd be leading them instead.

Still, understanding Flaherty's motivation, Ron felt he could be helpful.

"All right, leppercon.  Think you've got the power to bust up this pack of brawlers in front of us?"

"Aye, but you maybe want to be standing by to arrest the ringleaders after the fact.  They'll still be stirring for a fight, and they'll get it outside o' jail."

Not the most exciting bit of fiction, but it's the Lucky 7 thingy.

Okay, now to tag 7 more writers, and see how many of them are willing to share:

Tony Benson
Alva J. Roberts
Matt Nord
A.D. Spencer
A.C. Hall
Michael Offutt
D. Nathan Hilliard

West of the Warlock (Peek/Sample 1)

There are a lot of new people reading the blog these days, and many of them aren't aware that much of my unique Fantasy-Western cross-genre novel is available to read for free at Hall Brothers Entertainment.  So, for those who haven't stopped over there and started reading, here is the beginning of Episode 1:

The dust of the hills rolled up in great plumes behind the stagecoach as it thundered down the well-traveled road. The blued steel plates glistened in the late-afternoon sun, an armored behemoth among parched sagebrush. It was the pride of the fleet, owned and operated by Ferguson and Finney Limited. The mining consortium had a dozen coaches that made trips between Sacramento and Selwood, but this one was special, for transporting the most valuable cargoes.

The beasts hauling the coach were not horses, but sand mares. The cold-blooded reptilians looked more akin to dragons than equines, with scales and thorny protrusions covering them from head to tail. Six of the bulky creatures were attached to the yokes, and even with the heavy load they could outrun the fastest racehorse. The wild version native to the southern Rockies and Sierra Nevadas could turn you into a tasty snack with ease, though the domesticated variety were gentle enough, and could gallop in a smooth fashion.

Atop the armored coach sat a round cylinder of menacing armaments; the famed Gatling gun, the greatest machine gun of the day. With a few turns of the crank, it could fend off a pack of angry Indians, or slaughter the most ruthless elven bandits. Additional backup lurked inside the coach, as a pair of well-armed men waited with rifles and pistols, prepared to defend the cargo with their lives.

None could stand against the combined strength of these defenses which sought to safeguard this special transport, or so the stockholders hoped.

The man smiled. He's seen it all before. Similar weapons had done no good last week for a band of disagreeable elves. The pointies really thought that a few hunks of metal and a few guns could stand up to his might, but he'd shown them. The rowdy claim-jumpers who'd wanted to hoard a mother load of antimony had tasted his wrath, and not one had lived to tell of it.

That had merely been a warm up. Today, the warlock in black would prove his true mettle.

Rubbing at his chin, the warlock felt the start of stubble growing there, and his thoughts momentarily shifted to his personal hygiene. He was never one for beards, and he'd be damned if he'd grow one like the old stuffed shirts at the academy. How careless he was being, forgetting to shave over the excitement of a heist. That could not be tolerated.

With a thought and a rolling of his eyes, the man activated the magic at his command, and a ripple of red rolled down his face, removing the tiny stubble growing on his cheeks and chin. The end result was a perfect shave, smoother than the best barber could provide. He stroked himself appreciatively, and decided he was ready.

Stretching out his arm, the man formulated a magic spell in his head, and directed it toward the charging sand mares. A scarcely visible streak of light flashed through the air and shot into each of the animals, disrupting their central nervous systems. Paralyzed, they stopped dead in their tracks, and began to tumble from their remaining inertia.

Under ordinary circumstances, a stagecoach would flip over, or even end-for-end after such an abrupt stop, but the added weight of the armor plates prevented the thing from toppling. Its back wheels lurched up in the air a couple of feet, then came back down with a great crash, bringing everything to a halt.

With the coach motionless, it would be such a simple task for any parlor magician to teleport the wealth inside, or so the man in black believed until he tried. Clearly, the brains behind this armored wagon's design had anticipated the possibility of mystic assault, and laced the exterior with a neutralizing ward. Your typical warlock or elvish bandit would find it impossible to extract anything from within the vehicle, though there was nothing typical about this darkly clothed gentleman. If he wished, he could defeat the magic wards, and take what he desired with a thought, though encountering resistance made him bold, and eager to face his foes in person.

"Time to say hello,"

If that piques your interest, be sure to get over to Hall Brothers Entertainment, and download the whole first Episode.  Then, get the other 7 for free, and buy the book, which contains more of the story plus extras!

The Curse of Selwood (Peek 2)

We're still several months away from the release of the second Fantasy Western novel, but while we're waiting for "The Curse of Selwood," I'd like to share another short snippet from Episode 1.

