talesofdelta

[talesofdelta]

DEAR CLIENT - a very short story

William Blair entered his study and immediately set down his attaché and picked up a brandy snifter. On his well-appointed desk was a single piece of paper, catching sunlight streaming from the window between slightly parted curtains. He walked to the far side of the desk and sat in the large leather chair, his back to the window. A gentle sigh and a light smile conveyed his relaxation.

Reaching into his drawer, he pulled out a small decanter and filled the glass halfway. His left hand reached into his breast pocket, plucking a cigar cutter. A hand rolled Gurkha Black Dragon found his right hand; he shut the cigar box gently before closing the drawer. Clipping the end, he lit the cigar with a wood match and inhaled deeply. Slowly exhaling smoke, William reclined in his chair and began to read the letter.

 “Dear Mr. Blair,

I have hand-written this notification of the completion of my mission in compliance with the stipulations of our contract. I hate that sentence almost as much as I hate you. I’m going to tell you why.

Before Delores expired, she shared your dealings. I’m sure she thought it would prolong her life and, perhaps, Mrs. Blair hoped I would spare her life and she would see another sunrise. I know about your “underground network of crack whores” across Salt Lake City. I don’t care about that. I don’t care about the kickbacks to city hall, the sweatshop in Djibouti or all that other stuff she rambled about.

Your connection to The Company is what angers me. You tried to hire another assassin to eliminate me so I didn’t need to be paid. When she told me that, I paused. She spoke a name. I know him. We served together. He owes me fifteen dollars. I know you won’t read the next few lines because you’ve skipped to the end of the letter. Silencer and I have been friends ever since Vladivostok. I used to bang his partner. She confirmed it. She doesn’t like it when brother is sent versus brother any more than I do. We’re all mercenaries. We trust each other more than we trust you.

Why this letter? This is the paragraph everybody skips before the last one. I had some time to kill. I thought about how you wanted to knock me off. You wanted to skip out on the bill. That is the move of a punk amateur. Kind of like the Bill Blass suit you wore when you got out of your silly BMW. It hasn’t been in style since the 1980s. I went back to add that part. I was bored, so I decided to keep writing this note while you got out of your car.

Whatever you do William, don’t look over your shoulder. Otherwise, I’ll shoot you in the face.

 Regards,

Magnum”

 The End

#Deltaverse #talesofdelta #delta city #short story #amwriting #writing #magnum #flash fiction #fiction

[talesofdelta]

Sorry I’d neglected this space for so long. I did come across a few stories I thought I’d posted from a few years back. Here’s the first one.

Warning for language.

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Every superhero needs a shrink. Mine came in a form of a rock star who was just hitting her stride. Her office? Just happened to look like a booth in a diner. Because it was one.

At 2:40 in the morning, hardly a soul stirred in Benny’s diner besides the cook. It was a dive which became my home turf during my time here in Delta. At about the middle of my beat I made a habit to come by here and . . . well, before long I had the menu memorized. Tonight I’d already gotten my first burger, fries, shake, a few donuts and a slice of cherry pie to help fill my girlish figure. Three eggs and corn beef hash were on the way as soon as they’re off the griddle. It was my usual mid-shift snack.

One of the perks of being a bona-fide super soldier was an outrageous metabolism. Besides that . . . well, I was bullet proof, could run all day and was the best markswoman by far in the world. Really, I pretty much didn’t miss with a firearm. That’s not just because I’m obsessed with them, either. I even healed in sunlight so come 7:00 AM there wasn’t a scar on my body no matter what happened during my time on the streets. I wasn’t born this way. It wasn’t magic. I was the best science had to offer a strange world.

The experiment which gave me these powers also gave me looks that . . . well, made me look like a curvy porn star. So, lots of attention. Especially from men. Not always wanted. Oh, and some women too. One time a person said I had this huge personality. Not that way, she meant my presence. The way I looked at people, the sound of my voice, my “mojo” or something. She said it was superhuman. The woman who told me that had a Ph.D. in something . . . psychology I think. But I guess I came across as some goddess both physically and spiritually to most people.

My life wasn’t all gravy and gumbo. I had to fight crime wherever I found it, and in Delta that often meant fighting something you would not file under “normal.” The proper term was “paranormals” but it covered armored robots, humans who were altered genetically or hooked up with cybernetics. Pretty sure there was as much sorcery as super-science out there in the world, but I hadn’t met it yet. And of course there were those born with paranormal abilities, and most people treated them like a plague.

There were more of these beings per capita in the Delta metro region than any other city in the world, which made this a special place. Humans, the normal ones, stopped griping about ethnicity or religion around here. Cultures which wouldn’t dare mix in other parts of the country became happy neighbors. There wasn’t some breakthrough of understanding. People here just felt they had a common enemy. If you had normal genes, they liked you. If you didn’t . . . well, that’s true racism for you.

My ever-present sunglasses came off while I stalked my way over to our booth. There were two young men over in the corner talking and rolling dice. Benny the cook tried hard not to drink in my skin tight royal blue ReSPONSE uniform, even if I have a black ballistic weave jacket on top. Dark blue boots clacked across the linoleum tile floor; matching gloves held my tray of food as I approached our seats. My weapon was in the holster as I slid my food onto the table. I unzipped my jacket, the shades went into their case and I settled in the booth across from my friend.

