Flash Stories & Poetry Day 38: Gothic Legend "The Old Oath"

 

Hey, everyone.

Sorry this is going up so late again today. It was another weird day. See, I had already spun the wheel so I knew what I was working with, so I was avoiding this because my brain refused to come up with story. Finally, I re-spun it to replace one of the genres hoping I could get something I wouldn't be so afraid of working with. And I did. So, let's see if I can finally get this done.

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's genre is... Crossover. And as with the last crossover, which two genres will I be crossing over? ... Gothic and... Legend.

Now, as I already explained, I've already re-spun this a few times. First time, I got Gothic and Drama, but turns out "Drama" is just a word meaning "play," and I had no idea how to come up with a Gothic play. I then got Religious and thought I could use that, but I was afraid I might come too close to my magnum opus Remnants of Chaos in terms of tone, so I passed it up. Now, I have Gothic and Legend, and I think I can use this. It'll be like a prequel for another idea I had just like that one horror legend I wrote. So, let's see if I can do this.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

Many years before I was born, the land of Lustweis was renowned for being the pinnacle of society. People from all over the world came to Lustweis for trade, work, and even for advanced medical care. But then came the Old Oath.

A group of wizened mystics came from the hinterlands claiming to follow a creed known as the Old Oath. It was one that required spiritual submission from all believers, but promised to open the ways of redemption, salvation, and transmundane evolution. Anacreon, the most decorated general of Lustweis and its greatest warrior, converted and obeyed to uphold the precepts of the Old Oath.

Within a span of only five years, Anacreon rose to the head of the order and became known as Aistan Anacreon, or Revered Anacreon, and had converted all citizens of the Citadel, the fortress city that had acted as Lustweis' capital. And then only three years after that, all of Lustweis converted and came under the Faith of the Old Oath.

All those who refused to convert were labelled as pagans or heathens and cast out into the wilderness. Lustweis lost its luster and became the world's largest and most powerful theocracy with Aistan Anacreon at its head. Those on the outside told stories of the purges that were taken up to cleanse the world of the pagans and the great atrocities carried out in the name of the Old Oath. But whatever evil its believers may have perpetrated, Lustweis' power continued to grow and soon its spiritual domination was beyond any doubt. Other forces in the world refused to war with Lustweis and evangelists found willing converts in neighboring lands. But the Old Oath's believers were soldiers first, and believers second. Everyone fought for the cause, even the mystics and priests.

The most effective method of evangelization dreamt up by Anacreon were his Hunters. Created in response to a vision from the Great Seer, Alured, who could speak directly to the Ancient One. Alured saw another entity, just as old and as powerful, recruiting followers to his creed and requiring unspeakably dark acts and other sins from them for the power they desired. These cultists were called Demoniacs, and so Anacreon created his Hunters to go out into the world and slay them all, including the monsters the Demoniacs became once they finished a ritual. The Faith of the Old Oath grew with each successful evangelization, but the Hunters themselves would eventually go mad from the eldritch and unearthly things they saw.

Two renowned Hunters of the Old Oath, Logarius and Hiram, went out on a mission to end a Demoniac cult and never returned. Hiram disappeared and Logarius is said to have fallen. That is where I come into the story.

***

 

And, I'm going to have to stop it there. It's a bit clunky, but it does get at what I'm trying to get at. For those of you who read my flash fiction story Old Oath, I decided to take that build it up into an actual novel. This here is the prologue of what that story is supposed to be about. I know it isn't technically a legend, not the way I wrote it anyway, but I needed to get this out of me. And it feels good to have done so. Anyway, if you want, you can read the Old Oath here on my blog. You might have to search for it though as I don't know where it is, but just so you know, it is based off the video game Bloodborne.

 

But anyway, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 34: Romance "Bewildering Benjamin"

 

Hey, everyone.

Sorry this wasn't up earlier. Saturdays are always difficult to write on for some reason. Hopefully, after the holidays, things will get easier. We'll see.

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's genre is... Romance!

Cool. I actually romance... to an extent. Like I don't tend to like the movies on the Hallmark channel, but I do enjoy in my video games and anime. I don't know what the difference is. And writing romance in my own books is one of my favorite things to write. Let's see if I can spark that magic on my blog.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

It was a beautiful, sunny Sunday afternoon. The birds were chirping, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the freshly fallen snow looked like a postcard. It was too bad then that Elizabeth had volunteered to help decorate her church that day for Christmas. She looked longingly out of a window in the church hall while assignments and partners were being given out. "Elizabeth!" someone called.

"Here!" she said.

"You'll be hanging garland today. You'll need to head down to the old school rooms and fetch the boxes. Room 105, I think it is. Benjamin will help you out."

"Okay," said Elizabeth. Then a crank in her mind turned over. "Wait? Benjamin?"

"That's right," said a manly voice next to her.

Elizabeth turned and faced Bewildering Benjamin, the strangest fellow in the entire parish.

"How do you do, Elizabeth?" he said. "I am Benjamin."

"It's a pleasure," she said uneasily.

"Well, then, we better get a move on." Benjamin led the way, taking long strides into the hallway that connected the hall to the school.

Elizabeth followed a good nine feet behind him. Benjamin had had a reputation speaking little, and often staring at people. And when he did speak, he was often curt and direct. Most people ignored him, but they couldn't deny he had a true devotion to the Lord. He came to church every week, sat in the same pew, and always volunteered when he could. This made him appear devoted and docile which had won him the favor of the pastor and the little, old church ladies.

Elizabeth had never spoken to him; she had only seen him church. She couldn't substantiate any of the rumors of his queer behavior. She had never seen him stare, but the few times they had had accidental eye contact, there was a strange neutral, but also far away look in his eye. Where was he in his mind when he did that?

"Here we are," said Benjamin suddenly. "105." He grabbed the doorknob and moved forward. "Ah!" he said, ramming his shoulder into the door.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"The door's locked?"

"I don't think so," said Benjamin, trying the knob again. He struggled to turn it.

"I'm pretty sure it's locked. I'll go get some--"

The knob clicked and the entire door shuttered.

"There we go," said Benjamin, opening the door.

Elizabeth gaped. "How did you know it wasn't locked?"

"It didn't feel locked. There was give in the knob."

"Oh."

"Let's find those boxes of garland." Benjamin stepped into the classroom and flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. He tried it a few more times. "Great. Well, at least it's sunny today."

Despite the fact the lights weren't working, the room had large paned windows on the other wall. There was more than enough light to see.

"So, where's the garland?" asked Elizabeth.

