Drabble Wednesday: The Family

Today’s Drabble Wednesday brings another short fiction series, something I call The Family…

And any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. And if these characters resemble your family you have my sympathies.

Cry Havoc

Grandpa always asked the same question before he got into an argument with Grandma. He rolled out the words, “Should my havoc fly?” And that was the signal for the havoc to fly, but it was Grandma’s havoc, while Grandpa generally ended up apologising or sleeping in the doghouse with Goofy, their St. Bernard.

That’s why I made it a point to avoid any “havoc” in my personal relationships, lest I inherited Grandpa’s technique instead of Grandma’s. Until Bob. That man just asked for the havoc, so I gave it to him. With both barrels.

I hope he likes it out in the doghouse.

A Different Thanksgiving Tradition

We can't find Grandpa's teeth.

They went missing during Thanksgiving dinner, after we served the pumpkin pie.  Poor Grandpa, he should have known better than to get between Uncle Jim and Cousin Sam when they started fighting over that last piece of pie.

Before you could spit, the annual Thanksgiving free-for-all began and Grandpa was on the bottom of the pile.  When everyone came up for air, the teeth were missing.  We searched, but couldn't find a trace of his wooden choppers. 

I just hope the dog hasn't run off and buried them again.

Aunt Agatha’s Gift

“Nooooooooooo!”

I fling the offending package, silently cursing the postal system that brought me this abomination. My eyes still smart from the gaudy assault of crimson, gold and burnt orange hues that jumped out when I opened the box from its prison of paper.

Why must Aunt Agatha torment me so? Doesn't she understand I want no part of her crazy pastime?

But there it is, another hideous result sprawled over my floor, waiting to be stuffed in the closet with the others. I sigh and pick up the hand-knitted wool sweater.

Oh, no, there’s grinning kittens on the front.

Start the Game

A man in a stained trench coat delivered the strange message.

“You must find the Pork Pie.”

Then he handed me the clue and left me standing there, unhappy. I hoped I would never be pulled into Grandma’s crazy game, yet, here I was holding the bag, so to speak.

I open the clue.  It read: Find the Pork Pie where guests go to rest. To discover the name find Serenity’s creator. Seek the cold storage.

I sighed. “Grandma you got to get a better hobby.”

I pulled out my cell phone and called Jeremy; I would need some help.

Jeremy Wears a Hat

He arrived my doorstep wearing a pork pie hat. Sometimes my new boyfriend is an idiot.

“Jeremy, I’m not looking for a hat, take that silly thing off.”

“What? I’m just getting into the theme.” But he took off the hat.

“I figured out most of this silly clue.” I showed him the paper. “Guests go to rest at a hotel and I think the name thing is part of Granny’s sci-fi obsession. Cold storage we’ll figure out later.”  I pulled him back out the door. “It’s a ten minute drive, come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“The Whedon Hotel.”

The Whedon Hotel

“Let's throw her in the pond and see if she sinks.”

Before I could protest, two drunken fools tossed me into the ornamental pond. Well, I didn’t sink (mostly because I can swim), but I got wet, and those nuts each got a black eye. I sloshed back to the hotel and bummed a towel off a maid. While I was drying my hair Jeremy rushed over, excited.

“I found it, I found it! Hey, what happened to you?”

“Never mind. You found what?”

“The Holy Grail, of course!”

“What the Pork Pie? It’s here?”

“Yep. Seen it with my own eyes.”

“What are we waiting for, show me.”

The Picnic

There were enough pickles for everyone.

And potato salad, coleslaw, macaroni salad, grilled hot dogs, lemonade and strawberry shortcake waiting on the side table, and enough bread rolls to choke a horse. What a spread! Maybe the trouble my crazy Grandma put me through for this family picnic would be worth it. The last thing we put on the table was the main attraction, the two oversized pork pies Grandma stashed in the freezer at the Whedon Hotel.

“Let them in Jeremy, it’s ready.”

He threw open the doors and the annual family reunion started with a whoop from Grandma.

Beware of Old Sayings

Grandpa’s a wise man, ripe with the benefits of experience. Many times he’s said:  ‘Beware the armadillos of March’, ‘Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day’, ‘Teach him how to fish and he'll drown in the lake’, ‘Better to light a candle than to curse the priest’, and ‘Never send a Chihuahua to do a man's job’.

That may seem strange, but considering how Cousin Bud got trampled, that Uncle Winston died his first time fishing and that church incident, it makes sense to the family. Plus, the less said about Aunt Agatha’s Chihuahua the better.

Mom Knows Best

Mother always warned me.

So did Uncle Dan, Aunt Agatha and Grandpa.  But I kept wondering, every year.

I mused about it through the April rain, drinking Aunt Agatha’s special Sangria at the family barbeque, swimming at the lake.

I tried to put it out of my mind, but it lurked there, creeping back with the first touch of frost, with the initial snowflake falling down to touch my nose. Then, this December, there was “the cinnamon incident”.  It called to me and I had to lick it.

And Mother was right, your tongue will stick to icicles in winter.

Book Spotlight: The Silent Years: Mother

I bring apocalyptic events today with a book spotlight on the science fiction novel The Silent Years: Mother by Jennifer R. Povey, the first in a series. So check it out, read the included excerpt, and enjoy.

The Silent Years: Mother by Jennifer R. Povey

Dorothy Mayling thought her worst problem was the long-standing family feud over her sister's choice of husband. Or her son's grades. Then the rumors started - bird flu in Seattle, SARS in Washington State? The truth is a hideous, terrible disease, one that slowly steals away the ability to speak and reason, turning people into nothing more than zombies. Worst of all, it was meant to be a weapon. Can Dorothy hold her family together as the world ends around them and people fall, one by one, to the silent plague?

The Silent Years: Mother is available at:

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords 

Excerpt:

Winter was settling in. They had enough hay stockpiled for the livestock. But for next year? They would have to grow their own. Jason and the other men were bent over a sketched map of the land, working out what to do about the hay.
Dorothy decided to leave them to it. She would only be a cook too many. Three days ago, the grid had finally failed, contributing to her empty feeling. There had been more and more brownouts and then the power was gone. She took it as a sign: things would not go back to normal.

Their preparations had kept them alive so far. And their luck was holding out. They seemed to be immune, or just out of the pattern of infection.

She stepped out onto the porch. The air was still and  quiet. It was just like one of those apocalypse movies where the survivors were shown at the end staring into space. Except, this was not the end. Or maybe it was; the last page of the story had happened, and all that remained were a few surviving characters. The author was no longer writing, the characters left in that moment, not moving forward...

Thud.

The sound interrupted her thoughts, tore at them.  What was that? There was a gun just inside the door. She grabbed it. There was another thud.
Finally, she realized what it was. What they were. Three Silents, and they were knocking down the well-kept garden fence, tugging at the rails. The thuds had been part of the top rail hitting the ground.

Now they realized they could step over the lower rail. She found herself unable to shoot. They came closer.

She pulled the trigger. The shot would be a signal, a warning. She felt the stock slam into her shoulder, just as if she was shooting a deer, not a human being. Or something that had once been a human being. But there was no choice. The house door opened, Jason emerging with a second weapon. "Tore many." He was tripping over words again.

She fired a second time. This time the shot hit, striking the Silent in the midsection. She saw the woman double up, going down with a wordless scream of pain. Too human. They were still human.

Jason shot once, twice, taking the other two down, but there was an odd look on Jason’s face. "Red."

"No..." she whispered. She turned towards him, leveling her gun at his chest. But she could not do it, the barrel lowered.

He looked at her. "Bleach tower red."

"Jason..." Had he realized? Perhaps, for he dropped the gun and abruptly ran past the bodies of the dead victims and into the night.

Dorothy could do nothing but let him go. It was over. They were all infected for sure, perhaps had been for a while. Most likely the incubation period was longer than they had thought.

"What happened?" A male voice from behind her, but in that moment she could not focus on who it was.

"Jason's gone." She should have killed him. She knew she should have, but she had not been able to.

"What do you mean, gone?"

Now she remembered the owner of the voice. Leroy. There was nobody else it could have been, but...

"Infected. He ran off." She leaned the gun against the wall, glanced at the bodies. It did not matter. They were either immune or doomed. Taking the bodies away was still necessary, but it did not carry with it the fear of contamination. Touching them could not make things worse. Nothing could make things better.

"Hell. What if he comes back?"

"I can't do it," she whispered.

"Then I will."

It was an odd relief to feel that responsibility taken away from her. "Assuming it isn't you next."

"More likely to be Janine," he said softly.

 She did not want to think about that, but it was more likely her, closer to Jason physically. And Janine, so fragile... "I think at this point we have to assume we're all well and truly exposed. Immunity is our only chance."

"We have that chance. No point giving up just yet."

"Or a cure, if they come up with one." Maybe that was it. Maybe she could not give up on Jason.

"Distribution would be a problem, but..."

"Write another virus. Spread it the same way." Dorothy sighed. "Or maybe that's too dangerous. I don't know."

"We'll rebuild no matter what, but...dammit. I thought this would burn itself out and everything would be fixed by Christmas." Leroy glanced at the dead. "I guess I was naive."

"No. There's nothing wrong with having your glass half full."

"Depends on whether it's wine or vinegar."