Susan Lake was in one of her trademark poses. Her platinum blonde hair was slightly spiked. She had a snakeskin boot parked on the edge of the table. For some reason she took to wearing some acid-wash denim jacket and a white turtleneck; she looked like she stepped right out of 1987. Some bedazzled belt buckle and dark blue jeans completed her “queen of doomsday disco” look. A quick smile and I knew she saw my fries.

“Belinda babe.” She gave me the once over. “Why so glum?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Glum? What are you getting at, Sue babe?”

“Something’s on your mind. I can tell.” Something crunched in her mouth. “You only take your shades off when you’re serious. Do you wear them in the shower?”

Susan was always there to bust my chops. “And a good morning to you, too.”

“Fries are piping hot,” she said as she shook her fingers.

Jezz, her traditional assault on my French fries had begun. “Well, they are pretty fresh. What did you expect?” My jacket came off and settled in the corner of the booth.

Susan’s eyes narrowed. “Skip the preamble. Something is driving in your head, and it isn’t how you’re gonna kick some super bad guy’s ass. It’s one of those philosophical things, isn’t it? The difference between right and wrong. Some new perspective that threatens to change the way you go about your job, keeping us all safe from things that go bump in the night?”

The cook brought over my eggs, hash and a second shake and went back to his counter. “Quite a mouthful, Susan.”

“I didn’t feel like sitting here chit-chatting until 4:00 to get to the good stuff.” She bit into a doughnut. “Besides, you’re only taking a break. We can’t stay here too long.”

“And you got all that from my shades coming off?” Shake number one had met its maker. “Are you psychic, or just psychotic?”

Susan looked right into my eyes for a moment. “We both have crap to do and life is full of shitty conflicts. Give.”

I didn’t realize I was smiling until my face softened into a serious scowl. “Susan, humans . . . people are insanely cruel, and I think they . . . we like it that way. I have a big problem with that.”

Immediately she sat properly in her booth, sharp as a hawk. “Now we’re cooking. I’m kind of disappointed you didn’t realize this sooner.” The rock star was gone.

A dollop of catsup fell from my burger like blood. Why did I think that? “I was talking to someone who gave me a different perspective. It’s one I needed to hear and . . . well, it’s given me something to think about.”

Susan had a soda stashed somewhere and chose now to slurp whatever was left of it. “Conversation with whom?” Still looking like a bird of prey.

“Sirocco.” He was new to the right side of the law and I’d taken him under my wing.

Her face broke into gentle laughter. “Oh? Mister ‘Jamaican-me-crazy’ had a point to make? And how long did it take him to stop talking to your massive, and rather perfect, cleavage?” Shaking her head she munched on another fry.

Someday I’d figure out how she got those from me without my noticing. “Rocco is a good guy. And it took him five minutes.” I shook my head with a smirk.

She popped her collar and leaned on one side. “We should take him to Vegas. The ladies would love him. Bet he’s a real horn dog.” She decided to help herself to some corned beef hash.

My smirk faded. “Seriously, Susan. This isn’t about him, it’s about what he said and how I realized some things.”

“Go on.” Susan’s face became soft, but determined. “You need to get this out. I’m your girl.”

A memory of the scent of gunpowder soothed my thoughts for a moment. “Sirocco . . . well, Peter told me about something his mother used to talk about. She pointed to movements in the social structure, for lack of a better word? The point was about what people think and how they react to suffering. To anger. Danger. Exploitation.”

“Not terribly well.” She looked out the window. “Being the Goddess with the gun out in those streets, you know that better than most. What was different about how his mother saw it?”

“She taught him about perspective.” I glanced toward the two men in the corner who were oblivious to my presence. “Not that of the victims or their attackers, the perspective of the people in between.”

“In my experience there really aren’t too many of those,” Susan replied. “Eventually almost everyone is one or the other.”

“Her point,” I continued. “Let me give you a couple of examples. There was a time when a single man shot about a dozen people – killing some – because he couldn’t get a date. The internet was flooded with women pointing out the dangers we face every day.”

She sat up, still relaxed. “Not news, but I’m listening.”

“Of course there was the chorus of ‘not all men’ because . . . well, it’s true. Not all men are like that.” It was then I noticed we were the only two women around.

She shook her head. “Her point was not all men are killers? Profound.”

I leaned forward and stared right a hole through her forehead. “Susan, pay attention. Did I sound like I was finished?”

Sheepishly she slinked backwards in her booth. “Sorry.” Her eyes met mine for a second and I could tell I needed to turn down the intensity.

“There was something else that started a few years later, and this hits closer to home for me.” I took a moment; this had been at me all day. “Police brutality.”

She snapped her head towards me. “What the hell does that have to do with how predatory men can be?” Those blue eyes were white hot with fury.

“Follow. Back then, police shot yet another black man in the United States and a movement comes about with the slogan ‘black lives matter’ protesting police brutality. The core is the feeling cops have it out for black men in particular.” I took a glance to the corner to see if there was a reaction from either man.

I saw Susan think for a moment, deciding what she was going to say. “Belinda, all lives matter. Black. White, Latino, Asian . . . all lives. Every. Single. One.” She stared at me unflinchingly.

“This is where perspective comes in.” I motioned to the counter for my third shake. “People reacted back then too. There was a chorus of ‘all lives matter’ from lots of people. Most of them White.”