Benjamin turned to face the wall next to them. It was actually a chalkboard that ran the length of room. But above it was an area that looked like it was being used for storage. There were dozens and dozens of boxes. "Guess we got our work cut out for us," he said.

"I'll say," said Elizabeth, stepping up to the wall. The chalkboard was slightly taller than her and the entire storage space was above her head. She lifted her arm and her hand barely touched the bottom of the nearest box. Benjamin on the other hand was able to look at the storage space in the eye.

"I guess I'll hand the boxes down to you, and we'll conduct a search that way."

"I suppose."

Benjamin grabbed the first box and handed it off to her. Elizabeth set it on the ground and then took the next box from him. When they had a few of the boxes down, they inspected their contents. They found decorations, but they all looked Hawaiian themed. "What is this?" asked Elizabeth.

"Vacation Bible School decorations," explained Benjamin.

"Oh."

"But, why would they keep them alongside their Christmas decorations. That's weird."

"That is weird."

Benjamin and Elizabeth put the boxes back, and searched the next few in the same manner. Again, they weren't the right decorations. They had the same problem with the next selection.

"Oh!" whined Elizabeth. "This is stupid."

"This is inefficient," admitted Benjamin.

"There must be fifty boxes up here."

"Easy."

Elizabeth pouted. This would take a lot of work before they even began decorating. She looked over at Benjamin. He had that blank stare again. "Benjamin. Something wrong?"

"Hm? No. I was just thinking that if the shelving... space? Up here was strong enough, I could pick you up and put you on top of it, then you could look for the garland up there."

"I... don't like that idea."

"Okay."

"If only we had a step stool."

"There might be one around here."

"Where?"

Benjamin turned the other way and checked the closet that would have used to keep the teacher's supplies. He stooped down and stood back up, balancing something on this hand. "Yo," he said.

"Incredible," said Elizabeth, looking at the folded up step stool. "How did you know?"

"I didn't. It was just a guess."

"A very intuitive guess."

"I suppose," said Benjamin, handing her the step stool.

Elizabeth opened it up and climbed it. She was now able to see into the shelving space. "This is much better," she said, checking a box's contents.

"Glad to have helped," said Benjamin, checking boxes himself.

A silence fell among them. Elizabeth couldn't stand it. She felt terribly awkward, but she didn't know what to talk about with Benjamin. She didn't have any starting points. If only there was some place to start.

"Is that your natural hair color?"

"What?" said Elizabeth.

"Is that your natural hair color?"

Elizabeth grabbed her long, red hair. "Yes."

"Very nice."

Elizabeth got a bemused smile. "Why?"

"I like red hair. I wish more women had it. I actually went to school with quite a few red haired women. They've all died their hair now. Terrible shame that."

"Why?"

"Because natural redheads are so rare! No redhead should ever die her hair."

"Oh." Elizabeth smiled to herself. "You like my hair?"

"Yes."

Elizabeth waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. Elizabeth was a little disappointed. She really wish he had said more about her hair. She reached up for a box and paused for a minute, looking at him. He was so passive, and yet, he wasn't cold as ice. His opinion on redheads had quite strong. "Do you... do you ever look at me in church because of my hair?"

"Sometimes. Other times it's because I'm looking at your... your... um, never mind."

Elizabeth looked at Benjamin. He looked nervous and a little embarrassed. "Looking at my what?"

"Never mind. It isn't important."

Elizabeth bit her bottom lip and smiled. He was checking her out. She giggled to herself and went to grab the next box, but her hands missed. She faked herself out and as she went to grab the shelf's edge, her hand fell between two boxes, and she tipped over the stool. She cried out.

"Are you alright?!"

"My hand's stuck! I can't get it out." Elizabeth's hand got stuck between the two boxes and with stool tipped over, she was now dangling over the shelf by her arm.

Benjamin rushed to her side. He tried to move the boxes apart, but they wouldn't move due to boxes on either side of the them.

"Hurry!" whined Elizabeth.

"Um..." Benjamin looked at Elizabeth's hand stuck between the two boxes. He then looked down at her and squatted. He grabbed her around the hips and lifted her up. She was able to move her hand deeper in and then up and out of the gap. Benjamin set her down.

"Ow..." said Elizabeth, rubbing her hand.

"Are you hurt?" asked Benjamin. He grabbed her hand and examined it, before turning it over and looking at the back of it.

"No, I'm fine," she wailed.

"Do you want me to kiss it?"

Elizabeth looked up at Benjamin; he was grinning like an idiot and snickering. Elizabeth looked down at her hand and smiled herself. Not only did he have passion, but he also had a sense of humor. "It couldn't hurt," said Elizabeth, lifting her hand.

Benjamin stopped laughing. But then he gingerly took her hand in his fingers and brought it to his lips, kissing it ever so softly.

Elizabeth was terribly embarrassed. "Thank you," she squeaked.

"No problem."

Benjamin didn't say anything else to her as he right her step stool and started working again. Elizabeth quickly set about her work too. She had no idea how to comprehend what just happened. Bewildering Benjamin, the strangest man in the parish, had just kissed her booboo. And he did it so tenderly, Elizabeth thought he might have been in love with her. Is that why he was always looking at her in church, or did he just think she had a great butt?

After a few more minutes of silence, Elizabeth snapped. "You're strange," she said.

"That's not news to me."

Elizabeth jumped.

"They call me 'Bewildering Benjamin,' ya know? Credit to them for the consonance, but I prefer to think of myself as being esoteric or eccentric. Well, whatever. But, why do you say I'm strange?"

"Well, you're really quiet..."

"Oh. So for the same reason the others say it, huh?"

"Well, yes, but you're more than quiet. You're funny, opinionated, and... charming."

"So?"

"Well, no one would've guessed it from the way you act."

"Silence is just one of my personality traits. We can't all be one-trick ponies. Besides, aren't there multiple facets to yourself? Are you just a girl with red hair?"

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset. I was just making a point. I'm sorry if you thought I was yelling."

"You weren't yelling. It's just your words seemed a little harsh. But... your tone was perfectly reasonable." Elizabeth shook her head. "You are bewildering. You can make something mean sound perfectly normal."

"I'm a man of many talents."

Elizabeth smiled. "I guess so." She grabbed a box that was a little deeper on the shelf than the others. It was heavy, so she had shimmy it over to the edge. It was also taller than the others, so she had to tip it on its side to open it and get a look inside. But as she tipped it, it turned out to be heavier than she thought. It slid forward and hit her in the face. She squealed, and thought she was going to fall over, but an arm around her back caught her. Then with one hand, Benjamin pushed the box back onto the shelf.

"Are you alright?"

Elizabeth sulked. "No..." she said, rubbing her forehead.

