REVISED UPDATE SCHEDULE

This is a notice of a break, in which I will be putting my blog on pause to devote 100% of my attention to finishing the FINAL rewrite of The Bard. I'm hoping to be done by the end of July or the middle of August! That is my personal deadline. I will be posting chapters now and again, so please subscribe via e-mail. I'm going to try to post a new entry every WEDNESDAY.

I feel this will take some of the pressure off me and allow me to better focus on the one project I should have been giving my absolute focus for quite some time now. As always, I thank you so much for sticking with me and being such amazing readers. When it comes to writing, I tend to treat what I want to write like an all you can eat buffet... overfilling my plate with so many delicious things that I can't finish any of them! I suppose pacing myself is the key... it's just hard when there are so many awesome stories I want to write! Aye, my head is a cluttered place!


Thanks again,


Bradley Bechtle  

MUSIC PROMPT FICTION #2: Frédéric Chopin

MUSIC INSPIRED BY:

Frédéric Chopin - Prelude in E-Minor (op.28 no. 4)

"CHECKMATE"

It had only taken me but a moment to realize the state of affairs. The years of affection, the toil, pain and sacrifice-- all a miserable joke. My charade, the secret life of sin and assorted debauchery I'd hid for so long... nothing but a cough at a concert. She heard them all along. The moans... The rustling of sheets... All trifles to her. My perceived cunning had been nothing more than an illusion  brought on by her feigned ignorance. Yes, it was she... not I who truly was the deceiver. My queen. Oh, my precious queen... Oh how I pampered thee. If only as a bribe... but still. How could you do this to me? How could you do this to your country? Though I suppose I must come to terms now with the fact that it was never your country at all. The land you loved through your teeth-- the land you sold into slavery. Our land... our daughter's land... my land.

Lesser men than I oft divorce or dispose of their wives when the marriage ship starts to hit the rocks. Alas, I'd have been better off a lesser man, cursed by my own desire for integrity. How I envy the rabble! What ease, to live as  a rapscallion, undaunted by public scorn-- with a pride so besmirched a stain blends rather than stands out. I wish it was in my character to bail out and seek safe harbor like cowardly deserting pirates with not an ounce of loyalty. After all, I'd always believed that a captain ought go down with his ship and commanded such behavior from the admirals of my Navy. 

Was I a bad king or a bad husband? I ask myself such futile questions as these as I toss and turn in my cell. Trivial. Trivial in the fact that their answers matter not as my wife's powers of deception were so masterful that even the world's greatest tactician could not have seen through her plan. I'd selected my mate for her beauty with her high learning as an afterthought. Who would have thought that her thoughts were after my crown. My late father had advised me against allowing a woman a choice and the danger of providing them with books and education. At the time I found his warning to be senility induced ramblings, the nonsense spouted at the deathbed by a dying sovereign in a last ditch effort to preserve the ways of his era. I see now that they were sage. Lethally true. 

She never loved me. 

NEVER.

Me. A king. A man with limitless power and prestige. 

Such an unforgivable betrayal! Sure, it is true I never felt a thing for her, but that is not to be expected of me. Her grace is my embrace. The only sight upon which she sets her horizon is my glorious hand. The hand bearing the ring she shares. The ring she kissed loyally in front of my entire court. Or as loyal as she allowed it to seem... as it is now known that she had been a spy from the kingdom of Gamalur-- a land decimated and destroyed by my father. What loyalty is that, anyway?  With her entire country dead, why would she still operate for its favor. Those fake tears... I am the one who deserves to cry. My bloodline now ends with me. The storied history of my family's monarchy, a brilliant book hundreds of years in the making., sees it's final chapter. Yes, my people called my grandfather a tyrant unfit to inherit his father's crown. True, my father and I continued down his path of firm rule with an emphasis on building our wealth. But they did not see the end goal! Their rebellion snuffed my candle before I could reach the top of the tower where they could finally see the great heights all the harsh steps we were taking lead. They dared criticized a plan before its results were in!? TRULY. She betrayed the entire country, no the ultimate fate of the world, by betraying me.

That is what you did not see. No one saw it. That was my plan. I had to bleed the people dry to amass funds in my war chest. Our military was on its way to becoming an unstoppable army. In a mere decade or two, we would have had the power to obliterate and enslave all the other kingdoms. If my people trusted in my power rather than her so-called 'wit'  they would have lived to see the day when we made foreigners slaves instead of them. They would have been able to live the life of ease and luxury they so foolishly chastised my family for living. Oh, such is my curse... to be born with great misfortune. My ill luck fated me to be in charge of such an ignorant and selfish lot. They never deserved my family. We should have completely stripped away all their freedom years ago. But no, my kindness got the best of me again. I foolishly allowed them to work for me and die for me in the way they saw fit... in their own homes with their own families.  They will see that life won't be so simple with me gone.

