Penguin's Creative Works Introduction

[Penguin]

 

 

Greetings to all Ex-Christian writers!  This thread is an invitation to ExC writers to introduce themselves and say something about their writing. You might want to describe the type of writing you do (genre, subject matter, format, and so on). You might also like to tell about your experiences. Have you gotten anything published, submitted to an agent or publisher? Do you self-publish, or plan to? Maybe you have a web site, or facebook page, or a blog, or some other site where you promote your writing. Even if you haven't written much and are a beginner, you might like to tell about your ideas. You might also wish to post brief excerpts, or provide a link to longer excerpts of your writing, and get feedback from other ExC writers. Also feel free to post questions to other ExC writers about their experiences, or to get advice. And please, anyone who is an ExC writer, feel free to start other threads here (in the creative subforum) for all of us to participate in. No one person needs to be the group leader. We can all participate in threads that anyone starts. If you do start additional threads, please begin the thread topic with "EXCW" for "ExChristian Writers." That way, we can all find the threads more easily. Thanks. Peace, Human 

 

Hi all. Most of you know me. I'm an aspiring author working on my debut novel entitled "Apocalypse Springs." It is a "hard science fiction" novel that places Colorado Springs at the heart of a pseudo-zombie apocalypse. Vincent "Jester" Achan is a former combat veteran with a list of physical and mental problems longer than his--pants leg. After six months of martial law and failed evacuations, Jester finds himself in league with an eccentric group of survivors--most of whom are very poorly equipped to deal with their unique problem. As Jester tries to help lead the survivors to safety, his problems interfere, leading him to realize the worst monsters may not be the ones on the doorstep, but the ones inside himself.

 

So far, I haven't had anything worth mentioning published--online or otherwise. I am also working on a few short stories, and I have ideas for other books. I plan to traditionally publish. I don't have anything against self-publication in regard to others, but I prefer the challenge of traditional publishing. To me, there seems to be less of a refining process for self-publication, given the lack of a professional editor and a whole slew of other gauntlets inherent in the publication process.

 

I will post brief excerpts in the future, and I'm open to input from readers (so long as it's constructive and of some reasonable intelligence). 

[Deidre]

You mentioned this in chat last night. I wish you success with this endeavor!

[Penguin]

You mentioned this in chat last night. I wish you success with this endeavor!

 

Thank you.

[Penguin]

A tepid breeze slipped across the great hall, preceding the guard's announcement by a moment.

 

"Hades," the guard said, curtailing all but a shred of fear in his voice. The marble doors swung open on the large columns carved with the traditional two dozen flutes wrapped in acanthus flourishes and scrolls. The nearly gaudy presentation at the height of Mount Olympus contrasted with the gaunt figure that casually made his way across the smooth marble floor.

 

"You're late," Zeus said, his voice as loud as the thunder he was so fond of.

 

"As usual," Hades said. "The trip is such a long one." He seated himself at the foot of the table as a nymph quickly laid out a platter in front of him. Hades glanced at it with a bored expression and waited for the nymph to retreat.

 

"You called this meeting," Apollo said, his voice nearly musical. "Why?"

 

"Ares, how goes your war? Tyros, is it?"

 

"You should know that, Hades," Ares said. "Are you not aware of the legions arriving on your banks?"

 

Hades murmured to himself before pushing the platter forward and clasping his hands on the table in front of him. "I'm afraid that's part of my problem, family. You see, with all of your warring and conflict, Charon is, I'm afraid, taxed in his duties, and there is only so much room you have given me. I'm afraid I'm running out of room. Of course, if you, Demeter, were willing to raise some of those more recently killed, I might have more time to seek an alternative. That is, if no one else has any ideas or objections."

 

All eyes fell on Zeus, who stared lightning bolts at his younger brother. "Resurrect the dead? Have you gone completely mad?"

 

A frown twitched across Hades' mouth, threatening to split into a grin of sharply angled teeth. "I only wish to maintain order, brother."

 

Ares snorted in his seat as he stared at a point on the table in front of him. "Since when do you care about order?"

 

"Since it became beneficial. Between Poseidon's storms, your and Athena's wars, Zeus' wrath, Apollo's plagues, and the comparably minuscule number of executions because of Hermes' ill-fated thieves, my lands are overflowing with the souls of the dead." Hades plucked a grape from the platter. It turned to ash just as he slipped it down his throat.

 

"I am not willing to raise your dead, Hades." Demeter scowled. "You will have to manage."

 

"Am I to find a solution on my own, then?"

 

"Something tells me you have," Athena said. "I hope--for all our sake--you won't do anything foolish."

 

Hades stood slowly. "When have you known me to be foolish, Athena? I bid you all farewell."