"Where does it hurt?"

"Mainly my pride..."

"Well, there's nothing I can do about that."

"But it does hurt up here," she said, pointing to the center of her forehead.

Benjamin grabbed her hand moved it away. He then used his other hand to brush her hair away as he kissed her on the forehead. He looked at Elizabeth with just a hint of a smile. "All better?"

"It also hurts here," she said, pointing to a spot below her right eye.

Benjamin leaned in and kissed her below the eye.

"And here," she said, touching her left cheek.

Benjamin kissed her there too.

"And this," she said, pointing to her lower lip, "has been achy for a while."

Benjamin stepped closer to Elizabeth, putting one hand on the side of her face and the other on her hip, pulling her closer. He then kissed her for so long and so passionately, Elizabeth actually lost herself within it. When Benjamin pulled his face away, he gave her one or two more small pecks before resting his forehead against hers.

"I think we should get a move on," she said, trying to convince herself.

"Just one more," said Benjamin, moving his lips in again.

***

 

Okay. I'm not going to say stop the clock because I definitely wrote over. There's no point in pretending I didn't. That was an hour and 15 minutes. What can I say? I was into it, and there was a lot to set up if I'm honest. When it comes to romance scenes, you have to write them so that your audience can understand why these two people want to kiss each other, and I didn't feel like I could justify that in 30 minutes. So, that's that.

 

Anyway, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 31: Mystery/Fantasy Crossover "Detective Jykk"

 

Hey, everyone.

Sorry this is coming out so late in the day. My uncle came over early today and stayed for three hours and then I needed to work out and then there was dinner and several other distractions. Anyway, I'm here to work now. Also, I'm thinking about launching my career as a poet. What does that mean? Well, if you need a poem written, think about hitting me up. Just leave a comment on this post for now. Eventually, I'll start taking inquiries through my email. I just need to iron out the details. Anyway...

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's genre is... Crossover!

What's a crossover? Well, "crossover" is typically a word used in the fan-fiction scene to denote a piece of work that crosses over two or more fandoms. Here, I mean to use it as a method of writing something that had two different genres in it. For instance, Star Wars is actually a sci-fi fantasy crossover and Stephen King's The Gunslinger is a western fantasy crossover.

Problem is, I don't know which two genres to use. So, I'll spin the wheel of genres two more times to get my crossover. First genre is Mystery, and the second is Fantasy. So, a detective story with magic and junk. Alright, let's see what I can come up with.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

Detective Jykk kneeled over the body. He touched the victim's face and said a small incantation. The immediate aura of the spell turned a light blue; the victim had only been dead for a few hours, but it was already stone cold. He lifted the victim's arm to see if he could determine the cause of death, and there stuck in the body's chest was a knife. Jykk moved his hand near the knife and it crackled with purple electricity--he wouldn't be touching that knife until CSI arrived and used the proper disarming charm on it. But there was a bit of luck. Jykk thought that if the murderer had slipped up and used their bare hands to drive in the knife, there might be traces of DNA, or better yet, a magical trace.

Jykk wiggled his fingers and spoke a slow enchantment. Yellow sparkles materialized in the air and shot down to the ground to form a set of footprints. One foot was slightly ahead of the other and had its heel lifted. The attacker had stepped forward to violently drive the knife through the vic's chest, or maybe the attacker had been of a smaller stature. Jykk wiggled his fingers more and blew on the footprints. A trail of gold footprints manifested on the ground. Before following them, the detective cast a quick sealing spell on the body and area to cordon it off.

Jykk trotted after the trail out of the alley. Every so many yards he had to wiggle his fingers and blow again, but the bigger problem was that the footprints were fading fast. Whoever the attacker was, they must have known they might leave a magic trace and did their best to disrupt it.

The trail eventually went cold down another alley. Jykk quickly cast a reveal charm, but no one other than rats were in the alleyway. Before the footprints could disappear, Jykk turned and traced their outline with a bit of chalk. Maybe they could analyze the tracks and get a rough idea on the height and gender of the suspect from the size of the feet and the size of their gait. The detective then started inspecting the alley. He looked for anything suspicious: trap doors, stalls or dumpsters that looked out of place, and even scraps of clothing that might have been torn off the suspect's clothing. None of these were found, but the detective did do a quick scan and found some fingerprints. In order to take a proper sample, he'd have to wait for CSI with a kit, but Jykk went ahead and made a crystalline imprint of the fingerprints. He dropped them into his hand and examined them.

The fingers weren't very long, but they were slender. A slight mark beyond the finger pad seemed to suggest long, well-manicured nails. Jykk went back tot he footprints he traced and found the step of the perpetrator to be shorter and narrower than his own. It seemed likely he was after a woman. Jykk wrapped the crystalline prints a in cloth and pocketed them. He then waved his hand through the air and inhaled deeply. A subtle, violet mist filled the air. The scent of a perfume and pheromones were both magnetized dozens of times. Jykk almost got high off the smell and almost forgot that he was looking for a crook; the more primitive parts of his brain and body had responded immediately.

Jykk covered his nose with a handkerchief and walked back down through the alley. He watched the violet mist to see how it congregated in the air and followed the thickest part of its trail. It led him to a spot next to a dumpster inhabited by a box that looked to be about three feet. Trying to seem disinterested, he went to pass it up, but a fierce scream and an explosion of pheromones wouldn't let him. Within a split second, the suspect, a nimble, slender woman, hooded and cloaked, jumped from the box and attack him, a dagger forming in her hand.

Jykk quick-stepped out of the way and drew his piece. One snap of the trigger and the dagger popped out of the woman's hand, but she kept coming at him, now with fingernails that were magically enhanced. Jykk juked and jived out of the way. The woman took too enthusiastic of a step toward him and ended up passing him. Jykk danced behind her and delivered a forceful blow to the back of her skull with his piece. The woman fell unconscious immediately and hit the ground with a thud and a flutter.

"Now, then," said Jykk. "Let's see who you are." He bound her hands with a spell, and then pulled back her hood. He gasped.

***

 

Alright, stop the clock! Yes, I know I ended at the good part. That was sort of the point so you can complete the story yourselves. That, and it would've forced me to come up with another name, but I've got a headache right now. I'm really tired. I've gotten used to taking naps in the evening because my sleep schedule is so messed up. But anyway, I have 4:20 left (blaze it!), but that was fun. I actually really enjoyed writing the detective parts. It responded to my very technical side and my need to over explain everything. Maybe I should write a real detective story. 

 

But anyway, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 28: Horror Legend "The Journal"

 

Hey, everyone.