“Neither ethnicity nor race should matter,” she stated. “The fact all lives matter is a simple truth that should be self-evident . . . but isn’t.”

“But Susan that’s the –“

She cut me off like a hatchet. “No, Belinda. There is nothing. No compromise. I’m an officer of the Navy. I know what it means to serve our country and defend her interests. I do it willingly. I do what I can to defend life, liberty and the constitution within the union. And I don’t believe that because I went to the finest military academy. I wasn’t made to feel that way because my family has served for generations. It’s the way I am because every citizen of the United States of America is whom I fight to protect. It’s how I was raised. It is a God given right of freedom too many take for granted . . . and too many more want to steal from the people of our nation.”

Told you she was a conservative hawk. Or did I leave that part out? “Do tell, Sue babe.”

She actually glared at me. “This is not a laughing matter, Belinda.”

“I’m sorry, Susan.” So this was what it was like. “Shouldn’t have needled you like that.”

She sighed, leaning back in her seat. “It’s okay. We love our country so much. I love Old Glory and all she represents. Hope, opportunity and the diversity of our nation which sets us apart.” I could hear underneath the glitz and glamour was the blue collar woman from Jersey.

“I’m not trying to rib you,” I said, “but you sound like a super-patriot.”

Running her fingers through her hair, she bore a wide grin. “Guilty as charged.”

I pulled a few fries off the plate. “But is there room for a dissenting voice? For those who see things differently than you?”

“Always will be. And I’ll defend them just like you do.” Two shakes and another plate of fries materialized at our table. “I just hate it when people try to pull us apart from within.”

“How is pointing out the tendency of the law enforcement, conventional like most or paranormal like me, to crack down on those who are at a disadvantage pulling us apart?” I took a breath and waited for her reply.

“Singling out a faction for special treatment is, in my view at least, very wrong.” She picked up a handful of fries and scooped them into her mouth one at a time. “I agree that black lives matter. Paranormal lives matter. Every life matters.”

Peter’s mother was right. “So do you think they should have stayed quiet? Instead of calling out police, or men for that matter, they should have done what? Be quiet?”

Susan relaxed, which made me nervous. “Help make things better by working in the community. Join the force and help make sure your neighborhoods are represented, if you think the police aren’t representative of your neighborhood. Teach girls and young women how to defend themselves, but also look at what can be done to help teach men not to be predators.”

“Not the reply I expected, Sue babe.” Honesty was the best policy.

“So much of what we see, the conflicts within America and among her people, is based on standards that have been held for hundreds . . . thousands of years,” she said. “I’ve always been a fan of one thing.”

Burger number whatever had arrived. “What’s that?”

“Choice, babe.” Susan waived for a soda. “I believe everyone should have the opportunity for a choice in life. I want beauty standards replaced with nothing. I want women to have every choice that are available to men, and have that be ok. I want every God-fearing soul in this country . . . hell. I want every person on this planet to have the chance to follow their dreams. To choose life or home or family. To feel doors opened. No glass ceilings or floors. To have the knowledge they are different and unique, but not better or worse than anyone else simply because the color of their skin or the Y-ness of their chromosome.”

I did not expect that. Maybe I should have. “You believe in freedom.”

“You bet I do,” she beamed. “I am a feminist. And proud. I am a conservative. And proud. This country needs to wrap its mind around the fact that these are not competing ideals. I am all of both.”

“Do tell.” Setting down my burger I let out a soft belch. So ladylike. “How do you balance all that, anyhow?”

“I have always been as conservative as I am White. State rights are important to me. Fiscal matters . . . matter.” She snickered. “I believe in God and country first, and I feel there are stringent definitions on how our nation should be governed within our constitution. The United States needs to have a strong military to defend her interests and her allies. I believe in choosing life over abortion.”

Just in case she was thinking about getting a reaction from me, I closed that door shut. “I’m not going there, Susan.”

“Not asking you right now, but sometime you have to tell me where you stand.” Her face was relaxed; there was even a light smile on her lips. “I’m a conservative, through and through.”

Sometimes the stupid in my brain just has to have a word. “So how can you be a feminist?”

“You have no clue how to be a woman, do you?” She looked only half-angry. “You missed the point. All of these positions – and dozens more – are a choice. I believe every woman should have the choice to be what she wants to be. To choose to be an attorney and have it be alright. Be a housewife and have it be alright. A boardroom executive shouldn’t be a ‘feminazi bitch’ and a home maker shouldn’t be a ‘sell out.’ That’s the part you don’t get.”

She was right. “Thank you. I never thought of it that way.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “And this country gives the best chance for anyone to be whatever they want to be. That’s why I hate it when groups start picking apart at each other. One nation. Under God. Indivisible. With liberty and justice for all. Every. Single. Life. Matters.”

“You say that,” I began. “And I’m sure you believe it. But Peter’s mother pointed out a few things about the ‘silent majority’ or whatever it was she called it.”

“Really?” Susan took a sip of soda. “This I want to hear.”

“If all lives matter,” I said. “Tell me why the ‘all lives matter’ movement only started after the ‘black lives matter?’ Why did it take the outrage of black families to spur the conversation of ‘all lives matter’ then?”

“Try making sense, if you can?” Susan was genuinely confused.

I was mad, partially at myself. “People didn’t react to shootings with ‘all lives matter.’ Most people, and let’s be honest as we’re both white, the majority of white America didn’t seem invested in making sure that all lives . . . well, mattered.”