            The creature crawled out of his cave, the thin, emaciated being in the rough form of a humanoid.  While proportioned much like a human being, he was certainly not a man.  Bony protrusions jutted out of every joint, forming a crusty exoskeleton over his slim body.  The face was parched and flaking, akin to white sandstone, and the skin was sucked so tightly against the skull to appear ghastly.  No hair could be found upon his scalp, but a few black tufts sat along his jaw line.

            One might assume the creature to be native to the desert, and in recent years he had been, though that had not always been the case.

            Hearing the train, the bony being moved to action, rushing across the dusty landscape like a jackrabbit.  Speed increased with every lurching leap until the creature came to the top of a ridge and saw his quarry, the metal machine of man spewing black smoke from its stack, towing a dozen boxcars along the steel rails.

            The train was picking up speed, going faster than any horse could run, though that did not deter the creature from continuing the pursuit.  Racing down the hillside, the being rushed faster, darting along at remarkable velocity—soon matching, and then surpassing the rolling wheels of the locomotive.  He was within striking distance of the caboose before long, and made his move onto the back deck, reaching it in one leap.

            The moment was approaching at last; the time of retribution!

For those of you who haven't yet read West of the Warlock, be sure to get over to Hall Brothers Entertainment and read 75% of it for free, and if you really like it be sure to pick up a copy of the published book, which contains a lot of extra material that will tie into the forthcoming sequel!

The Guns of Mars (Peek 2)

So far, this week has been a lot of prep work.  I've been writing a lot of pitch material, and crafting some more in-depth treatments for various projects I have in the pipeline.  I managed to get a few paragraphs down on the Six-Gun Conjurer, and hope to finally settle in to finish it off in the next few weeks.  Things are getting interesting.

Moving on to this week's Sneak Peek, we have another sample from The Guns of Mars (a book you should all consider buying, as it's one of my best).  This snippet is part of an intense exchange among some of Villas Colony's more prominent citizens.  Congress has just cut the space program budget, and the colonists of Mars must find a way to make ends meet to survive.  When economist Petra Euchland proposes an elimination of all salaries and that the colony be run as a "moneyless" society, Police Chief Timothy Keene doesn't take it lying down.

“A lot of us aren’t going to take a cut in pay lightly,” Tim added. “We may not have anything to buy now, but come retirement age, this planet will be hopping. A nest egg would come in handy.”

“What do you plan to buy?” Petra asked, amused by Tim’s defiance. “We’ll always have everything we need and simple luxuries. In fact, if we put our salaries toward the needs of the colony, and the next Congress decides to restore our budget, we’ll have a healthy surplus to provide all kinds of extras.”

“Hey, now you’re just talking crazy,” Tim countered. “Putting our salaries toward necessities is one thing, but if we get our funding back, I expect my salary reinstated—along with all my back pay! You’re not confiscating my wealth to buy luxuries for everybody else. I earn that money. I decide how it’s spent.”

“Wouldn’t you rather everyone in the community benefit by pooling resources, rather than you alone wasting it frivolously?”

“Who says I want to be a part of this ‘community’ forever? What if, in another fifty years, I get tired of that little gray box I’m living in and want to buy myself a hunk of land and go prospecting? There’s a future in micro-dome housing, and plenty of Martian real-estate to purchase.”

Petra laughed rudely. “You’ve been reading too many fantasy novels, Tim. Real-estate on Mars? Really? This isn’t the wild west. You can’t go out and stake a claim. Private property is never going to be an option in this kind of environment.”

“That’ll change someday!” Timothy shouted.

Virtual Domination (Cut Scene)

It's the previously-unreleased 4th volume in the Morgan Asher series, and the 3rd book in my "Virtual Saga."  Virtual Domination is one of my personal favorites among my various works, even though I've yet to see it in print.  I haven't put forth a rigorous submissions campaign for this book for various reasons, but in the coming months I hope to change that, and find someone interested in releasing it.

In the meantime, I'd like to introduce you to one of the supporting characters in the book.  Selena Griswold is a new addition to the cast, appearing for the first time in this volume.  My original introduction to her was a long narrative that comprised the first part of Chapter 3, but as it was something of an ungainly info-dump, I removed it; writing a new intro and interspersing any relevant data from it into future chapters.

Still, the original, rough draft introduction is interesting to some extent, and it'll help you glean some insight into this character long before the book ever comes out.  Get ready to meet Selena Griswold!