So, I'm not sure how in the world I'm going to write a short story about writing for a third time. I might say screw it and just write a regular short story. Writing about writing is only really fun with poetry and non-fiction. It's sort of difficult with fiction. So, let's see then.

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!






Today's topic is... well, to be honest, I spun it multiple times because I wasn't satisfied with what I got. First I got legend, then horror, then mystery, and finally fairy tale. I do have a story idea that is about writing for horror/mystery, but it's more of a novel idea and I don't want to give it away here. Or, maybe what I could do is write a horror-mystery-legend and make it the prequel for my novel. That would be fun. Let's do it.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

A long time ago, there once was a man. He lived in a mansion on top of a hill. Those who saw him thought he was a most peculiar man. Whenever they saw him, he would be bent over, muttering curses under his breath. He always eyed everyone in the world with an eye of suspicion and hate. No one knew why, but he loathed the world and everything in it.

But the most peculiar thing about this man was that he always carried with him a leather bound journal. As he walked the world, he would be bent over his journal and constantly scribbling in it. Every day he filled those pages with his demented, wrathful thoughts. They seemed to fill the journal from cover to cover. But what was most alarming was that every day he filled the journal from cover to cover. Monday, cover to cover; Tuesday, cover to cover; Wednesday, cover to cover; the whole week, month, year long.

Some thought that perhaps he had more than one, but where he got them from no one knew; no one ever saw him buy anything. And yet, every day he had a journal filled with curses and malcontent thoughts. Some thought it was the same journal every day, but how could that have been possible?

Those who claimed it was the same journal said the journal was bewitched and that every day, the writing would be erased and the man would be forced to fill it again. But, there was another phenomenon that came to pass as the man continued to write. Every day he became a little bit meaner and a little bit older. Things that he didn't use to hate so much, he now abhorred, and though only a year had passed, he looked as if he had aged ten.

This led some people to believe that as he pored over the journal, he actually poured himself into it--his very life's essence was transported from his pen to the page and it became a part of the journal. For what point or purpose, no one knew, but they could see that the longer he wrote in the journal, the more embittered and older he became.

Then, one day, he no longer came around. For several days, no one said anything for they hadn't noticed his sentimental poison permeating the air. When someone did ask, no one answered. It took several more times and several more times after that for the question to be asked before someone finally gave the answer, "I don't know."

They went to his house on the hill and broke in. It was a cavernous, Gothic mansion, as bleak and as dark as him. They searched the whole house but found so sign of him. What they did find though sent shivers down their spine. While looking in his bed chambers, they found a skeleton, sitting at a desk, and beneath its hand was the leather bound journal--its pages were completely blank.

Haunted by the thought of what this could mean, they hastily dropped the skeleton into a trunk and moved it into the cellar. One paranoid fellow put a padlock on it for fear something might escape. As for the journal, it was lost in the shuffle, but some say it's still up there, hiding in the mansion somewhere.

***

 

Stop the clock! Okay, that's almost eleven minutes left. I know, I still have plenty of time, but I don't know how to make this longer and I'm getting sleepy. Which isn't good because I have Christmas cookies to bake. So, I was sort of rushing the story. Not everything is written as well in this piece as I would like it. For this week, I don't think I'm going to do a theme, but with Christmas coming, you can expect a lot of Christmas related posts. Maybe I'll write my own carol.

 

But anyway, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 25: Legend "The Author"

 

Hey, everyone.

I don't have anything clever to say today other than I hope I get legend or something unique when I spin the wheel as I can't imagine writing a legitimate short story about how important it is to write earnestly. Right.

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's topic is... Legend!

Hey! Look at that! What do you know? No, I didn't get legend. I got drama. But I'm going to choose to ignore that and write a legend anyway. I'm also starting to think that maybe weekly themes is a bad idea if they cause me to just ignore the decision of the wheel, unless the weekly theme is sort of generic. But anyway, a legend about writing.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

When the universe was young and the planet still fresh, long before the time of man, the Creator made a being called the Author. The Author was charged with the responsibility of writing the fates of men, empires, and the path of history. Any time someone was born, died, went to war, rose to greatness, or fell, it was because the Author had written it to be so. Everyday, all day, he wrote in a castle on an island far out in the ocean so no one could interfere with the proper course of events.

One day, there was a farmer who had a son. According to the farmer, it was his son's duty to grow up and inherit the farm, but the son didn't want to inherit the farm. He wanted to be a hero. The farmer told his son that he couldn't be a hero, that every man was predestined to a fate by the Author. The son listened to his father when he was young, but as he grew, so too did his determination.

When he was still a young man and working out in the fields, he left his home without saying a word to his parents and began travelling. He came across a town where he found a mystic and demanded to know where he might find the Author. The mystic told him of a ship in the harbor that was headed out to sea, and that if the young man climbed aboard the ship and survived the storm it would pass through, he would find his way to the Author.

The young man went off and found the ship. He joined its crew and it carried him across the great sea. One night, the sailors were telling lies and talking about their broken dreams. When it came time for the young man to speak, he said he was on a journey to find the Author so he might become a hero. Some of the sailors laughed, others shouted at him, but they all told him the same thing: no man could change his fate. The young man persisted in his desire, and some of the men became angry. Some said they were now cursed for the young man had deserted his fate and had now put them all on a dangerous path from which there was no escape. They planned to throw him overboard to appease the gods, but a storm was suddenly upon them.

The sailors did what they could to control the ship and keep it together, but the men were thrown overboard. When things looked their most dire, the young man hid himself below deck and waited out the storm. When it came to an end, the young man came back up to the deck to find he was the only one aboard, and that the sails and wheel were irrevocably damaged. He had no way of fixing them and so he found himself at the mercy of the currents.

For five days and five nights he drifted out to sea. Several times he renounced his desire and prayed for death, prayed to be released from the curse he had cast upon himself. But after the five days and five nights, on the sixth morning, the ship ran aground on an island where a huge castle stood. The young man left the ship and entered the castle. He searched its great cavernous halls, but found no one there. He searched the rooms and still no one was there. He sat on the throne and thought himself a fool along with the whole world for believing in the legend of the Author. But as he quieted his mind, he faintly heard a scratching.

The young man followed the sound deep into the bowels of the castle. At the end of a hall, he found a small room where upon a desk was an old man, hunched over a scroll that was as long as time. The young man approached and said, "Are you the Author?" But the old man didn't respond. The young man asked his question again, but again there came no answer. The young man stepped closer to the scroll and suddenly saw the old man's hand change from writing action to dialogue.

"I am the Author," he said as he wrote. "I am the one who writes the fates of men."

"I want to change my fate," said the young man as he saw the Author scribble those words.