“Whatever you’ve been reading, please get some facts and numbers to get you back on course.” Yes, she was actually a rock star on the rise. “Just because someone thinks they are being singled out for special persecution doesn’t make it true, Belinda.”

“Just because you,” I shot back, “or I . . . don’t experience that first hand? Doesn’t mean profiling of African-Americans doesn’t exist. And it’s that willingness to be blind to someone else’s plight? That was Peter’s mother’s point.”

“What?” She waived to the counter. “I never said African-Americans don’t face challenges in the United States. More fries!”

She had her wall up. “There was a counter movement in favor of law enforcement officers who put their lives on the line every day. It was called Blue Lives Matter and it got quite the push.”

Susan tilted her head slightly. “I’m glad.”

“Peter’s mom said . . . I want to get this quote right.” I thought about a .44 caliber cartridge and how I loved the form. “If you have a problem with black lives matter, because all lives matter . . .”

“And they do,” Susan quipped.

“But don’t have a problem with Blue Lives Matter,” I shot back. “Then the operative word is ‘Black.’”

She blinked. I’ve known her for a while; it’s one of her surprised looks. “I see.”

“When a group gets victimized,” I started. “And they call out? Lots of good people take up the cause. And many of them come from outside of the people getting shafted. But they aren’t the problem. It’s the silent majority that seems to react to . . . well, almost counter-protest. Or they say nothing. I’m not sure which is worse.”

“You’re concentrating on the few bad apples. To hear you, it’s like most people don’t care.” Fries and a couple cups of coffee arrived.

“They don’t.” Honesty. Remember? “If you put together all the bad apples with the protesters and activists? You might equal about five percent of the ‘silent majority’ that just doesn’t care.”

“Hmm.” She ran a finger through her hair. “I guess this has been eating at you.”

I thought about the two men in the corner, rolling dice. “And who are they supposed to turn to? The very police that they think are the problem?”

“Work within the community.” She put a hand on the table.

I aggressively put my cup down. “Is it any wonder why some take the law into their own hands?”

Her eyes popped wide. “Jezz. Take it down a notch.” She shrank down a bit.

“I’ve taken a look at a case file.” I relaxed my grip on the cup. “It’s out in Indiana, so it’s out of my jurisdiction. There’s a perp that shot up a whole town. Pretty much leveled the place.”

“What’s the city?” Her eyes narrowed. “Carmine?”

“Yup.” I sipped some coffee.

She shook her head. “Some kid goes ‘Rambo’ over a small town? Killing like that? They should be put down like the animal they are.”

I gave her a square look “You don’t know the case, but he thinks he’s a man at war. Life is easy to take away. Impossible to give back. He’s a killer so if I get the case? I’ll take him down as quickly as I can.”

“O-okay,” She glanced at my body. “At war with who?”

It was now I realized I was leaning towards her. “White supremacy activists. And those who help them.”

She checked her nails. “So? Murder is murder.”

“Coming from a soldier.” I met her gaze.

She raised a hand. “Different. Not comparable, babe.” She looked out the window and slouched slightly.

I knew I got through. “What makes him different? What do you think makes him tick?” I said softly.

“Pretty clear,” she shot back. “Race.”

I waved a finger. “Wrong.”

Her eyes were the size of plates. “What?”

“Injustice.” I put my finger on the table. “From slavery, to Jim Crow laws, to the Klan and institutional racism, at each step there were innocents mowed down. Crushed. Worse. And not a single body that was supposed to protect blacks . . . well, did anything. Churches. Police. Teachers. Government. Any of them could have done something, but most of them . . . well, didn’t. It’s the story of lots of groups in this country.”

She leaned forward. “Civil rights act?”

“Should not have been necessary,” I said. “But it didn’t happen until protests and riots. Why? Not because these practices aren’t wrong. Because most people couldn’t be bothered. They didn’t care, Susan, until buildings were burning and cars were flipped over.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What is it you said about Apathy?”

“The bunny slope of evil, babe.” I said. “That’s the story of race relations in this country.”

A cold French fry found her mouth, and she nodded. “Ok, I’ll give you that one.”

“And it’s not just that, let’s go to the violence against women by men.” I saw her demeanor change.

“There was a ‘He for She’ movement to support some wave of feminism, sorry Sue-babe I can’t keep them straight, in the wake of the ‘not all men’ fiasco. Men came out in support of women. Not most, but a fair number.”

“And you also had the Men’s rights activists.” There was a dark look that crossed her face.

“Yeah, kind of like the first guy I started telling you about. They never proved a link to Men’s Rights activists, though. But there is a trend. He for she. All lives matter. These didn’t happen until the victims started screaming.” I gulped down some coffee and it hurt. “All lives didn’t matter until . . . well, never.”

Susan cocked her head to the side. “Keep going.”

I took a deep breath. “From the trail of tears to the internment camps of world war two, this country has been pretty clear that some lives just weren’t important to the masses. I read about a place . . . Rosewood? It was like clearing brush for cows. And remember the open hostility against Muslims in the U.S. and the hundreds killed because of it?”

“One of our darkest moments, Belinda babe.” She was serious as a funeral. “One that should never be repeated.”

“It’s always repeated. Just . . . I don’t know. The names change but you always have the same three sides.” I glanced outside at the streets. “Victims, killers and the people who don’t give two clips of ammo about what happened.”

