This post is part of the May Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to show a character’s approach to relationships in a short scene.

In a corner of Sasha’s basement, Mirya was sorting a pile of hand-typed literature into piles for distribution when Vasily found her. “So,” he said. “Why did the Siberian buy a refrigerator in winter?”

“Because, as a Soviet-made appliance, it was prone to overheating,” Mirya said.

“Close! Since it was -20 outside and -10 in the fridge, it was the warmest place in his igloo!”

“Very funny,” Mirya said.

“Where’s that revolutionary idealist of yours off to?” Vasily asked, pulling up a chair.

“He’s got a meeting with our sponsor,” Mirya said.

“We have a sponsor now?” Vasily said. “I’m not sure I like what I’m learning about this job after the fact.”

“I was completely honest when you came begging for work,” Mirya said, sticking out her tongue. “Wanted: ex-KGB agent to forge official-looking documents in service of sabotage, revolution, and other acts of all-around hooliganism. Well-adjusted individuals with no penchant for telling corny jokes need not apply.”

“Nothing in there about a sponsor,” Vasily said. “I have to report you for misrepresentation.”

Mirya crossed her arms. “Trying to keep me from getting work done, Vasya? That wasn’t in the description either.”

“I just want to talk, Mirya,” said Vasily. “All I have to go home to is a dank corner and a shrew of a landlady, with toaster assembly to follow at work. Being here, with you…that’s the high point of my life right now.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Mirya. “Roman wouldn’t like that kind of talk. He’s very protective, you know.”

“Roman’s not here,” Vasily said.

Mirya raised her eyebrows. “And?”

Vasily sighed. “What do you see in him, Mirya?”

“You of all people should know,” she said. “He’s everything we both left home to find.”

“A lot’s changed since then,” Vasily said. “Help me out here.”

“Roman is a revolutionary, Vasya. He believes in things passionately and he’s willing to risk everything. He’s got big ideas, big plans.”

“What about me?” Vasily said. “I’m a part of his cause. Without the passes I forged and the uniforms I found, Roman would still be sitting down here passing out cheap copies of banned books.”

“Don’t you see, Vasya? Even that was something,” said Mirya. She gently took Vasily’s hand. “You being here is the best thing that’s happened to either of us in the struggle. But you’re aimless; unless there’s someone strong to lead you, you’d just sink into a rut with only a few jokes to lighten the way.”

Vasily squeezed Mirya’s hand. “You could be that someone. You’ve always been the strongest person I know, even when we were children.”

“Like when I convinced you to steal sweet potatoes from your mother’s garden? That’s not strong, Vasya. I need someone to show me the way forward, and you do too.”

Drawing closer to Mirya, Vasily dropped his voice a note. “What about just before I left for university. The attic, remember?”

Mirya blushed. “That was just us being children,” she said.

“That’s not what you said then,” Vasily said, only a few centimeters from Mirya’s face.

“Vasya, I…we…no,” Mirya said. She pulled away. “That was a mistake. It’s different now.”

“Does it have to be?”

“I need you here, Vasily,” Mirya said. “The cause needs you here. But please don’t ask me to choose. That choice was made a long time ago.”

“But…”

“Please, just go.”

Vasily stood up and trudged toward the door. “The General Secretary’s son felt out of place riding to university in a limousine instead of the bus like other students,” he said over his shoulder. “The General Secretary told him ‘don’t worry, I’ll buy you a bus so you can drive it to school just like your friends!”

“Good night, Vasily,” Mirya said. She was able to suppress a smile until just after he left the room.

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
Proach (link to this month’s post)
Yoghurtelf (link to this month’s post)
AuburnAssassin (link to this month’s post)
aimeelaine (link to this month’s post)
Della Odell (link to this month’s post)
jkellerford (link to this month’s post)
LadyMage (link to this month’s post)
pezie (link to this month’s post)
xcomplex (link to this month’s post)
dolores haze (link to this month’s post)
juniper (link to this month’s post)
Steam&Ink (link to this month’s post)

“Betty,” Harry said. “Betty!” She didn’t respond, lost once more in her own world.