"I know," said the Author. "I'm the one who has made it so that you may change your fate by writing your path here."

"I wouldn't have made it here if you hadn't written it?" asked the young man.

"That's correct."

"But why did you allow me to make it here? Why do you allow me to choose my fate rather than write it yourself? Why did you kill those on the ship?"

"I have sympathy for all the characters in life, but some are foolish. Some I choose to let die for they are mundane, but for those in whom I see true greatness, I let them write their own story. It only seems right; your life, your story. Your story, your life."

"I can become a hero because I have chosen it?"

"And because I allow it. But, you won't be the hero you think you will be. You will go out from here and tell the people what I have told you. Some of them will choose to live as heroes and as great men, and some will continue to follow the path set before them. But better it is that some should have what they want than none of them."

"What sort of hero is that?" asked the young man.

"The sort of hero that allows for the birth of other heroes. The hero that sets the path for those to follow. You are the first cause in a great movement. Now, go. You and I both have work to do."

And so, the young man left the castle and boarded the ship. The current took him back to land and he told his tale about what the Author. Some people listened, others did not. But for those who did, they found their paths cleared and they became the heroes they longed to be.

***

 

Stop the clock! A minute twenty left. That took longer than I thought it would. I also didn't have the clearest idea about where this story was headed, but I think I made my point. I'm sure many other writers will be able to see the parallel between this legend and the way they write themselves occasionally. And hopefully the lesson of this legend isn't lost those writers who can't see the parallel.
 

But anyway, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 22: Suspense/Thriller "Literary Hysteria"

Hey, everyone.

So, I'm one to talk. Here I am saying this week's theme is going to be about the earnest endeavor of writing or whatever and I'm procrastinating till almost four in the afternoon to start. Geez. Well, writing about writing in poetry and non-fiction is easy. Writing about writing in fiction, not as easy. Not to mention, how many of us have written a story where the main character is a frustrated author of some sort? We've all done it. Anyway...

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's topic is... Science Fiction! That's a bit of a bust. I was hoping for something like horror or a psychological thriller because I did think of a way to write about writing and make it interesting, but it needs to be a horror story or thriller. Fantasy would work, too. Maybe I should ignore the wheel and run with my idea. Yeah, I think I will. Geez, what a monster I've become. I can't even follow my own rules. Anyway, I'm going to try to make this one actually flash fiction and keep it less than 1000 words, maybe shorter. Get in, get out.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

Darrell had been at it for weeks. He had locked himself in his room and hadn't come out since who knew when. All the words were up there in his mind, but he had trouble getting them out. He would sit at his desk before his typewriter and freeze. His fingers would touch the keys, but he couldn't make them move. In frustration, he's stand up again and start pacing. He had worn a track in his floor from the route he walked.

Darrell then thought that if he could get some of it out, he might be able to make more sense of his problem. Fragments of sentences and images came to him. He jotted them down as he went about his day, but they were barely anything; they were just words strung together. "As immobile as a drunken mist", "given to the placidity of a pale moon", "as passive as a crow's stare". Most of them he barely understood himself.

He soon ran out of paper, but he still had plenty of pens. He started writing things on the walls, on his tables, and on the floor. Once while eating toast, he carved a phrase into his kitchen counter, "April devoured brings May's coward". He stabbed the knife into counter and wandered back to his office. He was careful not to tread on any of the words he scribbled on the floor which outlined a crooked path for him. He turned on the light ever so gently so as not to smear the delicate inscriptions that littered the walls and mocked him with their very presence.

Every sentence tormented him; every image was like slow death. The only place he saw the story clearly was in his dreams which he always forgot upon awakening, and maddened at the incompetence of his own memory, he felt like the story would burst from his own head, ending him rightly.

He felt the madness take hold and soon he only thought and spoke in garbled language which not even the great Bard could have comprehended. He forgot how to keep himself, and would bash his head into the walls, walking around, trying to make his way to his desk. He never tread on his precious words, but he soon realized they didn't belong to him, he belonged to them. He was servant to them. He muddled through nonsensical prayers under his breath begging for release but they never would. They couldn't. He had never been able to release them, so they wouldn't release him.

Months passed and a terrible smell came from Darrell's room. When it reached its climax, they broke in and found him long dead, sitting at his desk in front of his typewriter. Stale blood soaked into the hardwood and left sticky stains on his legs, clothes, and arms. They leaned his body back and found that he had carved more words and phrases into his very flesh and face with a fountain pen. They covered up his ghastly appearance and sent him to the morgue. A great shame it was too, because then the only person who experienced the true rapture of Darrell's magnum opus and understood the mystery of his torture and how his death was the price he paid for his release was the mortician. What would a lord of the dead do with the secret to life?

***

 

Stop the clock. Alright, I have seven-and-a-half minutes left. So, that wasn't as good as I was hoping. When the idea came to me, I thought it was great, but trying to get it out--it just wouldn't come. I felt like Darrell myself toward the end. But as I wrote, I was kind of like, how many other people know exactly what this feels like? I'm betting a lot of us do. As for the length of this piece, about 536. I went back and edited it, so I don't know for sure.

But anyway, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 19: Fantasy "Travelers"

Hey, everyone.

Well, yesterday was Thanksgiving and it was pretty good for me. I hope it went well for you as well. Before we continue, I must tell you that I injured my finger today, so my typing is a little off.  Excuse any mistakes I make. Anyway, back to business.

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's topic is... Fantasy! Hey, how 'bout them apples. I've actually written some fantasy. My book Heroes of Majestia: The Company of Flight is fantasy. I'm also putting together some short stories currently to help fill out the lore, so I am no stranger to fantasy. The trick though is can I tie my a fantasy story in with my high school reunion/days? I know some of you are probably sick of it, but I'm going to go ahead with it. Hmm, maybe I should weekly themes on top of the daily exercises.

Anyway, believe it or not, I totally can tie in my HS days. Here's an idea that's struck me a few days, but I never really thought of developing it. This will be it's trial area.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

Margaret ran through the citadel. She had seen that guy in the hood all over the place. He was following her, but why? And why did she feel like she knew him?

Margaret rounded a corner and almost ran into Anne. "Ah! Anne!"

"Margaret! What're you doing here?"

"I was chasing a man in a hood."

"Was he really tall and wearing a brown cloak?"

"Yeah!"

"He just passed me in the last street."

"Damn! I'll never be able to catch him."

"I don't know about that. That street is a dead end."

The fires of hope were rekindled in Margaret's eyes. "Now's my chance!" she said before running off.

"Wait!" called Anne after her. "He could be dangerous," said Anne, trotting after her.