“That’s not true,” she said as she fixed her posture. “There are always people who care.”

“Just not enough.” I didn’t realize I had a scowl on my face until I saw my reflection in the window.

Susan failed to put on a smile. “Or not the right ones.”

The table’s quiet for about a minute. Susan picked up the torch. “So this has been eating at you all day?”

“A bit longer than that,” I confessed. “Mostly because I’m a federal officer. A government super-cop. The police brutality sat close to me.”

“You don’t do that,” she said softly. “I know you better than you think.”

“I know I don’t,” I replied while checking my watch. “Most of the men and women in blue keep us safe. They are the first line of defense and they . . . we . . . do our best to serve and protect everyone. Especially those who hate us.”

“But there are always bad apples,” She said, kicking a boot back onto the table. “One racist cop spoils it for everyone else.”

“What gets me,” I said, “is how right they are.”

“Come again?” Her boot slipped off the table loudly. “Who’s right?”

“The counter protesters. Not all men are predators. Not all law enforcement officers target minorities unfairly.” My plate was clean so I had nothing to hide behind. “Most of the time, people are good to each other.”

“Just remember that, Belinda.” She offered a bite of her doughnut.

“Pete’s mother said she knew the ‘not all men’ meme when she was a girl,” I said. “Except she said it was called ‘not all white people.’ And she had a reply.”

She dropped her peace offering. “What was it?”

“His mother said ‘not all, but enough to where it’s a problem I have to think of every second of every day. That is a toll taken on my life that you don’t pay’ she told them.” And it was a price I’d yet to pay myself.

“I won’t argue,” she nodded with agreement. “We each have our crosses to bear, Belinda. But what makes us succeed, what makes us the nation we are, is how we bear that burden. What we do with it. That is what separates man from beast.”

“I’m feeling pretty aware of my part in this all right now,” I stated as Benny dropped off the bill. “I’m a cop and a woman and a superhero . . . well, they call me one anyway.”

She got up. “Yes, you are.”

“Look at this place,” I said while I circled my finger. “We have people – citizens of Delta – protesting discrimination every day. They organize demonstrations in the hope someone will realize their plight and help them out.”

“Which ones, Belinda? We have people claiming discrimination every week.” I swear she did have her sensitive moments but this wasn’t one. “Kind of hard to keep them all straight.”

I wasn’t going to tell her the rest. “The more we hold onto the status quo, the more we fuel the next cataclysm. Here in Delta all the normal humans have learned to play together, but not for the right reasons, Susan.”

“But they are playing together, and nicely.” She tried to grab the check.

I’m still faster. “They’re only at peace because they all have a class to look down on. Paranormals. Mutants. Cyborgs. They are the lowest class in Delta only because they were born or made different.” I glanced at the bill before tossing cash down on the table.

“Don’t forget, you’re one of those freaks.” She put on a fedora she found from God knew where.

“I treat every life as one that matters. I take the ones I have to.” I zipped up my jacket and pulled out my shades. “But so many won’t see things that way. They’ll only see a trillion dollar weapon slaying someone or something who was a victim of circumstance. It’s a tough road to haul.”

“I’m not going to preach to you,” she said. “I’m a Christian woman and I could point to a book with a role model that I use. Find your own way and do your best. Like I told you before . . . “

“I can only do what I can do.” It’s the truth for every single one of us. “And I will.”

I thanked her for letting me get that off my chest and went off into Delta city, where nothing’s normal but the music.

#deltaverse #talesofdelta #delta city #koeing #susan lake #amwriting #short story #superheroes #spandex #writing

[talesofdelta]

Not my story, but I wanted to share this with you.

[talesofdelta]

IT’S THE FINAL MATCH

Ok, you have until about 6:00PM on Halloween to vote! Winner is my Nanowrimo subject for this year!

Vote on my twitter profile: @OliverCrownAuth

MARCH HELLION VS. VENGEANCE OF TOKYO

Here are your blurbs!

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March Hellion. Thriller.

Hatred can burn in black and white.

FBI agents Monique Banneker and Paul Wojohowski arrive in the burning city of Carmine, Indiana. Their task: to track a man terrorizing this small town and bring him to justice.  Paul and Monique are a diverse team and friends for years. Their success as partners hinges on having both open minds and conversations. This is how trust is built.

While the pair investigates, a killer calling himself March continues to claim victims. Forensics suggests they are tracking a monster. Ballistics reveals the target is phenomenally talented. Crime scenes indicate unmitigated rage. More than buildings smoldered here. Tensions are high, sometimes breaking along racial lines.

Where did this man come from, and what sparked this murderous rampage? Paul and Monique desperately race a ticking time bomb.

**************** OR ****************

Vengeance of Tokyo. Urban Horror.

Shinosuke is a black man living in Japan. He understands the connections between the fragile world of humanity and the dark creatures of the night. Well steeped in Japanese culture and lore, he speaks and acts like a native.

Kana is a priestess in tune with the balance of Nature. In a society that views her as a relic she is comfortable in her skin. With her blend of modern sensibility and a strong will, her position within a Shinto shrine at times feels like a gilded cage.

A ritual murder draws Shinosuke to the Shinto temple for research. He is directed to the library where Kana awaits. Each recognizes a potential danger … and one another.

As the pair traverses the city, they uncover both Tokyo’s occult underbelly and each other’s secrets.