He took a deep breath. “Mr. Williams apologized for what he had written,” Harry said. “He had been searching for something that may not exist, and it had blinded him.”

“Betty looked up, listening.”

Harry continued. “Mr. Williams had looked at Betty’s work anew, and found in it much to appreciate. It had taken him to a place he never dreamed.” He held out his hand. “Mr. Williams reached out, asked Betty to take his hand, to leave the place she had created for herself. In return, he promised to work with her, to help her understand her gift, and maybe understand a little more of himself. He said that she might be the very thing he had been searching for, a writer able to make her words real like no others could.”

Nothing happened for a moment, and then Betty broke the stare that had kept her riveted on her notepad, and looked up at Harry. Something stirred deep within her eyes, and Betty reached up and grasped Harry’s outstretched hand. He pulled her up and out of the crater, which faded and closed as she left it.

“You…you found me,” she said. “Thanks.”

This post is part of the March Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to describe a secondary character that surprises you in some way in 50 words or less and then to post a scene that shows why this character is special in 100 words or less.

Officer Charlie Bulforth, GRPD: eight-year veteran of the force who’s only just transitioned from his high school nickname ‘Bullshit Charlie’ to the more socially acceptable ‘Bullhorn Charlie’—appropriately, given his gravelly voice and lack of volume control. He is cheerfully, openly corrupt, though he sticks by friends—to a point.

“You need to figure out how to work a little extortion and corruption into your workaday life. How do you think I manage to keep myself in the style which I’ve become accustomed on a cop’s lousy take-home? I seek business opportunities wherever I can find them, be they shakings down, beatings up, or something sideways.”

“Frank about it, as always.”

“It’s a long way from being an upstanding citizen to a bastion of cheerful corruption like myself,” Charlie said. “But here we are. Just don’t ask me to do actual police work; I’m not sure you can afford it.”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
Ralph Pines (direct link to the relevant post)
Yoghurtelf (direct link to the relevant post)
Proach (direct link to the relevant post)
Knotane (direct link to the relevant post)
Dolores Haze (direct link to the relevant post)
smaddux (direct link to the relevant post)
LadyMage (direct link to the relevant post)
xcomplex (direct link to the relevant post)

This post is part of the February Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to describe your antagonist in 50 words or less and then to answer the question “what would you say to your antagonist if you met them in real life” in 100 words or less.

Estranged and partially disinherited for her political views, industrial scion Allison Durant is enormously ambitious with far-ranging designs to ascend in political, social, and economic circles. Her vivaciousness and intelligence conceal the fact that she’s willing to betray people and principles to further herself, content to rationalize after the fact.

“Do the industrialists like my brother and Mr. Berkley still bribe citizens like yourself to ignore their dirty work, or is it just part of your tax refund by his point?” said Allison.

“Being apathetic’s damn hard work,” I said. “Take it seriously. If you’re hot and bothered about it, your trust-funded scions of industry can make a better offer.”

“Are you trying to goad me?” Allison said. “Get me to cause a scene? If so, you’re badly out of practice at provoking people. I hear more offensive tripe from my brother whenever we meet; would you like some tips?”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
Proach (direct link to the relevant post)
Steam&Ink (direct link to the relevant post)
AuburnAssassin (direct link to the relevant post)
Dolores Haze (direct link to the relevant post)
xcomplex (direct link to the relevant post)
LadyMage (direct link to the relevant post)
aimeelain (direct link to the relevant post)
jonbon.benjamin (direct link to the relevant post)
Ralph Pines (direct link to the relevant post)
Forbidden Snowflake (direct link to the relevant post)
knotane (direct link to the relevant post)
JerseyGirl1962 (direct link to the relevant post)
ElizaFaith13 (direct link to the relevant post)
yoghurtelf (direct link to the relevant post)
Amanda McDonald (direct link to the relevant post)
FranYoakumVeal (direct link to the relevant post)

It’s been one whole year since EFNB started–365 days with one unique excerpt from the finest imaginary literature every single day! In honor of the site’s one-year anniversary, the editors at Excerpts from Nonexistent Books would like to recognize some of our most prolific nonexistent contributors over the past year:

