A NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION

Here's a little slice of what this year will be like! Welcome, Twenty-fourteen.

“Happy New Year! Happy New Year!”

The grown-ups jumped; the young ones danced

In high spirits, warm and sincere.

And couples kissed when they were chanced

Everyone in a good, fine cheer.

My folks and I were not left out;

We hugged and sang with pure delight,

Then spread and made merry about

Under the moon, fair, full and bright.

Love, joy and fun diffused throughout.

We were at church. Where else was best

To share the moment with our friends?

While we rejoiced, fireworks blessed

THE sky with sparks with funfair ends.

And I observed very impressed.

But much later I was concerned

With issues pressing, thoughts crucial:

Last year’s ending, I had discerned

That though I’d done a lot useful,

I could have done more. This I learned.

Of course I’d left some pleasing marks

Helping friends and fellow writers;

My works had garnered swell remarks

From readers, sites, and songwriters,

My star ratings were full of sparks.

But on my desk were forsook drafts

Of stories I had started well

But left floating like renounced rafts.

Don’t ask me why. I was cruel.

’Twas a pity, they were fine crafts.

In addition, I was slothful,

Would wake at ten and sleep at ten.

Tell you the truth, I was awful.

I’d pick my pen but now and then

And scribble something distasteful.

But even then I did some good

And wrote so well I was pardoned.

But when I gave my thoughts some food,

I realized, and was hardened

To start working the way I should.

So I resolved to endeavor

In all projects I undertook,

And to ensure that I never

Ceased my commitment on a book.

The decision was quite clever.

But more to that, I elected

To render help to all I could,

So that none was left neglected.

I resolved to make sure I stood

On these intents I selected.

Satisfied then with all my plots,

I returned to my merriments.

The sky was filled with sparkling dots

And people watched in fond segments.

(The lovely sight filled me with watts).

Digesting the activities,

Relishing the experience,

Enjoying the festivities,

The feeling was delirious,

Right for my sensitivities.

HASHTAG THANK YOU VERY MUCH

Hello!

Season’s greetings, first and foremost. I hope the yuletide brought good tidings to your household. More, I hope you gave someone good tidings this Christmas. Remember, Christmas is about Giving.

Speaking of Giving, here I am to do a little of my own. I’m here to give appreciation to each and every one of those who made Twenty-thirteen a memorable year for me, to those who fashioned, left memorable events to reflect on and cheer about in the course of the year, in divers of diverse ways

I’ll start this off by lavishing the majority of my worship to my family, notably my parents, my backbone, my support, my foundation. The plot of my life would’ve been different this year negatively if they hadn’t been there for me every time I needed them. I finished and graduated from college this year, precisely in November but THEY were the ones who made it happen, springing financial miracles upon miracles to ensure a convenient and satisfying completion. Their sponsorship and legacy will dwell with me for life. Then there’re my siblings too, my beloved brother and sister, my two most fantastic companions. They’ve both been a well of inspiration to me, sister dear especially, an embodiment of beauty and brains, a maker, a fashioner; and my brother who came up with bizarre storylines and even more bizarre titles, whose interest in my writings gave me priceless esteem through the year. I won't forget my best friend, Jidenma Ofurum. We had quite an adventure in Twenty-thirteen and by God, I'm looking forward to more in Twenty-fourteen. You're the best, my brother!

Ah, I will NEVER forget my fellow college graduates with whom I toiled, educationally, for four longish years, a group of brilliant folks who taught me more of the things I know pertaining to my course than all my lecturers in the same time frame. Indeed, four years seems so long ago, so far away now and reminiscing brings me only snatches of smile-worthy memories. ‘Twas a pity I couldn’t be with them in the final valedictorian hours, but to us are served deserved congratulations and felicitations. Surely our steps shall continue on the rightest path as we walk on. Special thanks go to my buddies who, in this way and that, I’ve been so close to that we’ve practically shared the same toothbrush <<eeoowww!!>>: Obiorah Benjamin, Banjoko (Biggy) Oladipo, Obisesan (Popeye) Segun, Ishola John (Just John, nothing else), Osewa Tobi (I haven’t forgotten our handshake, man), Orachiri (GB/Imake) Chidi, Okereke (Prof) Kingsley, Nkonu Kalu, and Adewumi(Akogun) Oluwaseun.