No discovery comes without consequence.

*****************************

Go vote!

[talesofdelta]

Second Semi-final

Here’s the second one. Who goes to the finals?

Vote today @OliverCrownAuth! the poll will be pinned to my profile.

—————————————————–

YYZ. Fantasy.

Yelena Zekkand grew up near the outskirts of the mysterious city of Vladvlada, a rumored den of necromantic wizardry and blood-thirsty warriors. Everyone remarked how she would make a wonderful librarian or diplomat due to her Zenubian heritage. Yelena’s true heart was of an explorer.

Yves was a budding adventurer and also of Zenubian decent. Like Yelena, he prepared in secret for the day he went on his first quest.

They met by discovering a long-forgotten passageway leading beneath Vladvlada. According to rumor it lead to an artifact which would be the discovery of a lifetime. The pair took a chance to go forth and follow their dreams.

Neither have experience. Both are lost. What once seemed like a fairy tale feels destined to become their worst nightmare. In the darkness beneath the city, who is left standing before the treasure?

***********OR************

March Hellion. Thriller.

Hatred can burn in black and white.

FBI agents Monique Banneker and Paul Wojohowski arrive in the burning city of Carmine, Indiana. Their task: to track a man terrorizing this small town and bring him to justice.  Paul and Monique are a diverse team and friends for years. Their success as partners hinges on having both open minds and conversations. This is how trust is built.

While the pair investigates, a killer calling himself March continues to claim victims. Forensics suggests they are tracking a monster. Ballistics reveals the target is phenomenally talented. Crime scenes indicate unmitigated rage. More than buildings smoldered here. Tensions are high, sometimes breaking along racial lines.

Where did this man come from, and what sparked this murderous rampage? Paul and Monique desperately race a ticking time bomb.

—————————————–

Vote today @OliverCrownAuth! the poll will be pinned to my profile.

[talesofdelta]

Semi-Finals!

Sorry for the delay! Here is the first matchup - one day to vote!

Poll is pinned to my profile: @OliverCrownAuth

The Circle Chase. Cyberpunk.

Can a grifter cheat his demise?

Arturo ran afoul of one enemy too many. To escape retribution, he sought refuge with his love in her small enclave. While cybernetic enhancements remained common, the area was decidedly off grid.  He chose his haven well . . . or so he believed.

A dark woman tracked Arturo to his asylum. Quickly he found himself in a deadly game of cat and mouse.

Philosophy and cunning are tools. Technology and Faith are weapons. Both human life and a way of life are at stake. How could anyone claim to be victorious?

The chase has begun.

*********OR*******

Vengeance of Tokyo. Urban Horror.

Shinosuke is a black man living in Japan. He understands the connections between the fragile world of humanity and the dark creatures of the night. Well steeped in Japanese culture and lore, he speaks and acts like a native.

Kana is a priestess in tune with the balance of Nature. In a society that views her as a relic she is comfortable in her skin. With her blend of modern sensibility and a strong will, her position within a Shinto shrine at times feels like a gilded cage.

A ritual murder draws Shinosuke to the Shinto temple for research. He is directed to the library where Kana awaits. Each recognizes a potential danger . . . and one another.

As the pair traverses the city, they uncover both Tokyo’s occult underbelly and each other’s secrets.

No discovery comes without consequence.

**************

Vote here on twitter!

@OliverCrownAuth

[talesofdelta]

Last of the first round for NaNoMadness . . .

Since March Hellion won, that leaves one more matchup in round 1.

YYZ vs. Stickleback.

You can vote on Twitter - just go to my profile here: @OliverCrownAuth

And now, onto the contest! Which story do you think I should write between these two?

*********************************************

Stickleback. Steampunk.

Doreen, an escaped slave, fled to Indiana. After being rescued from bounty hunters by a mysterious traveler, she blended into the local community. She found work; Malcom was a freed man and a blacksmith. He agreed to provide her room and board as long as she didn’t cause trouble and helped in the shop. In a small town it was an acceptable life for a black woman in 1858.

Doreen’s past had not forgotten her.  A group of slave hunters arrived in town following her trail. The people of the town refused involvement; her life didn’t matter. Malcom had been able to scratch out a living. Now it’s jeopardized.

What options exist for an escaped slave in pre-civil war Indiana?

————–OR—————-

YYZ. Fantasy.

Yelena Zekkand grew up near the outskirts of the mysterious city of Vladvlada, a rumored den of necromantic wizardry and blood-thirsty warriors. Everyone remarked how she would make a wonderful librarian or diplomat due to her Zenubian heritage. Yelena’s true heart was of an explorer.

Yves was a budding adventurer and also of Zenubian decent. Like Yelena, he prepared in secret for the day he went on his first quest.

They met by discovering a long-forgotten passageway leading beneath Vladvlada. According to rumor it lead to an artifact which would be the discovery of a lifetime. The pair took a chance to go forth and follow their dreams.

Neither have experience. Both are lost. What once seemed like a fairy tale feels destined to become their worst nightmare. In the darkness beneath the city, who is left standing before the treasure?

*****************************

Well, go vote!

[talesofdelta]

March Hellion vs. Rookie of the Year

Let me hear from you! Like the others, I’ve wanted to write these stories for years. This pair come from the same world - some of you may recognize them.

Twitter Voters will decide which one moves on in this round of NaNoMadness! On my twitter profile will always be the latest poll with a link to the latest blurbs.