Selena Griswold was a confident woman, in all aspects.  She knew what she wanted, and went for it, and her desires were always predicated on the notion that she knew what was right, above and beyond what anyone else told her.  This had gotten her into quite a bit of trouble as a child, as she'd been apt to correct her elders when their opinions disagreed with hers.  Fortunately for her, such rebellious behavior was a trait her parents appreciated, or she might have found her spirits crushed.

            Where her parents accepted her cavalier attitude in all things, college professors were another matter.  They didn't always give her leeway when she challenged the establishment theorems, and after two year of butting heads she decided psychology wasn't for her, and instead sought out a more adventurous life, one inside a computer.  She had enough saved in her college account to fund an indefinite stay in Fantasan, where her robust demeanor would prove to be an asset.

            The occult had always piqued her curiosity as a child, so it was natural that she selected the life of a sorceress in the fantasy realm.  Though, she soon learned that the ways of magic had nothing to do with real-world witchcraft.  It did not involve demonic spirits, or reverence for Mother Nature.  It was just another learned mental ability, like mathematics or pattern recognition.  You figured out how to manipulate a new plain of existence that didn't exist in the real world, and it was quite easy for those with a knack for it.

            Selena definitely had a "knack" for magic, as she spent years traveling the imagined realm, performing day-to-day activities to keep herself fed.  There wasn't a lot of excitement at first, as she labored without the use of her hands.  Tilling soil is quite simple when you can dig with invisible mental force, and hammering nails was just as simple, when you had nails.  Of course, she also learned to manufacture the required building supplies from raw materials, to aid in her contracting tasks.

            After a decade of honing her talents, she journeyed beyond her "native land," and ventured across the Pendelor Mountain Range, a daunting and dangerous task few inhabitants of Taloraz ever pursued.  It was a rite of passage for daring tradesmen and wild adventurers, who sought to reach the western cities of the adjoining kingdom; the fair land of Rickard.

            The trip took her three weeks, but only once did she have the chance to battle a nasty dragon.  It was a silver sand-spinner, which had come up from the southern deserts to prey upon whatever wildlife it could find.  The beast spit sulfuric acid, and would have been lethal to someone without mastery over magic.  Selena's skills allowed her to neutralize the acid on contact, and she quickly did the same to the acid percolating in the lizard's veins, killing it.

            Death hadn't been her intention, and seeing she had vanquished the dragon left her feeling sullen and remorseful, even though it had tried to eat her.  A day she spent playing with her spells, seeing if she could somehow revive the beast, and when that proved futile she moved on, but not before cutting off one of the dragon's small claws, to forever remind herself to be cautious, even in the heat of battle.

            Truly, she was a gentle soul, whose desire for adventure had borne more fruit than she'd intended.

            Coming down out of the mountains, Selena found the bustling trading center of Candovar, on the shores of a crystal clear lake.  This was the northwestern tip of Rickard, a land notorious for its prosperity and freedom.  Rumors told of a gregarious monarch who ruled this vast expanse, and she decided to go see if there was any truth to the stories.

            It took her nearly a year to gain an audience with the king, after which she regretted the wasted time.  She didn't appreciate his romantic overtures, and ended their meeting in a huff, drawing the attention of the more mannerly Archmage of the realm.   Her first impression of Alan Rome was far more favorable, and after a short talk she accepted the man's offer of invaluable tutelage.  He'd lived almost a hundred years, most of that in Fantasan, and his understanding of magic made her realize how little she really knew.  They worked closely together for three years, and then one day it all ended.  Her austere instructor refused to teach her further, and ordered her from his sight.  No rhyme or reason, just go, he commanded her, and with a teleportation spell she did as he asked.

            Selena had no idea why she'd been sent away, and the rejection left her sorrowful.  She'd grown attached to Alan in ways she was reluctant to admit.

            The place she now called home was a small farm on the northern edge of the Vastuar Tableland, an aged farmhouse on the edge of the woods.  A babbling brook trickled through the back yard, and a healthy orchard filled the front.  It was a pleasing retreat, where she found herself wiling away day after day, enjoying the peace of it all.

            She was sitting on the southern patio, rocking back and forth in a wicker chair, enjoying the rising sun with a cup of tea, when two men came walking up the driveway.  She immediately recognized one of the men, but didn't move to greet him.

            "Hello, Selena," Alan said as he walked onto the patio.

The Guns of Mars (Peek 1)

Certainly one of my better works, The Guns of Mars is a hard science fiction tale in the libertarian tradition of Heinlein.  It hasn't taken off as one might expect, but it received some pretty stellar reviews in the US and Canada, and one lukewarm review from the UK.  I think it just needs a few fresh readers to rekindle the fire and get sales moving again.  It's the story that everyone who hasn't discovered me yet should pick up (either in print or for kindle), to get a taste of my writing at its best.