QQ: Will I ever forget you guys?

A: Big NO!

Twenty-thirteen has been a year of mixed fortunes in the literary community, many will agree. There have been deaths, oh, there have been. Sad and mournful demises of literary icons, people I’d considered living gods of modern writing, whose writing rules and styles I tried to carve on my heart like Moses’s tableted commandments. It started with popular horror writer James Herbert (69) in March. Same March claimed Chinua Achebe (82), my fellow citizen, my grandfather, my father, a legend of African literature. Then May took Jack Vance (Ellery Queen). Perhaps the one that hurt me most was Richard Matheson (87). He went in June and he really was legend. Tom Clancy (66) followed in October. And the one that hurt the world, the one whose death left resounding tremors even through the beds of the Pacific, was Nelson Madiba Mandela (95) in the first week of this December. Their marks, their touches, what they left behind will no doubt be timeless, ageless. Words can’t truly express how grateful I am for all these folks gave me. A big THANK YOU might not be sufficient enough but it is all I have right now. If the opportunity for a better way to honor their memory presents itself in the nearest future, I will seize it with all of my limbs.

To every other author whose storytelling cuddled me every day, never making me feel alone, nourishing me with education and entertainment, thrill and terror, nirvana, I say Thank You! More power to your fingers; More ink in your pen; More enlightenment and inspiration to your imaginative minds. Doubtless, you’ll receive my continual support in the next year, and the one after that, and the one after that, and the one after that…

[My exceptional praises to Lori R. Lopez (and her family) and Marie Fostino for the awesome gifts showered upon me (quite undeservedly). You darlings spoilt me silly this year. You’re my distant mums for sure. Your gifts are, and will continue to be, the most valuable of their kind in my collection. I’ve even reserved for them special homes in my perpetually unkempt room where I can summon them without turning what is already upside down right way up, without bringing any imbalance to my untidiness. Ha, ha, ha. Oh, I very nearly forgot Melissa Stevens for her prize earlier this year, a cover design of The Mystic Meg, a WIP. Thank you very much. It was splendid, but then, I expected nothing less. You're a fantastic designer.]

To every reader who left me reviews and ratings on one or more of my eBooks, I am indebted to you. Those brief moment of attention rendered has meant the world to my burgeoning career in the literary business. Without your support, without your corrections and remarks, glowing and otherwise, not forgetting your encouragements, I don’t think I would’ve had the confidence to persevere in this debatable profitable business of self-publishing.

[I’ll not forget all of your assistance, Robert Friedrich, in your invitations to several Facebook events. You, above all, went a long way in making me aware of as many publishing opportunities as you could. You were almost like my manager. You too, Yorley Garcia, surprising me on a fair afternoon with a message of appreciation for my shorts. Then there’s the delightful Vix Kirkpatrick. I’ll not forget your rigorous, thorough and eventually sublime beta reading of Confessions of a Graverobber.]

Double thumbs up to all publishing companies for giant strides in making quality books accessible and affordable to several impoverished third-world countries. Twenty Fourteen will be an even better year for us all and may the biggest achievement of our immediate past be incomparable to the smallest achievement of our nearest future.

Remember: Love one another; Be the change you wish to see in the world.

God bless you all. Looking forward to a bright Twenty Fourteen.

Happy New Year.

~Artie Margrave

Flash Fiction and Book Excerpt Day: The Order Of The Four Sons, Book I by Lauren Scharhag

Flash Fiction and Book Excerpt Day: The Order Of The Four Sons, Book I by Lauren Scharhag

While not immersed in deep, dark horror, on my otherwise bright days, I dabble in the rich luminance of dark fantasy, the dark sides of fantastical worlds. As a matter of fact, the only other genre I regard with honest interest other than horror is dark fantasy.