Twitter: @olivercrownauth

Thank you,

Oliver Crown

******************

March Hellion. Thriller.

Hatred can burn in black and white.

FBI agents Monique Banneker and Paul Wojohowski arrive in the burning city of Carmine, Indiana. Their task: to track a man terrorizing this small town and bring him to justice.  Paul and Monique are a diverse team and friends for years. Their success as partners hinges on having both open minds and conversations. This is how trust is built.

While the pair investigates, a killer calling himself March continues to claim victims. Forensics suggests they are tracking a monster. Ballistics reveals the target is phenomenally talented. Crime scenes indicate unmitigated rage. More than buildings smoldered here. Tensions are high, sometimes breaking along racial lines.

Where did this man come from, and what sparked this murderous rampage? Paul and Monique desperately race a ticking time bomb.

**************************

Rookie of the Year. Action.

Agent Robbert Saccas found himself transferred from Miami to Delta City – the paranormal capital of the United States. As a member of a Military division tasked with combating super-powered threats nationwide, Robert’s life was never easy. After a painful operation, Robert looked forward to a new start.

His assignment was gargantuan. A new government super-soldier had just graduated from the academy. The body of a Goddess. The spirit of a Hero. Flawless Aim. Bulletproof. A maverick convinced her way was the only way. Robert was charged with training her. She was about to break him.

When a specter from Robert’s past arrived in Delta, it’s time for the veteran and the Rookie to become a team. But would they settle their differences in time?

—————————————

Feel free to retweet/reblog as you see fit!

Be well,

Oliver Crown

[talesofdelta]

Madness Match-up Two!

For those who may be new …

Here’s the basics. I’ve posted a pair of blurbs for stories and you get to vote. Which ever blurb wins gets to move on to the second round.

You can vote by twitter - go to my profile @OliverCrownAuth and check the top aka pinned tweet. I’ll have a twitter poll for 48 hours.

And now . .  . onto the match!

————————————–

The Circle Chase. Cyberpunk.

Can a grifter cheat his demise?

Arturo ran afoul of one enemy too many. To escape retribution, he sought refuge with his love in her small enclave. While cybernetic enhancements remained common, the area was decidedly off grid.  He chose his haven well … or so he believed.

A dark woman tracked Arturo to his asylum. Quickly he found himself in a deadly game of cat and mouse.

Philosophy and cunning are tools. Technology and Faith are weapons. Both human life and a way of life are at stake. How could anyone claim to be victorious?

The chase has begun.

——————————————-

Pale Shelter. Fantasy.

Vashasta was hiding.

She was a Dorgonlorf, a sub species of Dragonelle. But unlike Dragonelles, Vashasta was not afforded status. She grew up knowing how biting her “cousins” would be. In spell weaving schools she was demonized, bullied and ostracized. After graduation, she fled.

She sought the world of humans in the Great Plains. Her mystical prowess allowed her to hide in plain sight. With her subtle weaving of magic coupled with her intelligence, Vashasta had built a solitary but comfortable life.

Then Gierkellen came to town.

A true Dragonelle, Girkellen recognized her childhood acquaintance immediately. Gierkellen was an evangelist of the Goddess Lluellen and preached unity and pacifism. Upon discovering Vashasta she set to making her former classmate break from the shadows. It is what Lluellen taught.

Vashasta wanted to be left alone. Girkellen desired Vashasta to be herself. Only one could get her way.

———————————————–

Remember to vote @OliverCrownAuth!

[talesofdelta]

First victory - Vengeance of Tokyo

So the first vote is over and Vengeance of Tokyo won by a pretty heavy margin. Shinosuke & Kanna move onto the next round while the twins suffle off to the side for a while.

For the next round I’ll have a longer blurb which builds on this first one … but I’m getting ahead of myself.

The next first round match will begin later this morning (it’s after 12:00 as I post this) pitting another pair of stories against one another.

I hope to see even more votes in the second round. Please remember to follow @OliverCrownauth to vote!

O.C.

#nanowrimo #amwriting #nanomadness

[talesofdelta]

Here is the first match-up in #NaNoMadnes: Leipzig Legacy vs. Vengeance of Tokyo.

Vengeance of Tokyo. Urban Horror.

Shinosuke is a black man living in Japan. He understands the connections between the fragile world of humanity and the dark creatures of the night. Well steeped in Japanese culture and lore, he speaks and acts like a native.

Kana is a priestess in tune with the balance of Nature. In a society that views her as a relic she is comfortable in her skin. With her blend of modern sensibility and a strong will, her position within a Shinto shrine at times feels like a gilded cage.

A ritual murder draws Shinosuke to the Shinto temple for research. He is directed to the library where Kana awaits. Each recognizes a potential danger … and one another.

As the pair traverses the city, they uncover both Tokyo’s occult underbelly and each other’s secrets.

No discovery comes without consequence.

**********************************************

Leipzig Legacy. Action.

In a newly reunified Germany, Sonja and Elka are twins with extra-human gifts. Elka has never let her deafness be a crutch. Sonja bravado makes up for her unique form of short term memory loss with her bravado and devil-may-care attitude. Each is affected from birth by forces they cannot understand.

Along with their father, they fly from Frankfurt to Berlin to celebrate their 17th birthday. At the party, they’re ambushed. Attackers from the dark past of  Germany attempt to abduct the twins who find themselves on their own.