For those who haven't yet read this fantastic story, here's a brief snippet from Chapter Eight:

The marines marched across the frozen wasteland for hours, making good time with little strain, thanks to the lighter pull of Martian gravity. By sunrise, they were less than a mile away from their objective. A rocky hillside stood before them, showing no obvious signs of life or that man’s hand had ever touched this section of the planet.

“This is it, men,” Avery shouted. His voice carried through a closed circuit communications network built into their suits, permitting them to speak to one another and block external eavesdropping.

“I don’t see it,” Lieutenant Barton said, his deep voice turned into a growl by the communication system.

Colonel Avery tapped a few buttons on his sleeve, activating a complex sensor array inside his helmet. The readings superimposed themselves on his visor, and enhanced pictures of the landscape ahead revealed several anomalous energy signatures along the ridgeline. “It’s there,” he told the others. “Keep your eyes sharp for...”

Before Avery could finish, Barton’s head exploded. A bullet had zipped through the air and blasted a hole through his helmet. The shot killed the lieutenant instantly, but the sudden decompression increased the gore tenfold.

The dozen men hit the ground, seeking whatever cover they could locate. There were several boulders nearby, which protected them from the sniper in the hills.

“We’ve been made!” Captain Biggs shouted.

Those who are interested in reading more can check out The Guns of Mars Page.

Hits, Flops, and What I Should Be Writing

Things sure have been busy lately, but you can understand that with the holidays and everything.  Though, the life of a writer is never lackadaisical.  I have more stories to write than years to live, and I expect to be around a long time to come!  There is only so much you can get down on the page, and ideas come to me on a daily basis.  It's a curious process to balancing what should get written and what shouldn't get written, which is often sidelined for whatever I feel like writing (which can go either way).

Of course, there's no telling what will and won't work until after you put it down and start marketing it.  Just look at some of the most successful works out there, and try to think like the writer beforehand, considering their potential.  Who would ever buy a book about a boy sorcerer, or an evil clown who turns out to be an alien spider?  Yet, Harry Potter and It are indisputable hits in the marketplace.  The same can be said of any famous work of fiction.  Nobody knows what will sell until after it does.

Over the last few weeks, I've managed to work on several different stories, and a few film scripts.  Beyond the West of the Warlock television project, I'm also planning a few other series which I'll try to pitch, including one based on my Rogue Investigations stories, and a little something called The Last Patriot, which will be based in the feudal future world I created in this summer's Independence Day special, The Patriot Awakened.  Any one of these shows could be a big hit, if they're picked up by a wise Hollywood producer.

So, moving to my sneak peek of the week (which dovetails with my comments about writing a hit), here's the start of a story that was recently accepted by Hall Brothers Entertainment for their forthcoming anthology, Untold Tales of the Past.  It's a quirky story that I put together one summer afternoon, based on a tongue-in-cheek fantasy theme.  One early reviewer mentioned it read like a Monty Python skit (whether that's good or bad is up to you).  Either way, you'll have to get the HBE anthology to find out, but here's the setup to A Bridge Too Near:

            Sir Chelmsford Chase knew he was the best.  Everyone told him so.  Whether it was the thrill of jousting, or the art of swordplay, he could win out every time, yet it was all fun and games.  He was tired of being kissed by noble ladies and adorned with superficial ribbons after staged competitions.  It was time he proved his mettle, and did something only "the best" could.

            Touring the tournament circuit, he'd heard lots of rumors; tales of evil sorcerers, demonic knights, and even hobgoblin-infested forests, but one task appealed to him more than all others.  The cursed bridge at Bannocksburg Crossing was said to be home to a troll, one notorious for eating the gentry.  This was the best chance for Chase to show everyone he really was the greatest combatant in the land.  To slay the troll, why, they'd sing songs about him until the end of time!

Prisoner of Time (Peek 2)

Prisoner of Time, the second volume in my "Virtual Saga," is only 99 cents for Kindle at the moment (Tell Your Friends!).  If you don't have a Kindle, the print edition is also affordable at my AuthorStore.  Spread Christmas cheer by giving books, or be good to yourself and get my writings for your own reading pleasure!

Okay, enough with the sales pitch.  Here's another free peek at Prisoner of Time.  This is the start of Chapter 6:

One never forgets the memory of having their mind downloaded into a virtual system.  The experience of being pure thought, then having your body reconstituted around your mind, and flying through the virtual ether toward a new reality seemingly as real as the one you just left; it was simply beyond anything imaginable.

            Morgan found that the second time around it was no less amazing.  If anything, the entire process was better, for he knew what to expect, and it didn't scare the heck out of him.  He was able to enjoy the fantastic sensations all the way, until that sudden snap of reality hit him, and he found himself lying down on the floor of a mausoleum.

            The first time he'd done this alone, but today he found a helpful hand reaching down to pick him up, though it caught him a little off-guard.  The man staring down at him was hard to recognize in the regal wizard's robes, and his face was no longer as youthful as it had been a few hours before.

            The young flesh of Alan Polansky was now replaced with more middle-aged features.  The once charcoal hair was half gray, the bulbous forehead was more pronounced by a receding hairline, and there was extensive wrinkling at the temples.

            "You sure got old quick," Morgan said, as Alan helped him to his feet.

            "Oh, yes.  I could never get used to being twenty five again, so I opted for fifty as a nice compromise.  It beats being ninety, but still provides for some seniority."

            Staring outside the mausoleum, Morgan saw a scene quite dissimilar from the one that had greeted him during his first visit to Fantasan.  Instead of a sunny day with grassy hills, here there was a steady drizzle with ragged trees blocking distant views.  It would be a wet walk to find shelter, but they couldn't linger in this access kiosk all day.

            "All right!" a youthful cheer sounded.

            Morgan turned around to see Baxter Redhawk dressed in glorious Ivanhoe armor.  The medieval suit made the ranch hand hardly recognizable.

            "Well, that's bound to be trouble," Alan said, examining the conspicuous youth.

            "What do you mean?  I'm a knight!  Stand forth, knave, and deliver!" he said, drawing his long sword.

            "Be careful with that thing, Baxter," Morgan warned, keeping his distance, fearful of losing an arm to the clumsy lad.

            "I'll have you know I'm an expert swordsman," Baxter replied, waving his blade about to get the feel of it.

            "That would be your first expertise," Morgan mentioned.  "Come on, let's get out of here."

            Stepping out into the rain, Morgan felt his leather boots sink half an inch into muck.  The dirt surrounding the mausoleum was recently upturned, as if something had attempted to dig under the structure.  Perhaps a wild animal seeking grubs, or some fortune-hunter dreaming of buried treasure.

            Finding the chilly spring rain to be unpleasant, Alan decided to put a stop to it.  Reaching up his arm and summoning the magic at his command, he attempted to activate a deflection screen over his body to prevent the moisture from touching his form.  Strangely enough, a field did not appear, but there came a burst of flame that covered his body for a split second and set his hair on fire.

            Morgan and Baxter stood in silent shock as Alan stomped around, smacking his hair with his damp palms, trying to snuff the flames.  Before his flesh could be burned, the hair was extinguished, leaving black soot oozing down his forehead with the rain water.

            "Why in God's name did you do that?" Morgan asked, trying to keep from laughing.

            "I don't understand.  That was a simple spell to deflect the rain.  It should not have set me ablaze."

            "Feeling a little rusty?" Morgan asked.

            "Nonsense!" Alan snapped.  "I am a master of the highest order.  Such a mediocre spell is well within my abilities.  Something is wrong here.  Things do not feel right."

Also, if you've read Prisoner of Time already, be sure to post a review of it at Amazon.com.  Thanks!

The Time Traveler's Illegal Harem (Peek 1)

As NaNoWriMo 2011 comes to a close, I'd like to take a moment to look back at last year, to the novel I was writing at that time.  I won the NaNoWriMo 2010 with a convoluted hard science fiction piece called "The Time Traveler's Illegal Harem," which is currently waiting for a thorough revision before I place it on the market.  I expect to get around to polishing it sometime this winter, but in the meantime I'll share this opening scene that doesn't need too much work. I expect it will pique your interest!

     The market was closing early these days, as the chills of autumn drove shoppers away.  The lingering light of dusk grew closer, as Winona Snapwick stowed her wares inside the travel trailer she used as a shop.  The aging box on wheels was all she owned, since her father had passed away during the last flu pandemic.  Of course, he'd never been very healthy, not since catching polio at sixteen.  He'd always walked with a limp, but never complained.

     Before closing the last cabinet, Winona paused to look at her wares.  The ticking timepieces held in cheap cases were beautiful in her eyes.  Some of these modern marvels she'd built herself, and others were her father's work from before his death.  All held hours of careful craftsmanship in their design, though few people could afford such extravagance.  These days, people were relying more on the municipal clocks to tell time, if they cared at all.  Those in the country kept schedules by the sun, and had no need for fancy watches.  It all left Winona's pocketbook light.