I was (I should be polite and say privileged) gifted to read a short story during the week, La Tutayuega by Lauren Scharhag and I enjoyed it. You can find that particular short story on Smashwords. Here’s an excerpt of her dark fantasy novel, also on Smashwords.

Book Excerpt: The Order of the Four Sons, Book I

(Type of Work: Novel)

Lauren Scharhag

They could make out the end of the hallway. There was a very narrow door, perhaps three feet wide, set into a cinderblock wall.
The Colonel paused, shining a flashlight into the doorway. It led into a corridor even more narrow than the one they’d just been in, a hairpin turn taking them off to the right.
They all passed into the corridor.
“Everybody still with me?” the Colonel called over his shoulder. “Murphy-Kate-Doc-Cecil?”
There was a chorus of affirmations.
“Just checkin’,” the Colonel grunted. “Tighter’n a bull’s ass in fly season in here.Can’t turn around to look for ya. Everybody stay right behind me.”
The flashlights revealed wooden walls here—some of that ‘70’s style paneling they’d seen in the scrap heaps behind them. There were also–
“Colonel, we’ve got doors,” Murphy said.
“Well, shit.”
“After you, sir.”
“Cecil?”
“Looks clear.”
“All right, then,” the Colonel drew himself up and then opened the first door. It led to another corridor full of doors.
“Well, shit again,” he muttered.
“No go?” Murphy asked.
Shaking his head, JD shut the door.
“Well, then, Colonel, if I may . . .?” Murphy pulled a small plastic doorstop from one of his jacket pockets.
“You’re carrying doorstops?” Kate asked, incredulous.
“Standard SWAT issue,” he dropped it onto the floor and kicked it firmly under the door.
She looked dumbfounded. “I mean . . . really?”
“Really.” He jiggled the door handle to demonstrate. It wouldn’t budge. “Simple physics. Nobody’s coming through that door.” For the second time, Kate looked impressed. “Don’t applaud,” he said dryly. “Just throw money.” They continued on.
The ceiling here was wooden beams, just skeletons in some places, with gaps leaving squares of darkness over their heads.
“Anybody else smell that?” Kate asked, wrinkling up her nose. “Smells like—”
“Burnt hair,” Cecil finished.
“And burning flesh,” Doug added. “You realize what that means.”
“Eretics,” grunted JD. “Looks like we’re in the right place.”
“What the hell is wrong with our lifestyle, that the smell of roasted undead means that we’re in the right place—and, oh look. Blood,” Murphy shined his flashlight down.
There were dots of it on the floor—not a lot. But enough.
Murphy knelt down and touched one of the dots. “Still sticky.”
He shined his flashlight along the floor. There were more splashes of blood further ahead—larger splashes.
No one said anything as they continued to creep along the hallway. They tried two more doors—one led to a room barely bigger than a closet, stacked with a few wooden crates. The second led to yet another hallway. Murphy used another doorstop to block it.
At last, their flashlights landed on an old black telephone mounted on the wall.
The whole section of the wall around it was awash in blood. Beneath it, there was more blood, and drag marks going down the hall away from them.
“Movement, down the hall,” Cecil said quickly. He immediately raised his gun…

###

Pen Name: Lauren Scharhag

Bio: Lauren Scharhag is the author of Imperial-13, The Ice Dragon, The Winter Prince and (with Coyote Kispaugh) The Order of the Four Sons series.  Her work has appeared most recently in The SNReview, The Daily Novel, Infectus, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry.  She is the recipient of the Gerard Manley Hopkins Award for poetry and a fellowship from Rockhurst University for fiction.  She lives in Kansas City, MO with her husband and three cats.

Smashwords Link:  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/5424

Blog: http://laurenscharhag.blogspot.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/laurenscharhag

Twitter: @laurenscharhag

Flash Fiction And Book Excerpt Day: The Darkness Within by Robert Friedrich

Good day. It's been a while since I've blogged due to severe occupation with important stuff off the cyber, and I've only just snuck away for a brief while. I'll be sharing a book excerpt of a writer-friend I recently met on facebook. His writing and his works, I've found out, are very visual and impressive.