 

With that, Hades vanished. A rude gesture all Olympians were capable of, but did not often use. It was a matter of respect to let one's presence be announced.

 

"Shall we prepare our defenses?" Athena asked, turning to Zeus. The ancient ran his fingers through his beard, lost in thought for a moment before he nodded.

 

"Hephaestus, you will prepare our defenses. Athena, you will help him. For now, let us not alter our course, save for Apollo. You will heal those that can be saved in Tyros on the battlefield. Hades is preparing something. I am sure of it. Remain vigilant." 

[Penguin]

^ Dear god, that's shit.

[Penguin]

Okay, here's something a bit better. This is an excerpt from a short story I'm writing (approximately 25k).

 

--------------------------------------------------------------

 

Frank woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and a familiar face at the other side of the room.

 

"Don't you ever knock?" Frank groaned as he sat up.

 

"Not usually. How are you feeling?" Dr. William Andrews poised a stylus over the plate of black, mirrored glass in his lap.

 

Frank reached for his cigarettes on the night stand, ignoring the doctor's scribbling. "The usual," Frank said as he lit his hand-rolled cigarette and winced at the sunlight coming through the gossamer, pale green curtains. He stood up from the bed, both men ignoring his lack of modesty as he walked toward the waist-high window. "Headache, stiffness, nightmares."

 

"Nausea?"

 

"Probably hit me in a second." Frank took two more drags as he walked around to the bathroom, then tossed the cigarette in the sink. Andrews waited patiently as heavy, wet, retching sounds echoed over the toilet, followed a minute later by the faucet over the sink. Frank emerged with a hand towel, wiping his mouth.

 

"Don't--"

 

"I know," Frank said as he tossed the towel on the bed. "Don't flush. I didn't. Your monkeys can analyze to their hearts' content."

 

Frank walked to the dresser and pulled it open to find the clothes Williams had waiting for him. He turned toward Andrews, who sat with his hands folded on his lap, the stylus pinned between two fingers. "Go ahead. Ask."

 

"October 18, 1948 at 6:03 AM. Where were you?"

 

"New Chicago Federal Penitentiary." Frank buckled his belt. "Thirteenth in line for the mystery slop."

 

"Well your memory's survived, and everything seems normal thus far. What's the last thing you remember before today?"

 

"Had a short in the sync chip," Frank tapped his temple. "Felt my legs freeze up, then sort of went Humpty Dumpty off the roof of a 7th floor building. Head first, bam."

 

"Yes, I saw the photos. You really 'screwed the pooch,' to use your words."

 

"Hey, I'm not the one that shorted out your five billion dollar chip in my head. Let's not forget I never wanted this job in the first place."

 

"For the record, it's not in your temple. It's at the back and base of your skull, near your med--"

 

"I don't give a shit."

 

"You're cranky, as usual."

 

"I'm starved," Frank said as he slipped on his shirt. "As usual." Andrews watched him pull the shoulder rig over his arms, scribbling notes without glancing at the screen. Frank removed the pistols from under his arms, one at a time, and checked them for ammunition. When he was done, he slid the guns back in their holsters.

 

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

 

"I never put them on safety," Frank said as he pulled his jacket on. "Someone might try to kill me."

 

"Right. Well let's go."

 

"Where is it you think we're going?" Frank put another cigarette in his mouth.

 

"Director General Sawyer wants to see you." Andrews tucked the glass into his briefcase and picked it up before moving toward the door.

 

"What makes him think I wanna see him? We eat first."

 

"Frank, I don't think--"

 

"I have a gun."

 

"I suppose I could eat."

 

"After you." Frank opened the door for his partner and lit his cigarette. Andrews hesitated for a moment, and Frank gestured toward the door. "You waiting for an invitation?"

 

"Must you smoke?" Andrews attempted to waft the smoke away from his nose.

 

"As you keep reminding me, I'm divorced," Frank said, holding the door open with his foot.

 

"What does that have to do with anything?" Andrews coughed.

 

"I don't need you to be my wife." Frank went through the door, leaving Andrews to scurry after him.

 

"Fine, but no smoking in the car."

 

"Yes, dear."

 

Andrews watched Frank disappear around the corner. He stood, collecting himself and exhaling sharply. "Like babysitting a 200-year old infant," Andrews muttered.

 

"I heard that!"

[TheBluegrassSkeptic]

Your divorce scene made me giggle. That's some good stuff right there!

[TheBluegrassSkeptic]

Double post. Grrrr

[Penguin]

Your divorce scene made me giggle. That's some good stuff right there!

 

Thank you.

[Penguin]

**Rough Draft**

 

Sometimes you wake up in a hospital with donkey teeth stuck in your ass, and sometimes you wake up in a puddle of your own piss, and sometimes you wake up in a bar with a black eye you gave to yourself, but it takes a dedicated and arguably talented individual to hit the trifecta.