     Stowing the final case in the back of the trailer, Winona closed the shutters and clipped the locks, ready to haul her goods back to her place of residence.  "Home" was currently a little nook in the wall downtown, which doubled as her workshop.  There was running water, and city gas, so she could keep clean and warm, and it was affordable.  Still, it wasn't much, and food could be sparse.

     With everything secured for transport, Winona walked over to the livery stable, to pick up her aging mare.  Digging into her purse on the walk over, she picked out the last few coins she had, ready to pay the horse's daily boarding fee.  That money should have been for her own dinner, and she knew if things didn't improve soon she'd have to say goodbye to her equine companion.  How would she haul her wares to market after that?

     'What a damnable existence this modern world has become!' she thought, stepping up to the open stable doors.  Before she could look inside, she found herself restrained by strong arms around the waist.  She inhaled to scream, only to find a heavy cloth shoved over her face, muffling her pleas.

     "Sweet little thing like you ought not be wanderin' alone at night," a gruff man's voice said.

     A second man giggled awkwardly at his companion's statement.

     The cloth covering Winona's mouth was yanked tight, pulling her face up to the stars.  The final rays of dusk were fading, and the twinkling specks were poking out of the night sky.  It had gotten so dark, so fast!

     Winona was used to being the last one out of the marketplace.  There was usually a straggler or two who wanted to gawk at her watches, and that sometimes proved profitable, though not lately.  Her proclivity to linger into the evening was now proving to be her undoing.

     Was there anyone around who could save her?  She doubted it.  Fate hadn't been kind lately, and there was no reason for her to think her luck would change.

     But God had not forsaken her yet.

     As Winona kicked and thrashed in a vain attempt to dislodge her kidnappers, another voice halted their movements.  "Is that any way to treat a lady?"

     "This ain't none of your business, strangey," one of the kidnappers replied with a nasally voice.

     Winona felt the arms around her chest slide away, allowing her face to turn down from the sky.  Looking forward over the gag that covered her cheeks and nose, she saw a dark figure silhouetted in the pale moonlight.

     "I'm making it my business," the stranger said, standing his ground.  "That woman's coming with me."

     The last sentence dashed Winona's optimism.  From the sound of it, her would-be savior was just competing for the chance to rape her, too.  Still, a little voice in her head said he'd be a better companion than the two thugs carrying her.

     "You ain't takin' nothing, dude," the nasally man answered.  He reached under his jacket and drew a revolver from its holster.

     Before the man could aim his weapon, the stranger shot first.  In the blink of an eye, a sliver of light streaked from the weapon in his hand.  The beam soaked into the chest of the thug, and the would-be rapist collapsed without a sound, leaving his companion on his own.

     "What in the Hell?" the gruff thug mumbled, glancing over at his comrade.

     Seeing an opportunity, Winona struck back.  Placing an elbow into her kidnapper's gut, followed with a swift kick to the groin, she managed to loosen his grasp and break free.  She didn't wait to get her bearings before running across the darkened pavement of the marketplace.  She had to get away, and it didn't matter where.  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the thug gripping his crotch, as the stranger stepped forward and shot him with his silent weapon.

     Even as she continued to run, Winona thought about her would-be savior, and that strange weapon he employed.  She'd never seen anything like it.  No only was its shot silent, but the entire mechanism was mute.  No cylinder or slide clicking or clacking, no hammer cocking, yet it killed like lightning.  What kind of magic was that?

The Stars Beyond Tomorrow (Peek 1)

Here's a project that remains unfinished.  "The Stars Beyond Tomorrow," is my attempt at writing a Space Opera, and it is based in a universe I created with a short story I wrote called "Last Strike For Tomorrow."  In this book, we would see the American Space Force sending a new exploratory mission out into space following a violent and bloody interstellar war.  Events in Last Strike set the stage for the book, and one of these days I might get around to completing it.  As it stands now, I have about 10,000 words and a solid plot waiting, but it remains low priority at the moment.

So, here it is, the introductory scene to the yet unfinished book:

            Commander Owen York staggered down the hallway of the derelict starship.  Gravity shifted under him, as the vessel surged and sputtered in the throws of death.  The USS Windsor, which had once been the pride of the United States Space Force, was now little more than a burned-out wreck, a hunk of hot metal smoldering in the depths of space.  Another casualty of war.

            This battle cruiser had seemed to be the pinnacle of modern technology to the folks back on Earth, but it was little more than target practice for the ruthless Kradoran warships.  It was a dead hulk now, along with a hundred others just like it.  There was no hope for the ship, but a few of the crew were determined to survive.