"Hope is a good thing, Leroy. It's the only thing we have."

"Not the only thing. We have courage."

She had lacked the courage to pull the trigger. Was that strength, or weakness? She did not know.

Author Bio:

Jennifer R. Povey is in her early forties, and lives in Northern Virginia with her husband. She writes a variety of speculative fiction, whilst following current affairs and occasionally indulging in horse riding and role playing games. She has sold fiction to a number of markets including Analog, and written RPG supplements, some of which are available from Occult Moon Publishing. Her first novel, Transpecial, was published by Musa Publishing in April, 2013. Her most recent release is the apocalyptic science fiction novella "Mother," first of The Silent Years series.

For more on the author check out these sites:

Website: http://www.jenniferrpovey.com/
Smashwords Profile: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jenniferrpovey
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/author/jenniferrpovey

Book Spotlight: The Ring of Void

Today I serve up a book spotlight of dark fantasy with echoes of Japanese manga, and bring you the interesting book, The Ring of Void, and its author, Miodrag Kovachevic. Enjoy.

The Ring of Void by Miodrag Kovachevic

After his first death, Shinnosuke Yamagami became a psychopomp, a creature meant to help the deceased pass on to the Nether, the land of the dead. However, Shinnosuke's branch of work was much less poetic; his job was to hunt down runaway spirits that escaped to the mortal realm.
Now, Shinnosuke faces his second death--the death of the soul. In his final moments of existence, he recalls the stories that will remain after him; his journey with the demonic corgi Yago and his battles with spirits that spread terror amongst humans. And among those stories was Mirth, a fox creature in human form who frequently yanked the psychopomp out of his routine work and flung him into chaos. The Ring of Void is a dark fantasy novella that deals with tales left after one's demise.

The Ring of Void is available at Amazon

Author Bio

Miodrag Kovachevic is a video and board game designer born and raised in Serbia. He's had an affinity for languages his entire life and is fluent in English (with a C2 level certificate), German, Serbian and knows some basic Japanese. The Ring of Void is his first published work of fiction and reflects Miodrag's own taste in writing by being to the point and character-oriented, while having a layer of interactivity by letting the readers read between the lines.

Interview With Author Prashant Pinge

Today I bring another interview and a giveaway.  Author Prashant Pinge stops by to chat about his writing and his book, Sceadu, (recently spotlighted here on the blog), plus he has a great Rafflecopter giveaway for everyone. So enjoy...

Interview With Prashant Pinge

Why don’t you begin by sharing a little about yourself.

I was born and brought up in Mumbai. I have a bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering and three postgraduate degrees in management. I started my career at Rockwell Collins in the US but later shifted back to Mumbai to join our family business. I am also a marketing and branding professional and have my own firm, Media Panther.

You’ve recently release a new YA novel, Sceadu. Can you tell us about the book?

A century old book transports four children to Sceadu, a land inside their shadows. The reluctant visitors search for a way back but find themselves chased by the Hefigans, creatures of Sceadu. The stakes are suddenly raised when an ancient prophecy foretells the doom of the world they left behind. Now, the children must navigate the dangerous terrain, overcome grave challenges and unlock the secrets of the shadow, or suffer the destruction of their own kind.

Sceadu is a fast-paced adventure which blurs the boundary between the physical and the psychological, the real and the mythical.

Did anything about the story surprise you when writing Sceadu?

When I set out to write a fantasy, it was meant to be just that. But what pleasantly surprised me was the way I managed to intricately weave together elements of psychology and mythology to create a logical basis for a land inside the human shadow.

As a writer, what is it about the fantasy genre that appeals to you?

I have always been a huge fan of the fantasy genre. It takes me to places that don’t find a place in the breadth of our world but reside in the depths of my imagination. And the best part: I don’t require a passport.

You write in multiple genres (children’s books, young adult, fantasy, historical fiction and romantic comedy). Do you have a favourite, or do you find each has its own merits?

While I started my literary journey with children’s fiction, I enjoy all the genres I work in. I feel the best part about writing in multiple genres is that it challenges my creativity in different ways and helps me grow as a writer.

What is your greatest challenge as a writer?

My greatest challenge as a writer is that my hand cannot even come close to matching the speed at which my mind is throwing out ideas. And this can be especially frustrating when the ideas are not related to the book I am working on at that point in time.

Who has inspired you as an author?

I have been inspired by other authors such as Phil Pullman, Agatha Christie, and Somerset Maugham.

What do you enjoy when you're not writing? Any hobbies or other talents?

Apart from writing, I enjoy collecting old coins, reading fiction, travelling to exotic destinations, watching movies, and listening to music. I am keenly interested in psychology, mythology, and ancient history. I have also recently written and produced a short film titled Freedom of Expression.