 

Uncle Sam paid for my vacation in Afghanistan, which I didn't mind. What chafed my nads was my tour guide, Sergeant Crap-for-Brains. SOP for a possible IED is to stay away from it. Don't poke it with a stick. Don't talk on your radio anywhere near it. Definitely don't run over it at sixty miles an hour and blow your corporal halfway to Hell. I woke up at Rammstein a week later. A few surgeries after that, I was back home.

 

These things happen, they said. The PTSD can be managed, and the nightmares will go away. The urine doesn't smell that bad, you know, and wanting to kill yourself is normal, but don't do it. No, you can't have a drink, but here's a few Vicodin. Learning to walk and eat and wipe is an opportunity for growth, they said. Whoever they are, they don't know what a bitch opportunity can be. She'll knock, but you don't even have to open the door; she'll crawl through your window and shank you in your ear while you sleep.

 

Three years later, some idiot ping-ponged a civilian helicopter off the roof of the community hospital at Fort Carson. I was in the waiting room of my physical therapy clinic, watching the hospital's security footage on the news. At 160 miles an hour, the landing skids caught the edge of the roof. There were sparks as the skids stayed put and the rest of the chopper tumbled into the field a hundred yards away. I think he could've stuck the landing if he hadn't banked and dug the rotors into the ground. Fifteen men in a flaming blunt force blender.

 

That was what we call Zero Point on R-Day, August 30th. It was Tuesday, and opportunity was knocking.

 

Part 2

[Penguin]

Part 1

 

**Rough Draft**

 

A 25-year old devout Muslim stockbroker who's never smoked a cigarette or smelled a beer in his life woke up one day--a Tuesday--and thought he'd like some dissociative hallucinogens with his pancakes. This played out a thousand times over with the kind of precision the military couldn't begin to imagine. That was the story for sale from city government, at least for the first six hours. After that, the YouTube videos started popping up.

 

"Reanimates," the PhD said, "are chiseled down to their animal instincts, paranoid and violent." The stockbroker goes to the mosque and gets bit by his imam. By the time the cops arrive, the front doors of the mosque are spewing out psychotics, every one of them losing blood from bites and ragged lacerations. CSPD arrives, and the well-meaning rookie tries to reason with the mob. He takes a bite at the base of his neck, deep and gushing with his last heartbeats. He wasn't even dead when the shooting started. He caught a stray round with the back of his head, his brain a mass of ketchup and wet Jell-O blasting out what used to be his face.

 

This is how it started, and this is how it spread.

[Penguin]

This is more an exercise in dialog than anything else, but it does present a framework for a scene in my book.

 

*****

 

 

Captain Arnold sighed, looked at Lieutenant Katz, and knocked on the door.

 

"Enter!"

 

Colonel "Pug" Gagnon was seated behind his desk, looking over the folder Arnold had given him fifteen minutes earlier. The two men stood in the front of the desk at attention. Arnold stared at the plastic pug bobblehead on the filing cabinet behind the colonel. Sixteen hundred miles and he brings that thing.

 

"At ease, gentlemen," he said.

 

Katz and Arnold relaxed their arms, though Katz was still wound as tight as he had been three hours earlier.

 

Gagnon stood up and closed the folder, slapping it down on his desk. "Let's hear it, Lieutenant. Why did this happen?"

 

Lieutenant Katz opened his mouth and closed it again as Gagnon stood at his desk and crossed his arms. "Sir, at 2332 hours, our fuel--"

 

"Gentlemen, it is now two in the morning, I am tired, I am irritated, and I don't want to put up with bullshit. Don't tell me what, tell me why."

 

"Sir, I offer no excuses."

 

Gagnon looked down at his shoes and rubbed his bald head in frustration before he looked back up at Arnold. "Okay, Captain. Your turn."

 

"Colonel, when the older man--McDougall--threw up in the tent, our sentries and medical personnel responded. McDougall then overtook the Humvee and its driver, depriving him of his weapon. It was at that time the fuel exploded. We believe McDougall coordinated efforts with the other two--his daughter, Blair, and Vincent Achan. They escaped in the ensuing effort to put out the fire."

 

"So one person hits an isolated, well-protected fuel bladder, deprives a former Navy SEAL of his sidearm, and uses that sidearm to kill 15 men. And this woman, his daughter--with help from a cripple--gets a hold of a few carbines, then uses them against 37 more former members of every Spec Ops community across the board. Excuse me, Captain, but when in the hell did I fall out of reality into a goddamn Rambo flick?!" He charged toward the unflinching Captain, but Katz look like he might run away.

 

"Permission to speak, Colonel?" Katz said.