"If he wanted to kill me, he would've done so already. He's had plenty of chances, and in more than enough of them, he and I were alone together."

"Alone?!"

"Last time I saw him, he looked like he was going to say something to me, but he fled when he saw the Court Mage."

"Master Den?"

Margaret rounded the next brick wall and came to the street Anne had mentioned. The walls on either side of her shot up into the darkness. The stalls on either side of the street were abandoned, the merchants weren't allowed to sell their good and wares at this time of night. That would give the mystery man plenty of hiding places.

Margaret took off down one side, walking behind the stalls. "Check that side, Anne."

Anne tentatively walked over to the other side of the street but stopped. Margaret looked back at her sharply.

"I don't like this," said Anne.

"Then you can leave if you want, but I'm getting my answers and I'm getting them today."

"Or you'll get a knife in the belly."

Margaret hesitated. Her heart beat quickened as she turned and said, "At least I'll have my answers then." She turned back to her path and felt her heart hammer inside her chest. She didn't know what she was saying and she was scared, but to tell someone off just for warning her, that was a new step for her. She couldn't remember a time when she had ever done so before.

"You know," began Anne, "Master Den has been teaching me a few spells. I bet we could lure him out."

"Why didn't you say so earlier?!"

Anne shrugged. "I'm not very good at them, but if it'll stop you from killing yourself, I'll try it."

Margaret walked back to Anne as she began to chant in the middle of the street. The words and syllables she used were foreign to Margaret's ears and occasionally a few sparks or waves of light would manifest from Anne's mouth.

Anne lifted her hand to her mouth as if she was about to cough something up. She became quiet, held her hand out down the street, and then snapped her fingers. The snap echoed, and not just because of the closed in street, but also due to some mystical means. As the sound reverberated against the walls and reverberated back, a screaming could be heard as it grew louder. Suddenly, there was a pop and a flash, and a tall man in brown cloak and hood appeared out of thin air right in the middle of the street.

"Um...?" he said. "Bye!" He started moving toward the back of the street, but Anne shot her other hand forward and issued another word of power. Blue circles shot from her hand and they hit the man, bounding him within them. He fell to the ground.

"Got you, now!" said Margaret triumphantly, standing over him.

"Yes," replied the man.

Margaret's vision blurred for a second. His voice sounded familiar, but she couldn't remember from where.

"Bully for you, Margaret. And well done, Annie."

"Annie?" repeated Anne. "No one's ever called me that before."

"You'd be wrong about that."

"Time to fess up!" said Margaret, striking him in the back. "Who are you and why have you been following me?"

The man struggled to roll over so he could face them. His hood fell off in doing so. Both Margaret and Anne gasped. "Michael!" they said together.

"Yep," said Michael with a sigh. "But I prefer Mike."

"That's so weird!" said Anne. "I suddenly remember you."

"Me, too," said Margaret. "But how?"

"Well, I would've preferred to tell you two under different circumstances, but these are as good a time as any. We are all from a different world."

Margaret and Anne blinked.

"What do you mean?" asked Anne.

"We're not from here. None of us live in the citadel. We're not even from his country! We're from a different world altogether."

Margaret's lip quivered. "I don't believe you!"

"Spoken in denial I see," said Mike. "You both know, deep down, that there's something wrong with this place. That's the reason why it's never felt like home," he said forcefully to Margaret. She jumped. How long had he been following her?

"Where are we from then?" asked Anne.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?! You know we don't belong here but you don't know where we're from?!"

"Yes. All I remember is being in a high school hallway, and I remember seeing you two, standing there next to me, right before we were sucked up into a portal of some sort."

Images flashed through both girls' heads. Anne placed a hand on a stall for balance, while Margaret almost hit the pavement. Both saw the same image as if it were a dream, but realer, in their heads of standing next to Mike and being drawn through a black portal. Margaret remembered she'd been wearing her uniform at the time. That's why her clothes were so different and strange when she woke up at the citadel. And when she thought about it, where had those clothes gone?

"I remember..." said Anne, shaking. She closed her fist and the blue rings holding Mike disbanded.

"That's better," he said, standing up. "Glad to see you both have your memories back. Margaret. Annie."

"But," said Annie, "I can't remember where we're from."

"Me, neither," said Margaret. "How did you remember?"

"I used to be one of the castle's servants. I was cleaning the Court Magician's chambers when I knocked over an orb. It hit the ground and I was bathed in a pale blue light. That's when I remembered the portal, and from there I started to remember everything else, but not until I saw everyone first."

"Everyone?" said Margaret.

"That's right. There are more of us here from our world."

Margaret looked off into the distance. Who else did she know from her high school days?

"Why did Master Den's orb give you your memory back?" asked Annie.

"I don't know, but I bet he knows something we don't."

***

 

And that's it. I actually went over time writing that. And before you ask, yes, there was a Margaret, Annie, and Mike in my class at high school. There were a few Mike's, and at least two Anne's, but there was only one Margaret. Anyway, when I started writing that, I was worried it would be too short so some of the intro stuff is filler, but then it ended up being too much. I wanted to get to the point where I implicated the Court Mage is some shady goings-on because otherwise there wouldn't have been a complete story.

But anyway, that's it for today. I hope you enjoyed it. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 16: Young Adult "Swing Dancing"

Hey, everyone.

So, I think by writing these posts later in the evening is a definite mistake. By the time I get around to them, I'm distracted and tired, and sometimes groggy if I've had a nap (which is always a bad idea in the evening). So, from here on out, I'm going to try to keep these in the morning. Hopefully, I'll have a little more pep. But I won't lie, I didn't sleep well last night. Just couldn't fall asleep and woke up super early this morning for no reason. Anyway...

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's topic is... Young Adult! Now, I will be honest and tell you that I did spin the wheel twice. I know, I know; it's cheating, but it landed on comedy again and I'm trying to keep things varied. And, Young Adult goes so well with the amazing regret I felt last night while looking through my yearbook at all the opportunities I really missed out on. And I am cooking up ideas for a young adult series down the line, so...