What’s next for you?

I am currently working on a romantic comedy. I am also doing research for a work of historical fiction.

More on the author and his books

Author bio:

Prashant Pinge is a published author of short stories and books in the genres of children’s fiction and young adult fantasy fiction. He also writes historical fiction and romantic comedies. His book, Raja & the Giant Donut, was shortlisted for the Economist Crossword Book Awards in the Children’s Writing category in 2011.

Prashant lives in Mumbai, India, with his wife, Avantika, and son, Arjun.

Author web links:

Book website – http://sceadu.net

Author website - http://prashantpinge.com

Author Facebook page - http://facebook.com/PrashantPingeAuthor

Sceadu Facebook page - http://facebook.com/SceaduTheBook

Twitter page - http://twitter.com/prashantpinge

LinkedIn page - http://in.linkedin.com/in/prashantpinge

Google+ page - http://plus.google.com/+PrashantPinge

Goodreads page - https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8393378.Prashant_Pinge

The Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Drabble Wednesday: Shakespeare and Friends

Today’s Drabble Wednesday takes a more literary turn with some rifts on Shakespeare, Tennyson, plus to liven things up, a little Abbot and Costello. Enjoy.

(Note: most of these were written for a now defunct writing group, Genre Shorties, so there will be some odd references to things such as armadillos, badgers and the Moai, themes that often popped up in the group prompts.)

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent

’Twas quite the conundrum put before William Shakespeare.  To be the playwright, or not to be, to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or join Yorick in his millinery business.

“Alas, poor Yorick”, William exclaimed, “Tempt not a desperate man, and dangle your lure of enticement. Yet, ‘tis our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt. There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so and this above all: to thine own self be true.”

And with that he plucked up his quill to write.

A Shortie Soliloquy

“Brevity is the soul of wit”, said Shakespeare, and if that be so then laughter resounds amongst us, we fine bards who pen the Shorties.  Satire, humour and whimsy resound in shades of puce and ecru, while we feast on pickles, peas and bacon.

We are the ones who “perchance to dream”, to conjure visions that swirl through time.  We lead a parade of koalas, Moai, celebrities, and badgers as we drive the roads of imagination in 1967 Impalas and gull-winged Deloreans.

So, in their honour I take leave in paraphrase:  “Is this an armadillo which I see before me?”

A Shakespearean Pirate’s Life

To be the scourge of the seven seas, or not to be the scourge of the seven seas, aye that be the question, methinks. I task myself to take up arms, to strut and fret aboard deck, and cast aside sound and fury of convention. What mind me, those tittle-tattle slings and arrows of a jackanapes society?

Best to give not a wit, nor a thought, to those who say me nay, but rather tell truth, and shame the devil. `Tis better to have crossed swords with a scurvy dog Englishman, than never to have sailed under the Jolly Roger.

Odd Bodkins Lottery

‘Twas my last ha’penny I used to purchase the lottery chit.  Perhaps providence guided me, allowing me to indulge in the act of gambling, or pity for the sick that the proceeds benefitted.  Whatever the reason, chance allowed me to win the veritable bounty.  I was truly blessed with the princely sum of 1,000,000 dollars, all for a day at the Renaissance Fair.

Of course, be there that legality of only purchasing items that begin with the letter “L”, but I do need a new lamb’s wool tunic, some lederhosen, and a longbow.  Prithee, I could even buy a livery.

Charge of the One Hundred

(with apologies to Alfred, Lord Tennyson)

Forward into the drabble, write the one hundred.  Press onward, onward, to half the word count, write the one hundred.  Forward, always forward, into the valley of the impossible prompt.  Yours is not to reason why, just to make certain all the words are included and figure how the deuce to work in the ridiculous puce.

Forward we go, write the one hundred.  Charge for the end and make it a mental twist.  Badgers to the right of you, armadillos to the left, and look out, the slinky Moai are in front. 

For the glory you write the one hundred.

Who’s Going to the Fair?

“It’s at the corner of Who Knows and Thingydeal Road.”

I look over at Abbot and Costello.  “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“And Who will be there?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  This is going to be great fun.  Is anyone else coming?”

“I Don’t Know and I Don’t Care.”

“Oh great. The more the merrier.  Do you think someone will be taking pictures?”

“What.”

“Wonderful, I’m glad he’ll be there.”

“Certainly.  There’s supposed to be a juggling act, too.”

“Do you think it will be Today?”

“That’s the rumour.”

“The three chickens will be performing?”

“Yes.  Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.”

“Those chickens have weird names.  I mean, Why, Tomorrow and Because are silly names.”

“If I’d named the chickens, they’d be Sandwich, Cacciatore and Shifty.”