 

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

 

"I believe--if you look at the file--the elder McDougall is a former member of the SAS, and the other two are Army veterans."

 

Gagnon smiled and stepped around his desk, chuckling. "Well then, that makes it all better, doesn't it? Hot damn, we can just forget one our facilities was entirely compromised because a geriatric, a cripple, and a woman got a hold of a few guns. How many men died, Lieutenant?"

 

"Twenty-three, sir."

 

"Well, would you like to call twenty-three families to notify them their sons died? Hrm?"

 

"No, sir."

 

Gagnon crossed his arms over his broad chest and rubbed his cheek as the wheels turned in his head. "Captain, where were you when this shit storm started?"

 

"I was in the command center when the call for a medical escort came across the wire. When the fuel went up, I was walking to sick bay to meet the presumably ill man."

 

"And you, Lieutenant? Where were you?"

 

"I--I was unconscious, sir."

 

"Unconscious."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"Why were you unconscious?"

 

"I got hit in the head, sir."

 

"Uh-huh." Gagnon looked at Arnold, who winced sympathetically. Now you know what I deal with.

 

"Who and/or what hit you in the head, Lieutenant?" Katz hesitated, looking with great concern at the colonel. "Answer the question, son."

 

"The last thing I remember, Colonel, is a penguin with a--with a fire extinguisher."

 

"Come again?"

 

"A penguin with a fire extinguisher."

 

Gagnon turned and stepped away, pacing slowly around the small office. For a long moment, the only sound were his boots moving to the rhythm of the ceiling fan's clicking overhead.

 

"Lieutenant, are you on drugs?"

 

"No, sir. Never, sir."

 

"Captain, have him tested anyway. Now, Lieutenant," Gagnon turned back toward Katz and stepped less than three feet away. "You can tell me you fell off your bunk. You can tell me you weren't actually unconscious, that you were chokin' your chicken in the head. Tell me you were doing drugs, that you had a sudden onset of psychosis, that you tried to desert, but don't lie to me, boy."

 

"I swear, Colonel, it was a man dressed as a penguin. He had a fire extinguisher. He was at the gate. He asked me how my night was going, then hit me in the side of my head with one of those big silver extinguishers."

 

"Captain, you know anything about this?"

 

"Some of the men have said they were assaulted, sir, from behind. No reports of a penguin, however."

 

"So we're dealing with a possible fourth. Where did these assaults take place?"

 

"Near the front gate, about five minutes after the fuel exploded, from what we can tell, sir."

 

"Okay. Let's coordinate our eyewitness accounts. Someone do up a map of the facility. I want to know who was where and when. Get me close as you can to a minute-by-minute play. Now, Lieutenant," Gagnon said, hesitating as he held up his hands pressed together as if he were praying. "What did this penguin look like? Now son, before you answer, know that if you tell me he looked like a penguin, I will kick your ass back to whatever village it is that's missing their idiot. Understand?"

 

Katz nodded. "Yes sir."

 

"What'd he look like?"

 

"Well, sir, he had a big yellow beak--"

 

"Jesus fucking Christ. Captain, get this man out of here before I hurt him and enjoy it."

 

"Yes, sir." Arnold grabbed his subordinate by the arm and shoved him toward the door.

 

"What'd I say?"

 

"Just shut up and keep moving, Katz."

[MightyLikely]

I have been a writer of Christian material for many years even though I am an unbeliever.  I was familiar with the Christian market, having grown up reading certain magazines, so I knew how to write for them.  I wrote stories from my days as a believer which I could tell from the point of view of who I was at the time I lived them.   I enjoyed the checks and I enjoyed knowing that my writing is marketable.  Still, there was a limit to how long I could do this sort of writing and not lose my mind.

 

In order to stay intellectually sane, there is another me who writes under a different name.  This person writes cooler, darker stuff.  Unfortunately the real me isn't as successful.  The genres that really appeal to me are more difficult to break into, possibly because more intelligent and sophisticated writers are in the competition than was the case in the inspirational market.  I do have one book, self published.  If I had persevered, it might have been accepted by a regular publisher, but I find the whole wait-six-months-and-don't-simultaneously-submit thing to be unfairly slanted against writers.  Since writers now have other options and because I am also a graphic designer and computer geek, I have said the hell with standard publishers.  But there is a drawback. Publicity.  Self promotion is not my gift or my interest, so I am a writer who probably should work with a publisher.  But I rebel, dooming myself to be one of those brilliant writers whose masterpieces will be discovered after I am dead.  Better to rule in hell ....

 

http://www.amazon.com/Weir-House-Wyn-Deveron-ebook/dp/B005UPNI8Q/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1428335310&sr=1-1&keywords=wyn+deveron