Book Excerpt: The Darkness Within, a novella By Robert Friedrich

Space - the vast and cold emptiness that surrounds everything. Space is the silent witness to all events past and present. To all atrocities and pain that occur on each and every world. But sometimes, in both blood and pain there may appear a sign of hope and freedom. A freedom born from misery.

It is in space where everything unfolds and all becomes clear as day. In the year 2073 both the beginning and the end come together to shed blood. It is in space where the “Lightark” class 2 salvage ship roams, both in rust and shame. It is an older ship and less advanced than the new class 3 ships. But still it roams around space, searching. Awaiting it’s next mission.

It is in space where many accidents happen and mostly end in horrible ways. But someone has to clean up the mess and pick up the broken pieces. This is where the “Lightark” roams. With just 6 members as Crew, but when needed, it listens to every call and plea. This story situates around the Captain of this ship, a broken man with horrible nightmares and alcohol problems. A man who lost his entire past due to an unfortunate series of events that brought him here.

A window in the “Lightarks” hull reveals the Captain’s cabin, where he sits alone. Two fluorescent lamps just light the cabin, but one is flickering at times. The Captain sits at his desk, starring endlessly at the wall. A half empty bottle of whiskey at his side, with two glasses, one half full and other tipped over beside an ashtray full of cigarette buds. Above his desk, the wall is filled with newspaper and magazine covers. Each one revealing a different heading. Headings such as “Tragedy in space, lone survivor hospitalized”, “Victim or Criminal”, “Children psychiatrist burned alive, his dark secrets come to light” and many others.

The Captain is sitting motionless in his chair, wearing a long black leader coat since the ship’s heating system isn’t working anymore as it should. Under his coat by his waist is an empty weapon holster. The Captain finally moves his hand and picks up the half empty glass of whiskey and drinks it before reaching into a drawer in his desk. In this drawer a metal box rests. Engraved on it is “Special edition Colt 2021 with a self-recharging case less pulse round magazine.” He opens the box and takes the Colt all covered in black matte with engraved “110 Year Anniversary Edition”.

He looks at it for a few seconds, before pointing it at his forehead. He exhales and closes his eyes, ready to pull the trigger. It seems as if the time slows down as he slowly starts to pull the trigger. His face thou shows distress, as if this is his last hope to remember everything. People till today say, “when you are close to death or dying, your entire life flashes before your eyes.” But the distress symbolizes that nothing flashes before his eyes. There is nothing left but pitch black darkness.

The sound of the comm. speaker interrupts the Captain. A female voice comes on: “Captain Roberts, your presence is requested on the Bridge.“ The Captain takes his finger off the trigger, holsters his gun and stands up from his desk. He goes towards the comm. speaker. He simply says: “I’m on my way.”

He just takes a blister of medication from the drawer in which his gun laid not so long ago and slides it inside his inside coat pocket. He exits his cabin through the sliding door and starts walking through the corridor towards the Bridge. The distress from the earlier suicide attempt is wiped off his face as he makes a stop at the ship’s kitchen. Inside the kitchen already the ship’s medical officer Anderson is making tea for himself as the Captain enters.

You can get the full copy here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/321582

Don't forget to leave a rating and review to encourage the author.

Author Bio 

I'm Robert Friedrich, and I am the author of The Darkness Within Novella and the Anthology Enlightened by Darkness. The Darkness Within is one of the first Fiction Novella's specially dedicated to Metal & Metalheads around this world. And my Anthology will take you to the fabrics of reality.

I am originally born in Slovakia, but reside abroad before returning to Europe. I am a freelance writer and this is my biggest undertaking and it is not my last one. Besides this project I also write on my own blog, and I did freelance work on the American comedy website Cracked.com. I always had a vivid imagination and it took some pain, guts and a ton of misfortunes to bring me to this point where I harnessed all my energy and stepped out to do the things I really want to do.

If you are a fan of Horror/Sci-fi you will enjoy these books, and even if you are not it may still change your perspectives. So be Enlightened by Darkness or face The Darkness Within!

Links:

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/Robert_Friedrich_TDW13 

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/RobertFriedrich