Alone, the teens must navigate across Germany to reunite with their father.

************************************************

You can vote in the Twitter Poll here:

https://twitter.com/OliverCrownAuth

[talesofdelta]

Getting Ready for November (Crosspost)

As many of you know, November is National Novel Writer’s Month or #NaNoWriMo for short. It’s something many of us out here love - especially authors and would-be authors. There are stories to tell.

I’m no different. Lots of tales, plenty of stories.

This year I am changing the game . . . and those of you who follow my twitter (@OliverCrownAuth) know about this already. I’m letting my followers on social media choose what I write this year.

Over the next couple of weeks I’m having a playoff. The first round will have matchups of blurbs - that little bit you read on the back of a book cover - and I’ll have Twitter Polls which will allow you all to pick the winners. I have several categories to choose from and I’ll admit I do have a favorite . . . but I’m committed to going with whatever wins the vote.

In the odd event of a tie, I’ll break the tie with (likely) a coin toss.

The matchups will start this week, so kindly stay tuned!

[talesofdelta]

Getting ready for nanowrimo…

Well, this is going to be something new. For those of you who have known me for a year or two or maybe even three… You know that National novel writing month is something I always look forward to. And, as an author, I find this my calling. I’m changing things up a little bit this year. Last year was the first time I entered a nanowrimo and did not complete it. I won’t get into why, let’s just say that life intervened. So, this year, I felt it was time to be much more interactive. My goal is to update my progress on nanowrimo here on this Tumblr everyday. What does that mean? It means that I would post my raw typing, errors and all, here on this blog. I need to warn you, it may not be pretty! But that is not the point of nanowrimo. The point of nanowrimo is to get raw data down. To get your rough draft out. To start and finish a story. The Standard goal is 50000 words. you start on November 1st and hope to complete it by the end of the month. Editing is for later. As a result, what I post will likely not be pretty. But the most important part of this post is I want you, my interactive audience, to help decide what I’m going to write this year. I will have a few Twitter polls which will allow followers to choose just how this is set up. Will it be a March Madness bracket style format? Would you prefer something organized like with a WNBA does for its playoffs? That will be up to you. Also, up to the followers will be the decision of how the bracket is laid out. Would you rather just hear the genre? Would you like this organized by what type of protagonist I would use? Or should this actually be organized by what is plotted and what would be done by the seat of my pants? Hopefully, you may find it fun. And who knows, there may actually be a classic novel that comes out of this. But the biggest thing I hope is… Someone sees My progress and is inspired to at least try it. That could be someone looking at what I’ve written, deciding it is absolutely horrific and should be expunged from history, and they set out to do a better job then I did. Either way, it should be an adventure for all of us. Or at least me!

Posting this via talk to text, Oliver crown

[talesofdelta]

New Year's resolution...

they only have one resolution from a writing aspect. Well, maybe two. Resolution number one. during this calendar year I will be right one of my novels. And now the big one for me. Resolution number to. Write and finish one draft of the book March Hellion. Let's check next year and see if I get both of these.

[talesofdelta]

[talesofdelta]

I remember him too.

Thought I was the only one.

Heard this song while I was out today and was reminded how much I loved Bruce Cockburn growing up, listening to Canadian alt-radio. Every so often I hear a song of his and go, yeah that was good stuff wasn’t it.

[talesofdelta]

Happened across this prompt on a forum I visit. , I quickly thought of a role-playing instance and a couple of characters. I figured I would share. Prompt: Your MC has been caught by the thought police. Given a choice to spy on her family and neighbors, or be responsible for her new husband's death, what would she do?     Damn telepaths. Don’t ask me how they got in my head because I’m pretty sure they didn’t. But they told me they’d kill Steve if I didn’t spy on my family or neighbors. We only tied the knot a week ago. Our honeymoon was spent in Iowa in a cornfield. True story. But they wanted me to spy on my family?   That’s what tipped me off. I don’t have any living family I know of. Well, unless you count my new spouse. Or my work partner who isn’t family in the traditional sense. The social comforts of being a super soldier, and I mean that in more ways than one.   So the thought police took my firearm. They had seven people surrounding me in a small room with weapons. They trumped up some story to make me a spy. They threatened the life of my hubs who . . . well, he’s a super soldier himself. All of this was supposed to make me crumble and become some Mata Hari working for them.   Clearly these chumps didn’t believe in history.   Steve has been a hunted man his entire life. Like me he’s at the peak of humanity; he won’t go down easy. In fact . . . as many enemy soldiers he’s taken on in war? I think he’d laugh at the notion of these “thought police” threatening him. But he’s a sporting guy. He’ll probably ask if anyone wanted to leave before he began punching. He wouldn’t even need his magic Frisbee.   Back at the academy, I created an art form for dealing with firearms. It got to the point where my instructor gave me a nickname. He called me “The Waltzing Widow Maker.” I always hated that term. It was accurate because I always kept clear of return fire while laying the opposition low. I loved being surrounded; made for a target rich environment. It didn’t matter if I had a gun or not.   Me? Well, I wasn’t as sporting as my husband. I beat them close to death with  my brazier without a moment’s hesitation. Afterward all they smelled was their own blood and . . . well, my deodorant. Secret. I told you I beat them with my bra.   Step one: find my weapon. As I stepped into the hallway . . .