I do not care that I am to be beheaded tomorrow, as I would have committed suicide out of spite anyway. I've done the Lord's work, I shall be seeing him shortly. They call me an arrogant narcissist... but they can have their dumb opinions-- I never cared for them. I do not fear death. I look forward to seeing God. It will be nice to speak with an equal for once.

The Bard: Track 5 (Preview)

The final chapter in the five part preview for The Bard!

CLICK BELOW FOR PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS

TRACK 1: The Lost Love Song

TRACK 2: The Human Fly

TRACK 3: The Hallowed Halls

TRACK 4: The Lion and the Panther

Track 5: The Accompaniment

 The bards will sing a song for all the ages

Truth in a hymnal’s pages

The sound the Fly sought

Surely now, the Mouse shall be caught

A pair of suede Dockers clacked excitedly across the over-waxed floors that paved the interior of the NYPD’s Manhattan headquarters, accompanied by chipper humming. Something had changed in Detective Edison Locard’s attire. It was not the clothes he wore—still plainclothes and a tan overcoat as always—  but the expression on his face. For the first time in ages, a genuine smile hung itself above the unkempt tuft of blonde hanging from Edison’s chin.

“What’s gotten into you, Locard?” an officer asked as the blonde detective whizzed by.

“Nothing,” Ed replied. “Just got a good song stuck in my head.”

The merry detective shuffled into his superior’s office, kicking his feet in a dancing manner.  

“Good morning, Joy,” he said with a smile.

“That’s debatable,” muttered the Chief of Detectives’ apathetic secretary, her face practically pressed to her computer monitor.

Edison leaned on secretary’s desk, raising his eyebrows and grinning expectantly. Joy grunted, wrinkling her forehead.

“What do I have to do to get your attention? Poke you on Facebook?”

Joy let out a sigh of derision, too apathetic to retort. Noticing the woman’s bloodshot eyes and the tiny flask sitting beside her coffee mug, Ed surmised the alcoholic had been skipping out on her court mandated

“What does it take to get you to do your job? Beating your highscore on Bejeweled Blitz?” 

“I play Candy Crush Saga now, dumbass,” Joy grumbled.

“How foolish of me,” Edison said, rolling his eyes.

“So you want me to tell Harry you need to see him?”  

“If it doesn’t put you out too much.”

“Too bad,” Joy sneered, obnoxiously chewing her gum. “Harry’s not in this office. Why don’t you follow his lead?”

Forty-six and still unmarried, the only man Joy seemed to be able to keep a steady relationship with was Sam Adams. Unable to cope with the stress that comes along with the badge, countless cops fell prey to alcoholism. This factor did not apply to Joy’s case however, as the greatest danger she faced in the line of duty was accidently pricking her finger on a freshly sharpened pencil.

The Bard: Track 4 (Preview)

Behold, the fourth chapter in the five part preview for The Bard!

CLICK BELOW FOR PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS

TRACK 1: The Lost Love Song

TRACK 2: The Human Fly

TRACK 3: The Hallowed Halls

Track 4: The Lion and the Panther

A friend in high places: a grave underestimation

Shared admiration

A fight for closure

Blood-born brotherhood:  a shared shoulder

Armored in their own sweat, the two warriors found themselves locked in a stare down— a brief respite from the ongoing exchange of bruises.  The blonde fighter ended the stare down, charging forth fist first at a breakneck speed. The black-haired boxer dodged the blonde’s swipe, landing a quick body shot to his attacker’s left rib. He then feinted left with panther-like reflexes, drawing in his opponent with a false opening. The blonde lion bought the bait. The golden haired cat pouched, only to get his glove blocked and his chest smashed in.

“Ooof!”

The lion gasped, attempting to reclaim the oxygen that the black cat stole from his lungs. The blonde boxer chomped his mouth guard and swung hard at the panther’s solar plexus. The blow connected, dazing the black-haired contender. The kingly cat continued his assault with a savage combo, pulling off three consecutive jab’s to the panther’s side.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to leave things open?” the blonde taunted, winding another punch. “That lesson would have done wonders for your boxing.”

Without warning, the panther decked the lion across the face. The punch’s power caused a reverberating thud the moment it connected with the blonde’s cheek.  

“Rather not consult women on matters of the fist,” retorted the black-haired boxer. “Judging by those slaps, I’d surmise you cannot say the same.”

The dark cat unleashed a brutal counterattack, bombing his dazed adversary with a fatal flurry of flying knuckles. The lion drew back, lifting his gloves over his face. He could cold feel the cold sweat retreating off his skin.