Eric Cummings Jr.
“Nothing vs. Firewall,” “Cynical Blows,” “Intercepted,” “The Firewall”

Eric Cummings Jr. is a former instructor at Southern Michigan University and current slacker who finds inspiration for his stories in the mind-numbing depths of unskilled minimum wage labor. A man of strong opinions and inflated ego, Cummings readily admits that his stories and characters are highly autobiographical, though he avers that “some of my traits are taken to an extreme to make it a better read.” His current projects include a two-book series about dangerous “information revolutionaries” who destroy a Michigan university–a project which Cummings insists is in no way shape or form influenced by his opinion of or time at SMU.

Phil “Stonewall” Pixa
“Reigo and Sauvagine,” “Lights of New Providence,” “Peg’s Story,” “Breakdown,” “Beyond the Morning Star,” “Beyond New Providence”

Phil Pixa, whose nickname comes from a short stint on his high school football team that left him in traction for six weeks, is a New York-based science fiction writer and general waitstaff worker. He describes his twin interests as being “good old-fashioned space opera” and “stories that find the unreal in the everyday life,” which he admits is far easier in New York, which he describes as a “breeder reactor for the bizarre.” Pixa is working on two projects at present: a collection of short stories revolving around a place he creatively calls “The City” involving time-based attacks by a ferocious band of temporal anarchists, and a three book cycle on the rise, fall, and rise again of an interstellar shipping worker named Peg Gregory.

Altos Wexan
“Across Worlds Book IV: Sands of Taas,” “Across Worlds Book V: Xencobourg’s Fury,” “Precinct Amputation,” “Purple Nights in the Furniture City,” “The Rise of Metromart #832,″ “The Battle for Metromart #832,″ “The Decline and Fall of Metromart #832″

Clinton Illinois born and bred, Altos Wexan has earned a gold star as our most prolific contributor. Wexan describes his writing as “the mishmash of a hundred ideas from college-level literature classes, mediocre video games, and movies that think they’re smarter than they really are.” A perennial experimenter and procrastinator, Wexan’s longest work to date is the as yet unfinished “Across Worlds” saga, a massive six-book dimension-spanning epic. He has also experimented with film noir and more modernistic writing, often in the same work. When not setting aside an unfinished older story to charge headlong into a new one, Wexan works as an adjunct professor at a small midwestern university.

Van Bullock
“The Team,” “Icechip Heart,” “Speaking with Dead Leaves,” “High-Caliber Children,” “The Accountant and the Assassin,”

Vance Bullock was born in South Africa but grew up in the rural Midwest. As a Peace Corps volunteer, he was present throughout many global hotspots during the tumultuous early 1990’s, helping to build clinics and schools that were inevitably torn down by anti-American revolutionaries. His encounters with “private defense contractors” in southern and eastern Africa form the basis for many of his stories. Bullock is currently working on a novel based on his earlier short stories, about an icy and troubled female assassin and a mild-mannered accountant. “If that sounds like wish-fulfillment, it really is,” he said. “I don’t meet nearly enough lethal girls in my line of work, even though I definitely checked that box in eHarmony.”

C. Alton Parker
“Prosperity Falls,” “Prosperity Rising”

Catherine Alton Parker lives in Tuscon Arizona where she works as a manager for KNOW, Arizona’s only radio psychic station. In her spare time she participates in local dressage and show jumping tournaments with her horse Karen. A self-described feminist, video game junkie, and devoted fan of Louis L’Amour, Parker claims that her lifelong dream has been to write a “rip-snorting western with a strong female lead” that nevertheless “has plenty of action to go with the bleeding-heart crap you’d expect.” An Aries, she credits her sign’s “neurotic and task-oriented” nature as her inspiration to write.