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

Sarah and Tom walked through the hall at a less than enthusiastic pace to their public speaking class.
"Tom!" said Sarah sharply. "If we don't hurry, Mr. Smith is going to tan our hides."
"'Tan our hides'? What decade are you from?"
"I'm trying to cut back on swearing."
"Aw. Aren't you a good girl?"
"Fuck you. But seriously, Mr. Smith is having that guest speaker talk today."
"Oh, yeah. That is today. What was the topic again? 'Making the Most of Your High School Opportunities'? Are you really that interested?"
"Well... a little. Not to mention it's rude to just walk in and interrupt someone's speech."
"Why?"
"Because it makes them think you don't care about the effort they put into writing it."
"No! Why do you care about hearing the guest speaker?" demanded Tom.
"Well... I was looking though last year's yearbook, and our school has a lot of different clubs."
"So?"
"I didn't know half of them existed, and some of them sound like fun."
"Like what?"
"Like the swing dancing club."
"We have a swing dancing club?! You gotta be shittin' me."
"I shit you not. I went to join it this year, but there weren't enough people interested."
Tom turned on her. "You want to learn how to swing dance?! What with the bip-boppin', and the hip-hoppin', and the... and the... skip-skoppin'?"
"I don't think that's a thing."
"It could be, but you'll never know without the swingers club."
"Swing dancing."
"Whatever. But seriously, you really think you're missing out on something? What could you be missing out on?"
"I don't know, but I do know I don't want to go through life and miss out. When I showed my parents the yearbook, do you know what they said?"
"What?"
"They said they never did anything like that when they were in high school. At first, I didn't think anything of it, but then I started watching them over the summer and they're two of the most bland and boring people I've ever met. All they do is sit on their asses watching TV. I mean, how the hell did they even get together?"
"You think you'll become your parents?"
"I don't know if I will, but look at what we did all summer. We spent all our time sitting around in your dank basement watching TV and making dirty jokes and complaining about shit we don't know shit about! Meanwhile Kara Carpenter joined youth group and had a blast. Connie Springer took an art class at a community college and now she's the best artist in school. Your best friend, Tim Jones, went to band camp and became a rock star."
"Enh, only if you like the bass. I'm more of a guitar man, myself."
"That's funny coming from a guy who doesn't play."
Tom stared at Sarah for a minute. "You're that worried you'll turn into your parents?"
Sarah inhaled slowly and exhaled. "I don't want to take a chance on it. I just know I don't want to spend any more of my time sitting around and watching TV in a dank basement."
"It wasn't that bad. Well, I will admit that the summer did seem to favor me more than you. I got to second base," he said with a grin.
"Yeah," said Sarah unenthusiastically. "I know. I was there."
"'It still haunts my dreams every night'," Tom mocked.
"Well, not every night. But it wasn't my proudest moment."
"You were into it at the time."
"Yeah, but that was back before I could imagine something better."
"What's better than getting to second base?"
"Swing dancing, Tom! Swing dancing!"
"You're really hung up on this swing dancing thing."
Sarah sighed. "I just... just... I don't know," she said, defeated. She walked over to the lockers, put her back to them, and slid down to the floor. "I just want something more," she said, hugging her knees.
Tom watched her and couldn't help but feel like an ass. He couldn't imagine anything greater than what he had, but he and Sarah were friends, so it did pain him to see her this way, even if he couldn't understand where she was coming from. He sighed. "How many people would it take to get the swing dancing club up and running?"
"Huh?"
"How many people are you short?"
"Um, well. Not that many actually. We're actually just missing a couple of guys since the male teachers aren't allowed to dance with us."
"Just a couple of guys? What, there aren't any gay guys in this school?"
"Not as many as you would think."
"Alright," said Tom with as exasperated sigh. "I'll see who I can round up, and we'll join the swing dancing club."
"Do you really mean it?!" said Sarah, bounding up.
"Yes. Hmm, Tim might be interested."
"Oh, he'll definitely be interested. Erin Summer is a part of the club."
"Erin Summer? The Erin Summer?! Tim's crush since he was like seven?"
Sarah nodded. "Yep."
"Well, that'll make things easier."
"But you really mean it? You're really going to join the swing dancing club?"
"Yes."
"Can I ask why?"
"Because... you're my friend, and I... care about you."
Sarah wrapped her arms around Tom's neck and squeezed.
"Alright, alright" said Tom, stepping back. "If we get caught by Mrs. Steadfast, she'll put us both in the clink for PDA."
"'Clink'? What decade are you from?"
"Let's just get to class, smart ass. Let's see what wisdom this guest speaker has to impart on us youngsters," he said blandly.
Sarah smiled. "At the rate you're going, I might be interested in making this official."
"Don't get my hopes up," Tom joked.

***

 

Phew! That's it. I would say stop the clock, but I went past time. Not by much, but I did. There were some parts of this little story that I really got into so I wanted to develop them right. And in case you were wondering, yes, my high school did have a swing dancing club, and yes, that is one of the things I regret missing out on, although at the time I don't think I would've joined it. I had a carefully crafted image of a hardass to uphold, and hardasses don't swing. But it would've meant dancing with some of the quieter girls in my class and breaking the ice. That would've been nice.

But anyway, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

See you tomorrow.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:
Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Fiction & Poetry Day 11: Comedy "Love Sick"

Hey, everyone.

Today's day eleven of my writing challenge. Hopefully after I've been doing this for a month, I'll stop saying what it is. Anyway, I followed through on what I said and made three different wheels. Today's wheel is composed of fiction writing styles. And for the sake of my flash fictions, I'll try to keep them to flash fiction length so that each post is a story unto itself. So let's give it a try.

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's topic is... Comedy. Balls! There's nothing more difficult than trying to be funny on the spot. Sure, spontaneous humor and jokes do often arrive in our lives, but those jokes can happen because we're so involved in the moment. For this, I have to make up my own moment.