            Commander York knew the odds.  Even if he managed to reach a life boat, he'd probably be blown away by a Kradoran fighter, or captured to face untold torture, but if the Kradorans didn't catch him who would?  Who was left to rescue him out here, three light years from Earth?  This final wave of human resistance had seen utter destruction, and there were no more space-faring vessels he could consider to make a rescue attempt.

            Maybe it would be best if he returned to his post, and awaited death with dignity.   No, Owen could never do that.  He was a survivor, one who had to keep fighting, regardless of the odds.  If death awaited him, he'd face it, but he was damned if he'd sit down and wait for the inevitable.

            It was getting hard to breathe, as the atmosphere grew thin.  There were gaping holes blown through the Windsor, and no power left in the air circulators.  The nearest life-pod was a hundred feet away, though it felt like a mile as he trudged through the dying vessel.

            The lights went out when the massive fusion drive grew cold from lack of fuel.  It was so dark in the hallway; no windows to shine even faint starlight.  There was still limited gravity, however, which didn't surprise Owen in the least.  He knew the engineering layout, and understood that the gravity generators had a separate backup.  The auxiliary battery would last a few minutes more.

            He moved forward, searching for the frame to the lifeboat's access hatch.  He found it before long, and moved his hands around to locate the opening mechanism.  The flat touch-plate gave no response to his fingers, as the power had been cut.  The manual release was directly under the panel, hidden by a sheet of metal that cut Owen's fingertips as he pried it open.  Inside, he felt the round handle and turned it clockwise several times to release the seal and grant him access to his one means of escape.

            A breath of fresh air greeted him as the hatch slid open.  As soon as the hand crank widened the gap enough, he slid his thin body through, and found himself weightless inside the small, open airlock.  He pushed off the ship's hatch and floated into the large padded chamber beyond, and as he entered the life-pod's lights kicked on automatically.  The escape craft was charged and ready to go.

            So much space for one man.

            Owen felt very alone at this point.  So many of his fellow crewmen had died, and here he was, the last man out.  Captain Alvarez would have most likely stayed, had a falling support beam not incapacitated him at the start of the battle.  It had only taken a few minutes for the Kradoran warships to lay waste to the Windsor, and to every other ship in the strike force.  When defeat was certain, Commander York had ordered the evacuation, and sent his captain out with the first wave.  Had those lifeboats survived?  Owen had no way of knowing, for the external sensors had been knocked out before they'd launched.

            Sitting down beside the control panel, Owen programmed the lifeboat to disengage from the Windsor, and hoped his trajectory would be clear of debris.  He didn't plan to go far.  It was safer to hide amongst the debris for the time being, wait for the Kradorans to leave.  Then he could scout around, and see if there was anything worth seeing before drifting back in the direction of Earth.  With the lifeboat's ion drive, he might get there in a few thousand years.

Rise of the Rogue Fighters (Peek 1)

Here's a sequel that a few of my most loyal fans are still waiting for.  The follow-up to "The Rogue Investigations" that will continue the paranormal investigations of Zachary McCain and his associates.  Much like the first volume in the series, Rise of the Rogue Fighters is largely based on stories I wrote as a teenager, wild fantasies derived from a steady diet of pulp sci-fi and comic books.  In this sequel, there will be a lot more magical and superhero stuff, but the underlying uniqueness of the first set of stories will still dominate.

So, here is your first sneak peek at the yet-unfinished project:

(Excerpt From Chapter 5: The Legendary Mind)

            "Christ, what a mess,"  Nathan remarked, flicking a gum wrapper into the debris.  "I hope he's got good insurance."

            "Not a cent," a raspy voice replied.

            Turning from the wreckage, Nathan saw the approaching voice belonged to the local police chief, a grizzled veteran years beyond retirement with a cigarette dangling from his lips.  He was accompanied by Zachary McCain.

            "Nathan Bradford, meet Rodney Curtis," Zachary announced.

            "You can call me Rod," the officer said.  "So you're McCain's new bodyguard, eh?  Must be fun, getting paid to follow him around while he dreams up his little fantasies."

            "They're anything but fantasies," Zachary said.  "But I don't expect someone of your years to ever change.  You're set in your limited view of things."

            "It's called sanity, Zachary.  You should try it sometime.  You'll live longer," Rod said, as a young police officer approached him from the side.  "Give me a minute."

            As Rod stepped aside to talk with his fellow officer, Zachary took the opportunity to peruse the charred wreckage.  He and Nathan slipped around behind the sizeable pile, obscured from Curtis' view.

            "What exactly are we looking for?"  Nathan asked.

            "I'm not sure," Zachary replied.  "Julie said this was going to happen in Ellsworth."

            "You said she was pretty scatterbrained at the time," Nathan said.  "Think she just got confused?"

            "Maybe.  Truth be told, I'm have no idea why we're here."

            "Chasing fantasies?"

            "Something like that," Zachary answered.

If you haven't picked up a copy of The Rogue Investigations, consider doing so today.  It's my most affordable work on the market today.

The Indomitable American (Peek 1)

This is a novella I wrote when I was 18.  Originally entitled "The Green Haired Lady," the 45,000 words were thrown together in two weeks, and while it is an interesting little story, I can't say it's anything special.  This is another one of those works that probably won't see the light of day unless I make it big.  My pre-existing fans would probably enjoy reading it, but people unfamiliar with my work might not.

Anyway, here's the opening scene to the story.

They'd been chasing me for about an hour, since the cold, unforgiving winter sun had broken through the clouds.  The frigid air stung my lungs as I ran through the thickets of spruce and fir.  Powdery snow shook loose from the branches and slid down the back of my coat, freezing my shoulder blades, for I couldn't keep the coat's hood on during the chase.  It obstructed my vision too greatly, and it liked to get hooked on the snowy branches.

            I paused for a minute after plowing through a stand of pines, but before I could catch my breath I heard their raucous voices; the boisterous and rowdy shouts of these bandits on my tail.  The lowlife vermin that had plagued this countryside for half a decade, since the onset of The Greater Depression.  It was scum like them that had forced me out into this frigid wilderness in the middle of January.

            They'd raided my homestead over a week ago, murdered my family, stolen our meager supplies, and torched the buildings.  I'd watched the flames burn all night from the hillside two miles away, and could only imagine the added horrors those savages had bestowed upon my kin.

            Of course, we'd had it coming to us.  We were farmers, who knew how to survive, and had spent the last five years feeding ourselves, while millions of others starved.  Those who couldn't or wouldn't support themselves were starting to band together in these rural lands, and growing gangs were pillaging the countryside, taking whatever they wanted, and killing anyone who stood in their way.

            The federal government wasn't going to save us.  They had their hands full, fending off the hordes of invading barbarians, and putting down the city dwellers.  Those in the country were on their own, and neighbors were often too far away to provide aid in the thick of it.

            So much for the glories of anarchy.

            The chase continued.  I charged forward, down a steep slope through two feet of snow.  I tripped on a fallen tree limb under the powder and went flying downhill.  The snow in my face was another insult upon my existence.  I'd been screwed over so much already.  Did I really deserve to stumble on this final chase?

            I scrambled to my feet as quickly as possible, yet I felt my run was nearing its end.  The killers behind me were almost in sight, and once they spotted me it would be all over.  A single shot, maybe two if I got lucky, and I'd be another nameless corpse left to feed the crows.

            At the base of the hill was a clearing, and looking at the snow I saw the fresh snowmobile tracks these bandits had left on their journey here.  The packed track led down the path that I had trekked last evening, prior to setting up camp within the thickets.  If it hadn't been for the noise of their machines, I probably wouldn't have awoken in time to flee.  These bandits were arrogant and sloppy.  I suppose it only enhanced their hunt to give their prey fair warning.

            My legs were too tired from fighting the cold and the snow.  I could barely stand now, so my time was up.  I could see the tree branches shake halfway up the hill as they came down after me.  In a few minutes, we'd spot one another and it would be my end.

            I wasn't about to go without a fight.

            Reaching for the rifle slung over my shoulder, that's when everything changed.

            A loud crack of thunder echoed across the landscape, accompanied by a blinding flash of light.  I'd been too slow, I thought.  It must have been the bandit's shot ringing out loud and clear.  That was my conclusion, as I felt my life essence suspended outside the physical world, beyond the painfully cold wilderness and harsh world I'd watched crumble to dust during my short lifetime.

            But life was not done with me yet.

            After floating in limbo for what seemed like a century, my senses returned to me.  Yet nothing was the same.  Everything I'd been experiencing was gone.  The frigid air of January was replaced by a warm wind that brushed against my stubble of a beard, and the cold snow against my ankles was replaced by short grass.  The blinding winter sun was absent, and the dim light of the moon provided me with minimal vision to look out upon the forested hillsides before me.

            I stared at my frosty knuckles, and witnessed my hands illuminated by the moon's luminescence.  Turning up at the light source, I saw a curious orange tint on its cold, battered face.  Something of this moon told me I was nowhere I had ever been before.