Nokin Kobayashi and Irene York
“Sōtan and the Wayze,” “Novels,” “Reed Dolls of the Soul,” “Not Quite to China”

Nokin Kobayashi (小林) is a native of Tokyo prefecture who divides his time between San Francisco, Seoul, and Hong Kong. A graduate of Hong Kong Polytechnic University and a trained technical writer, Kobayashi maintains a keen interest in geography, the supernatural, and the history of East Asia, all of which he seeks to synthesize in his writings. Speaking through a translator, Kobayashi asserted that he writing is in equal parts “a product of the social-technological-historical milieu in which I am immersed” and “a cosmic song issued from the holy sun god of cats crowned with ten thousand chrysanthemum blossoms.”

Irene York has served as Nokin Kobayashi’s personal translator, literary executor, live-in maid, tutor, and lover for more than thirty years. A graduate of the University of Michigan’s prestigious far eastern linguistics program, she first encountered Kobayashi during a research trip to Saigon when they met in police custody coincidentally wearing the same Jade Monkey Emperor of the North Star t-shirt. Irene insists that all literary merit in Kobayashi’s stories comes from the author himself, and that she is merely “the conduit through which his song may be heard by fresh ears.”

Anonymous
“Stepping Out,” “Satire on the Big House,” “A Gamer’s Thoughts at 5am,” “Portal of the Infinite”

While some of our editors felt that Anonymous did not represent a single author, EFNB’s patented word pattern analysis software has determined that the various anonymous submissions have a 98.72% similarity in tone and writing style and were likely penned by the same person, perhaps a person attempting to present themselves as a group of individuals. As emails seeking comment were not answered by press time, our editors can only speculate about the author’s origin and nature. It seems clear that he is a native of Michigan or at least lived there for a time, and evidence indicates that he holds himself and his “art” in unnaturally high regard, has underdeveloped social skills, and can’t take even the mildest criticism without pouting like a small child.

Jeanne Welch
“Locke’s Specter,” “Locke’s Phantom”

A Batesville Mississippi resident, Jeanne describes herself as “obsessed with the explosion of personal information online” and a “relentless, remorseless, wonderful addict to any and all social media.” Always looking for the next big or unique thing in social media sites, Jeanne maintains a blog about them entitled “Who Is jeannew85 On Your Site?” when she isn’t working as a cart maintenance technician at the Batesville Public Library. Her current goal is to knit her short works into a “tapestry that asks deep questions about identity, information, and Web 2.0 in the context of death and/or online stalking.”

Joe Kull
“Fortress Gilvery,” “Soulstorm”

Self-professed history buff Joe Kull lives in Greenville, South Carolina where he works as an archivist and rare document conservator. His stories form part of a larger tapestry that he describes as “spanning World War I to the Jazz Age and investigating the fearsome power of the souls of the dead.” Joe regaled us at length about why World War I is his favorite military conflict, noting that it’s “more complicated, more moody, and more exciting” than its better-known sequel, and was at pains to describe the art noveau and art deco movements as “the shiznit.”

Calvin Higgins Joachimthal
“Rejected!,” “Reboot This”

A native of Chicago, IL, Joachimthal attended UCLA Film School before working in the film industry on what he describes as “either really shitty movies or really boring porn.” The hats he’s worn include director, producer, composer, editor, casting, makeup, lighting, star, and extra–often on the same production. He is currently working on a series of books and short stories about the foibles of behind-the-scenes movie production based on his own experiences in which “the names have been changed just enough to avoid getting sued.”

D. P. Patterson
“Healing Visions,” “Sara Dinch”

Dona P. Patterson, hailing from Kent County Michigan, is a self-professed fan of “the weird, the wonderful, the twisted, the dark, but especially all of the above.” She shuns the term “writer,” preferring to describe herself as someone who “has cool ideas and writes them down for close friends.” Her work is dedicated to her twin schnauzers, Galaxian and Jaina, and her betta fish Leviathan.

The wind was still howling, but at least the rain was beginning to taper off. It tore through Eric Doyle’s tattered green vest, casting billowing waves through it. He was tempted to discard it, but the pockets were weighed down with ammunition.