Alright, thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

"Well," said Fred, coming through the door. "That double date could not have been worse."
"What're you talking about?" asked Dan, following him in. "I think it went quite well."
"Easy for you to say; your girl looked like a girl."
"Yours looked like a girl. She had long hair."
"That was a mullet."
"She had some nice sized breasts."
"She was wearing a hydro bra!"
"How do you know that?" asked Dan, taking off his coat.
"Because she popped one coming back from the bathroom. She smashed it in the door or something. Didn't you notice that her chest looked a little deflated and lopsided?"
"I guess I was lost in her eyes."
"You were lost in your date's ass! I've never heard a man say 'ladies first' so much before in my life."
"I guess I'm just more of a gentleman than you."
"Says the guy who budgets his paycheck for a Friday night at Fappy's. Just imagine if your date knew what sort of a perverted creep you actually are."
"You know what they say, what you don't know can't hurt you."
Fred growled. He took off his coat and headed for his bedroom. He immediately went to bed and had frightful dreams of women's busts busting and showering him with water. Eventually, however he was shaken awake. "Ah! Who's there?"
"Fred?"
"Dan? What time is it?"
"It's about three."
"In the morning?!"
"Yeah."
"Go away!"
"But I can't sleep," said Dan, sitting on the bed next to Fred. "I can't stop thinking about Julie."
"Who?"
"My date tonight."
"Oh."
"I'm a little worried."
"About what?"
"Well, I was thinking about how the date went and I think..."
"...Yes?"
"I think..."
"Yes?!"
"I think..."
"For fuck sake! What do you think, man?!"
"I think I love her." Dan looked at Fred. "I think I found the one."
"Oh, for fuck sake! You can't be serious."
"I am serious. Her hair, her face, her body, that absolutely lethal booty! I'm in love."
"You're not in love. You're just horny. Take a cold shower or bop your baloney, and you'll be fine. Now, get the hell out!"
"But I can't stop thinking about her."
"I've already given you two perfectly good suggestions on how to cure that."
"I want to see her again! I need to see her again!" declared Dan, rushing from the room.
"Oh, great. We're doing this now?" Fred rose and grabbed his robe. He found Dan in the kitchen with his laptop open. "What're you doing, dude?"
"I need to write her a poem! An ode to her beauty! A memoriam to our love."
"I wish your infatuation would die."
Dan started typing. "Dearest Julia..."
"Julie," corrected Fred.
"Dearest Julie, my heart beats only for thee. I wonder if you'll ever love me. Your beauty is angelic--"
"And you've got a booty majestic."
"Think me not pathetic. For I am only a loving fool--"
"Who's become quite the tool."
"And when I look through the looking glass--"
"All I can see is dat ass!"
"Why can't you take my feelings seriously?" asked Dan.
"Because didn't we go through this same crap last week over some girl named Margaret. What was the rhyme you made about her? 'You daintily ate your ham cubes, and I couldn't stop staring at your boobs.'"
"Oh, Margaret! I had forgotten about her! She was gorgeous, too."
"How would you know? You never looked at her above the neck."
"Oh, Margaret! Oh, Julie! How I wish there was a Margulie."
"That's it. I'm done with this. I'm done with you. I'm going to bed," said Fred, turning away.
"But what will I do without your good counsel?"
"Find your way back to your village I hope. Good night!" said Fred, closing his door.
"Good night, dear Fred. If only you understood my sorrow."

Stop the clock. Okay, I have 2:16 left. Well, that went alright. It wasn't laugh out loud funny, but it had its moments. Half way through I did start to panic when I realized there wasn't any real conflict which meant there wouldn't have been any real ending. I mean, you could argue that there isn't one as nothing was really resolved in this except for the fact that Fred left Dan to his devices, but Fred is the protagonist in this story and Dan the antagonist. So, in a way, Fred did win. But I am surprised how much I wrote in 28 minutes. Maybe I should release a book with a bunch of flash fictions. No, I would burn through my character list to quick and I don't want to re-use old names for protagonists.

So, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. See you tomorrow.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:
Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 5: Flash Fiction "The Pugilist Priest"

Today's the fifth day and I feel reasonably well. Hopefully that'll mean a good piece of writing. Let's find out.

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's topic is... Fiction--Religious. Oh, boy. Now, while I am a practicing Catholic and my book Remnants of Chaos: Chaotic Omens is pumped full of religion meaning that much of its world building is based on Catholic doctrine, religious fiction always has the added of challenge of making it so that it doesn't sound contrived or like you're beating people over the head with a particular religion's beliefs. But, I think I may have a story idea in mind. This is actually an idea I have for a movie, but there's no reason why I can't explore it here. It's called The Pugilist Priest. Let's get started.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go.

In the city of Detroit, Michigan near the parish of Ste. Anne de Detroit, you'd never expect to find a street known as "Vatican Town." It's much like Detroit's Mexican or Greek Towns, but instead of the focus being on the people's heritage, the focus on this street is on the people's religion which in this case is Roman Catholicism.

Now, you may have some preconceived notions about Catholics, but let me assure you that most of them are plain wrong or overblown. But whether you believe me or not is irrelevant; just take it from me that you don't want to take those preconceived notions into Vatican Town especially if you think Catholics are huge pushovers. The runners and shakers in Vatican Town are anything but. One such force is Vatican Town's gangs. Look out for the Crusaders and no one ever manages to expect the Spanish Inquisition, but the one to fear out of them all is the Chaldean gang. They drive around in their low-riders pimped out with the Lord's good name written on their doors and hoods. Gang members walk around with gold crucifixes and diamond rosaries hanging from their necks. They roll deep in their crews giving everyone else including the other gangs the stink eye, but despite their dispositions, gang violence is relatively rare but I wouldn't dare push their buttons; The Boondock Saints happens to be all their favorite movie.

After you've managed to dodge the Catholic gangs, you'll come to a bar called Holy Smokes. Inside you'll find a dank place poorly lit with the air clogged by smoke. You look to your left and you'll find the Little Sisters of Holy Persecution shooting pool. Be careful of those old nuns; they stand around all day smoking cigars, drinking beer, and rattling their giant rosaries as menacingly as possible. And there's always one or two brandishing a yard stick like a baseball bat. Word of the wise: they're not the ones who suffer persecution.

To the right you'll find the bar itself, but I wouldn't sit and drink there. Some of the students from Blessed Virtue High School sit at that bar to do their homework. But even if you don't sit down, you'll still have to suffer their judgmental gaze. Those kids are spirited, but their sticklers for proper dress code, so if you're a man, make sure your hair is combed, your face is shaven, your shirt tucked in, your shoes polished, and your pants are held up with a belt. If you're a woman, you must be especially careful because any woman with a skirt that stops higher than two inches above the knee will certainly be in danger when the PSB, Plaid Skirt Brigade, show up. They'll whip out a ruler and two young girls will restrain you while a third takes measure. If you pass, they'll let you go, but if you fail, they all whip out rulers and chase you from the bar. The boys on the other hand will turn the men over to Brother Fist, a muscular priest who is six feet by six feet and always ready to go fifteen rounds of bare-knuckle boxing to straighten out any sinner who wanders.

Once you get past the bar, you'll come to a little room with a small round table. Behind that table sits the man that they all call the Pugilist Priest. How did he get that name you ask? Well, the Reverend Father is an exorcist, but rather than reciting a few prayers over the afflicted, he does literal battle with the possessed. Armed in each of his gloves and in each of his shoes is a St. Benedict holy medal which wards off evil and demons. With every punch and kick, he exorcises the demons and delivers their just punishments.

Okay, and that's time! I actually finished this with ten minutes to go and went back and edited it. It's not as funny and as well written as I would like, but hey, it's thirty minutes worth of work. I'd like to see you do better! But, the scene I wrote here is more or less the scene in the movie where and how I want to introduce the Pugilist Priest. I want to give a strict but comical heir to all the thing. Hopefully it worked.

But anyway, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. See you tomorrow.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:
Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar