The Game #3

From what I understand, this is a similar scene as from the movie The Deer Hunter. I'm not sure how similar they are, since I've never seen it, but I wanted to at least acknowledge it.

I’d lost track of how many times I’d put the barrel of a revolver up to my head and pulled the trigger. Some people would say I’m lucky, but truth be told, I just want there to be a bullet in the chamber.

Surrounding us were our captors. They didn’t point any guns at us, they didn’t need to. We all knew what would happen if we tried to shoot at them or refused to play. Ten others would be mercilessly tortured and we would have to watch. Aside from the revolver, there was no way out.

Tonight, there were three of us left, and it was my turn again. My hands knew what to do; they had done it so many times before. I pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger. *click* I tilted my head back and groaned as some of the captors cheered.

I tossed the gun into the lap of the man sitting in front of me. No. He wasn’t a man. He was still a boy. The poor kid, this was his first game, and five empty chambers had already been fired.

I would have given anything to trade places.

He wanted nothing more than to live, I wanted nothing more than to die.

The spectators stood up and cheered, eager for the blood while I turned my head away. I didn’t need to see this again. I heard him pull the hammer back, then the loud explosion and thump his body made as it hit the floor. Another corpse on the ground to add to the growing stench of rotting flesh.

One of the captors came over to us and grabbed the gun. Out of one of the pockets in his shirt, he pulled out a single bullet. He popped open the cylinder, put in the bullet, spun the cylinder, and put it back in place. Before leaving, he threw it at the feet of the only other man left.

He had won one other game, but nobody had the kind of record I did, and he was still nervous. But still, compared to most others, he was a veteran. He put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger *click*

We both smiled at each other as he handed me the gun. I automatically pulled back the hammer and fired. *click*

I sighed and tossed the gun back at the man then looked up into the crowd. A couple of the men were standing up, hoping to see if their ‘horse’ would win. I shook my head. When I looked back, the man had the gun up to his head; his hands shook as his eyes darted about the room. *click*

Again I felt a small flutter in my heart. Fourth time, that’s when it usually happens. I reached out to grab the gun. I put it in position and took a deep, cleansing breath. I could feel that this was it. It had to be. *click*

I swore, quietly. It was drowned out by the cheers and curses hurled down from the captors. I just wanted it to be over.

I handed the weapon to the man across from me. He just stared at me with those large eyes of his. I shook my head and turned away. Please no. Not again. The cheering got so loud that I couldn’t hear the man cock the gun or fire, but I knew from the hush that blanketed the crowd that my time had come.

I reached out and snatched the gun. I could see that the man was trying to hold back his smile for my sake, but that was fine with me. I wanted out.

I caressed the cold, steel revolver and kissed it. As I looked up into the crowd; money was already changing hands. It used to anger me, but I didn’t care right now. I was done. I put the barrel right up to my temple and squeezed the trigger *click*

I pulled the gun down from  my head and looked at the cylinder. The bullet didn’t fire. It was a dud. “No!” I shouted. “No! No! No!”

Almost Time to Submit

It's been a while since I've updated everybody on the status of my novel, and there might even be some people reading this blog that have not even heard about it yet.

Anyways, the working title is called Bleed Well. It's about a man, Fredrick, who recently moved back to his native village up in the mountains. Then, when he is walking about one morning, a deer, possessed by one of the gods, walks up to him and he starts hearing the voices of his dead parents. Fredrick freaks out and bashes the deer's skull in with a rock. This unleashes a fury of events that complicate Fredrick's life, and he must struggle to put the pieces back together.

That's a pretty crappy little blurb, but I didn't quite want to just post what I have for my query letter. Perhaps later.

So where I'm at right now is I'm finishing up the second-to-last revisions, while I do the final polish on some of the earlier chapters. (I do my edits in waves that allows me to work on 3 or 4 different parts of the novel at the same time) At the rate I'm going, I should be done with everything by the middle of April (dependent on the beta readers) and then I'll start submitting to agents.

I already have my afore mentioned query letter mostly done, and I've got a pretty large chapter by chapter summary that I'm eventually going to work into a 5, 3, and 1 page synopsis.

That's what's going on with my novel. Hopefully it is well received once it goes out, and I'll try to blog more on the status as I get closer to this exciting time!

The Game #2

I'm posting this a little bit early since I'm heading out of town for a couple days.

    I once heard a story of a guy who bet ten million dollars on a game of roulette. My game won’t have beautiful women in cocktail dresses watching me or any casino manager biting his nails as the wheel spins, waiting for the ball to stop.

    The man bet on black; I heard he won.

    Me, I don’t have all that much to loose; I don’t have all that much to gain. I’m still not sure if the odds are with or against me. I know it’s one to five. I’m just not sure what outcome I want. But that’s why I’m leaving it up to fate.

    Although I thought about evening the odds -- it didn’t seem fair to the lower probability option -- I concluded long ago that three to three just doesn’t sound right. Plus, that’s not how this game is played.

    I put in the ball, spin the wheel, and I’m playing my own game of roulette. I’m betting everything I have. As the wheel makes it’s last click, I pull the trigger to see if I won.

    It was black.

The Game #1

I've been inspired to do a couple Friday Flash stories on a certain theme...

This story is rated R.

    On the coffee table, surrounded by the empty bottles of beer, Scott’s single-action revolver begged me to follow through with my boasts. I reached for the gun; Scott tossed a bullet my way.

    It was strange how the weight of the gun felt in my hand. It was heavier than I expected, but it still seemed light for something with that much power. Scott watched me stare at his gun until he cleared his throat and I looked up. He nodded at me and I put the bullet into one of the chambers.

    “I can’t believe you’re doing this.” he said.

    “Of course I am. I’m not going to let some little bitch like you play the ‘but I was in Iraq so I’ve got balls’ card and get away with it.”

    “It’s not because I was in Iraq that I have balls. It’s the other way around dude. If you had any, you’ve been--”

    “Shut up and just let me fuckin do this.” I spun the chamber, the tiny gears whirred away until I slapped the cylinder back into place.

    Scott rolled back on the couch and started laughing. “I never expected you to take this so far. Just put it away--”

    “No, man. No.” I pointed the gun straight down onto my thigh, pulled back the hammer, and squeezed the trigger. I heard a click, and I pulled the gun up; my leg was shaking. “Dude. Oh my god, what a rush. You have to try this.”

    “No fucking way. No.”

    “You pussy.”

    “There’s no way I’m putting a gun--”

    “You fucking pussy.”

    Scott shook his head, leaned forward, grabbed one of the near-empty bottles of warm, cheap beer, and drank it. “Give it to me.” He took the gun and stared at it in his hand. “I’ll show you how to fucking do this.”

    He cleaned off the table with one swipe, knocking the bottles to the floor, and slapped his left  palm onto the water-stained wood. “Leg’s nothin. This takes real balls.” He pointed the barrel on the top of his hand, cocked, and fired.

    “Whew!” Scott jumped up and down, shaking his hand. I didn’t hear anything and his hand looked fine. “Yea man! Fuck yea! That was one hell of a rush.”

    He tossed the gun back to me.

    “We’re going more than once?”

    “Oh hell yea. All the way baby. All the way. Once you start, you can’t stop.”

    “Fuck it.” I put my right hand on the table, like Scott did with his left. “I write with this one bitch. Left hand’s nothin.” I fumbled with the hammer, but once it was back I pulled the trigger. I again heard the soft click, and when I looked down, my hand was fine.

    “Back to you.”

    “Gimmie that shit.” Scott took the gun from me and pointed it at his abdomen. “Hand’s nothin. This shit will fuck you up.”

    “Dude, that’s just stupid.”

    “I’m not afraid.”

    He pulled the trigger.

    I heard it that time. It was unmistakable. I fell off my chair and the gun tumbled across the floor. I looked up at Scott as his eyes rolled back into his head.

The Gray Knight

*My first real attempt at a fantasy sword fight :) If you comment on this piece, please be honest. If you didn’t like it, just say so. You don’t have to try and find the one redeeming factor in this piece to make a comment. Tell me it sucks and I should hang myself, it’s the greatest story every, or anything in-between. Just be honest if you comment.


The knight in gray armor stumbled backwards into a small patch of purple flowers, crushing them. May the great spirits forgive me. He bowed his head, briefly, before raising his sword once again. The man standing in front of him did the same.

Steadying his position, the knight advanced forward, and within moments they were engaged in combat.

The knight took long swings, and when the man blocked, the powerful blows shook his balance. But the quickness of the man countered those attacks, and the knight soon found himself stumbling backwards again, this time missing the flowers.

Standing apart, the man and the knight took a moment to rest and catch their breath. As the man’s
breathing slowed, he looked back up at the knight with red eyes aglow, causing the knight to step backwards. The man raised his arms into the air and dark clouds began to circle above him with blue spirits descending from the sky, sending bolts of lightning up and down his sword.

The knight lifted up his visor then knelt down next to the flowers. “This is what you want?” the knight said with his deep, confident voice.

The man stepped back with his right foot and put both hands on the hilt of his sword.

“Alright. If this is what you really want.” The knight rose up, gesturing towards the heavens. Then, out of the ground came a small army of red spirits, and his sword started glowing with flames occasionally leaping out from the tip.