Eric pulled a round out of his pocket and looked at it. The .22 cartridge looked ridiculously small and weak cupped in his palm; it would only emit a weak crack as it left the barrel of his tiny varmint rifle. The shotguns, on the other hand, would let out a thunderous roar as they turned his chest into a pink swamp.

He shuddered at the thought. Eric had seen such nasty wounds already that night, and as he crouched in the shade of one of the roof air conditioners with a ridiculous pop gun in his hands, he was all but sure that was how it would end.

Noises up ahead. Beams of light slicing through the darkness. Eric switched his own light off, and closed the bolt on his gun. If he could get a clean shot off, maybe the rain would disguise the noise it made. Maybe, by some miracle, he could get all three of them, or at least signal the chopper when it arrived…maybe there was some hope, if not for Eric, then for the people trapped inside.

“Got it,” he heard a voice say. Something heavy struck the ground, audible even through the gale.

Eric chambered a round in his rifle and took a deep breath. Just like at scout camp, with the calm summer air replaced by high winds and torrential rain. And a flesh-and-blood target to boot.

The unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped shattered his concentration. Something jammed into the small of Eric’s back, and hot breath was suddenly in his ear.

“Drop it.”

Eric’s rifle splashed to the ground.

“Listen…” Eric whispered.

“Too late now,” the voice hissed.

The deafening roar of a shotgun blast tore apart the world.

This post is part of the August Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s theme is color as a metaphor for an aspect of one’s writing.

Graham’s apartment was lit well enough from the streetlights below that Allison was able to find her way around without fumbling for a light switch. WJR was playing quietly in the dark, combining with the rain on the windows to generate a sheet of white noise.

“Nice place,” Allison muttered, glancing at the spare surroundings and the heap of dishes in the sink. Her gaze alighted on the overstuffed armchair in front of the radio. “What’s with the purple loveseat?”

“Purple’s my favorite color,” Graham said. “I’ve loved it ever since I had a little cast-iron toy truck that was that shade. Poor old girl was down to her last flecks when Mom melted her down for a scrap drive during the war.”

“Even so, purple doesn’t seem like your color,” Allison said, settling into the chair. “It wouldn’t strike most people as very manly, though it’s anyone’s guess how much raw masculinity matters to someone in your line of work.”

“Not just any purple,” replied Graham. “A very ancient and powerful hue they called ‘Tyrian purple.’ You could smell the sea-slugs they boiled in its manufacture for miles, and only emperors were allowed to wear it. Then, in time, people got to thinking it was a softer color, a pretty color, and now if you see purple at all it’s on a lady’s dress. Slumming in the fashion industry to pay the bills when once only the most powerful man in the world had the right to use it.”

“You think that’s a sad fate for a color that once represented absolutist oppression, huh? Some might say that purple’s gotten its poetic due.”

Graham shrugged. “I feel like purple and I both have a lot in common, in point of fact. Our best days are behind us, and we’re left to grind out what we can in a long, slow afterlife. Such potential, at the beginning, all wasted. So it’s livening up ladies’ dresses while I sit here with a job that can’t afford to pay me. Made into a handbag against your will or chasing down an overdue library book because you’ve got nothing better to do…I’d say there’s a kinship there, wouldn’t you?”

Graham gazed at his shoes as he spoke; Allison felt like she out to do something to lighten the mood, which the weather had already rendered depressing enough. “Being a handbag isn’t the worst thing in the world,” she said. “I know a few alligators that are dying to be just that.”

“Ostriches too,” Graham said, smiling a little. “And I could teach them a thing or two about putting your head in the sand.”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post an entry of their own about a colors as metaphors for aspects of writing:

Aheïla (direct link to the relevant post)
Ralph_Pines (direct link to the relevant post)
AuburnAssassin (direct link to the relevant post)
semmie (direct link to the relevant post)
Anarchicq (direct link to the relevant post)
CScottMorris (direct link to the relevant post)
PASeasholtz (direct link to the relevant post)
LadyMage (direct link to the relevant post)
DavidZahir (direct link to the relevant post)
aimeelaine (direct link to the relevant post)
FreshHell (direct link to the relevant post)
sbclark (direct link to the relevant post)
Bettedra (direct link to the relevant post)
Guardian (direct link to the relevant post)
M.R.J. Le Blanc (direct link to the relevant post)
laffarsmith (direct link to the relevant post)

“And, rounding out our regular Metromart shoppers, we have Sgt. Pepper,” said Peter, gesturing to a gaunt man with a black ponytail.