Both holding their swords, they launched themselves at each other once more. Once their swords clashed, a loud boom shook the meadow, ripping the color right out of the grass and flowers. They now fought on a rocky outcropping with no other life around.

The knight swung his sword, but he did not use the strength in his arms; it was the strength in his spirit that did the work. His teeth smashed together, grinding away the surface as he dug deep within, pulling out each last bit of his will power. Each swing he took, left him breathless, but he kept finding the will to continue.

The man’s eyes showed a similar strain, and the bright red that glowed so fierce was now nothing more than a optical whimper. He’s tiring. If only I can keep this up. The knight swung once more, striking the man’s sword. The man stumbled backwards, and the knight could see the man loosen his grip on the sword. He had nothing left.

The knight, feeling victory, tapped the last corpuscle of power left within him and raised his sword up high. He stood there, watching his foe for a moment, then brought the sword down towards the man’s neck.

But before it could strike its target, the man raised his sword up and deflected the blow.

No. It couldn’t be! How could he still have any strength left? The knight dropped his sword and both he and the man fell to their knees, unable to stand.

The Joy of the Fountain Pen

I'm really excited today, because I got in two new fountain pens. They are both Lami Safari's with a F and EF nib. Why am I so excited that I'm writing a blog post about this? Because my old fountain pen died because I thought I could be smart and fix the tines myself...fail.

Anyways, I have been without a trusty fountain pen for a couple weeks now, so I've been doing all my writing on the computer. "But Michael," you would say, "why don't you just use a ballpoint." To which I would respond. "Ick!"

For my readers (all 3 of you) who have not had the joy of using a fountain pen, I encourage you all to get one. They write so smooth and requite so little pressure to make a line come out that it's just a beautiful thing. Then when you go back to a ballpoint, it just makes me want to throw the pen against the wall.

And because these pens are so fun to write with, I find I do a lot more of my drafting on paper instead of on a computer. And this actually, I think, has a great benefit to a writer. When you work on paper, you most likely write slower then you type. Or at least I do. So instead of cranking out 3000 words an hour, I'm forced to put the brakes on and think about what I'm doing. Plus it's just a different feeling, and I think I even tap into a different subconscious when working with paper vs. the machine.

Another benefit, is that you can easily curl up on the couch under a blanket with your notebook and brand new fountain pen and have at it. If you're lucky enough to have a fireplace (me, not so much) it can be even better.

So I highly recommend fountain pens for all writers, if only to make the handwriting portion of our work more fun so we do it more often.

I leave you with pictures of my two babies!

The Blindside

*If you comment on this piece, please be honest. If you didn’t like it, just say so. You don’t have to try and find the one redeeming factor in this piece to make a comment. Tell me it sucks and I should hang myself, it’s the greatest story every, or anything in-between. Just be honest if you comment.



The freshly cut grass had already stained Jarrod’s new, white cleats before the huddle even broke. The bigger — not bigger because of muscle mass, but at this stage in their careers, just the fat kids — waddled up to the line. Alex casually walked up to the center with an air of confidence — no, confidence was not quite it. It was cockyness. Alex was the cockiest kid on the team, and for a reason. He was taller, stronger, faster, and as far as the game was concerned; he was smarter.

Across the line of scrimmage, the Freshman Boys ‘B’ Team of Dwight D. Eisenhower High School stood ready. The looked looked mean and hungry, glaring at Jarrod with hateful eyes. Their faces were obscured just enough by the thick, black facemasks that they looked almost inhuman — like the orcs from Lord of the Rings.

Jarrod’s left leg began shaking as he stood behind Alex.

Be strong. Jarrod thought. I have one job to do, and I need to do it. I need to be brave.

Alex looked back towards Jarrod and shouted, “Omaha 6! Omaha 6!”

Jarrod nodded as he watched the tight end — another one of those fat kids, but not fat enough for the line — shift across the formation to the left side. He dug his cleats into the ground, getting ready to spring into action. Alex ducked back under the center and started calling out the snap. “Hut, hut…Hut!”

Exploding out of his stance, Jarrod ran off to his left, looking for Alex to come running along side him. But when he looked up, Alex had dropped back into the pocket to pass.

Jarrod stopped.

One of the linebackers had run around the line and was headed straight for Alex. Powerless to help, Jarrod watched as Alex was crushed from his blindside; the crown of the other boy’s helmet smashed right into Alex’s earhole, making a snapping sound that echoed across the small football stadium.

Alex plummeted to the ground, but not before he dropped the ball. The linebacker picked it up, running it in for a touchdown.

Jarrod walked over to see if Alex was alright — hits like that made Jarrod squeamish about this game — but at least he was moving. His eyes were open when he got there, staring at Jarrod. Omaha 6. I’m suppose to protect the blindside.