“And, pray tell, why’s he called Sgt. Pepper?” Eric asked. “He doesn’t look anything like Paul McCartney.”

“Go over there and try to sell him one of the CD’s he’s looking at, and you’ll see,” Peter said. “Oh yes, you’ll see.”

Eric tugged on his Metromart vest and slipped out of the register alcove. “Sgt. Pepper” was in the rock section, examining a Meat Loaf CD with an utterly serious expression and pursed lips, as if it were a matter of the gravest import.

“Hello, sir. Can I…” Eric began.

“Yes?”

He couldn’t continue. Just as he’d approached the man, Eric had been overwhelmed by the smell of pepper, which seemed to billow off the customer in waves. It was as if Sgt. Pepper had bathed in mace or accosted a marathon’s worth of joggers. What in the world could possibly have given the man such an odor other than showering under a pepper mill?

“Ah…that is…did you need…any…” Eric sputtered.

“No, I’m doing just fine, thanks,” said Sgt. Pepper. Eric, relieved, beat a hasty retreat.

“I’ll get you for that, he growled at Peter, though his face was lit by a grin.

Peter laughed. “What else could we call him but Sgt. Pepper with a stench like that? Well, Dr. Pepper was tossed around, but he doesn’t really look like a doctor, you know?”

“Doesn’t look like a sergeant either,” said Eric. “But there is something I’d like to know.”

“What?”

“If you twist his ponytail,” Eric giggled, “does pepper come out his ass?”

“What you don’t understand, my friend, is that the veneer of civility is paper-thin. Easily torn, easily mended, easily discarded.”

Logain squirmed in his chair. “Enough with the ten-dollar words, flatfoot,” he said. “I got rights. I said I’m not tellin’ you nothin’, and you can’t keep me here ‘less I get a lawyer or you get a judge.”

“My, my, we have a constitutional scholar on our hands here, boys!” Detective Richat cried to his fellows, who responded with low chuckles. Richat removed his hat and overcoat; their brass accouterments clanked on the steel table as he laid them down.

“Yeah, not all us west side boys are complete rubes,” Logain said. “Let me go; you can be surprised later.”

One of the officers handed Richat a box from Dulley’s Floral Shoppe on State, which he cradled.

“It may be the thought that counts, but I don’t think you’re my type, detective,” Logain said, batting his lashes.

“I’m going to give you one last chance, my friend, before the veneer is discarded,” said Richat. “What did you do with Mr. Berkeley’s book?”

Logain, in response, slowly and deliberately raised his middle finger.

Richat whipped an M1913 cavalry saber out of the box and severed Logain’s outstretched finger in a single fluid stroke. A dirty rag served to muffle the prisoner’s screams.

Idly, from behind her counter, Leah watched the Sunday shoppers bring up their carts. Checking groceries didn’t require her full attention, so there was plenty of battery power left over to classify the customers by genre and genus.

Students from O’Knesyl College were easy to spot, as their carts were full of beer and things that only tasted good while drunk, like Cheez Doodles. They almost always paid by credit card, and the names on the card often didn’t match with the sex of the person using them.

Then there were the people who pulled into the “9-items-or-less” aisles with fully loaded shopping carts and the people who stood in regular lines to buy single bunches of bananas. Management had made it clear to Leah and everyone else that customers were not to be turned away no matter how grossly they exceeded the item limit; often those “express” lines moved slower than any other.

Most entertaining were the cart derbies that sometimes went on, when two shoppers noticed a short line or newly opened register and would dragrace for it, trailing screaming children and knocking down passersby as needed, all for an extra few moments. Maybe that’s why Nascar is so popular with our shoppers, Leah mused. It gives them the cutthroat racing skills they need to cut off other shoppers every Sunday.