“Throw the towel in, friend,” the black cat taunted, showing no signs of fatigue. “You’re a bloody mess… literally.”

  

The blonde fighter dashed forth from the right and threw a lightning fast left hook. The panther rose his gloves to block his face, but the lion stopped his punch in midair and targeted his foe’s body instead. One after another, the blonde’s fists ate away at the panther like a swarm of locusts. The panther calmly meditated and withstood the beating. The panther proceeded to effortlessly pierce through the lion’s assault and sock him square in the lungs. The blonde clutched his chest, falling back onto the ropes. The dark-haired warrior walked up with his fist raised— poised to land the finishing blow.

“It appears I’ve exhausted my last reserve of fighting spirit,” Leon Silverman said with a warm smile, turning his back to his beleaguered opponent. “You win.”  

“LIKE HELL I DID,” Edison Locard roared, springing off the ropes.

Without looking back, Leon threw an elbow behind him and struck Edison’s temple with jarring force. The detective hit the floor. As the blonde man blacked out, he outstretched his glove to reach the billionaire’s black sneakers. The world faded away, marking yet another loss in the lion’s lifelong quest to knock the panther down from his lofty tree.

…

By the time Edison had came to, Leon had already changed into formal attire and was sitting outside the ring sipping a piping cup of Earl Grey.

“Decided to finally wake, have you?”

"Stop Crying"

Can one find a crueler fate?
To die unrivaled, without hate
No pistols drawn, lines crossed
No tears shed, no wars lost
For what is life if not a game?
Solitaire, to name a name
No sugar to savor, salted wounds
No babies to shower, dry tombs

Adversary, a necessary evil
After all, God made a Devil
Without sin, there is no piety
Without death, we see no deity
Bullies, building thick skin
Hardship, igniting a fire within
Without falls, there are no climbs
Without stress, we need no minds

Humanity defines itself
Artificiality confines the self
Be open to the hurdles in your path
Growing calves from the aftermath
A book without death is dull
Get that through your fucking skull.    

The Bard: Track 3 (Preview)

Behold, the third chapter in the five part preview for The Bard!

CLICK BELOW FOR PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS

TRACK 1: The Lost Love Song

TRACK 2: The Human Fly

...

Track 3: The Hallowed Halls

The doorway has been breached

His scared ground

His foremost fears

Bleeding out from underneath the door

“Why’s everyone waiting around?” Edison beckoned the mob.

The crowed ignored the officer’s inquiry, too caught up in their own anxiety to acknowledge his existence. Chills spread to each of Ed’s vertebra as his skin paled and became bumpy. Fear frosted the blood in blonde man’s veins, and his heart clamored wildly in an attempt to defrost the sanguine stagnation. The darkness emanating from the apartment complex felt so palpable, Edison could practically see drops of pure evil condensing on the front door.

“BANG!”

The cop fired his handgun up at arctic sky, triggering a chorus of scattered screams. Once the initial panic dissipated, the crowd was all ears.

“Now that I have your attention, someone tell me what the HELL is going on,” Ed commanded.

“All the doors are locked,” wailed a stubby old lady. “My little puppykins Mr. Feffernoose needs his mumsy-wumsy. I’m sure the poor dear is crying his sweet eyes out right now.”

“We can’t get a hold of anyone inside,” explained tearful woman with auburn curls. “I’m worried about my husband. His office called me. This m-morning he… never showed.”

“I’ll bust that door down, myself,” offered a gangly student. “Somebody steals my laptop and I’m legit done. I’ve got eighteen hours to finish my research paper and I—”

The policeman heard enough. He approached the ominous barrier and cocked his gun.

“NYPD, OPEN UP,” Ed roared as he ferociously knocked on the locked door. Not a single sound could be heard. Even the crowd didn’t make a noise.

“This is your LAST warning,” the detective shouted, pointing his gun at the slab of rusty steel barring him passage. “You have five seconds to open this door or I WILL bust it down.”

The man’s request remained denied by ghostly silence.

“TIME’S UP!”

The tenants pulled back and covered their ears. One shot from Ed’s Double Action SIG Sauer P226 sent the uppermost hinge flying. After two more shots and a kick from Locard’s boot the steel door came down. Immediately, the vile fragrance of freshly spilt blood slithered up Ed’s nostrils, causing him to gag.

Writing Recipes #2: Meaty Characters

Make your characters... 'moo-ving.'

Last time, we baked a confectionery delight-- a lovely Protagonist Pie. This time we're going to make a meal that is quite different. For our needs, cooking is required... killing even. Sugar is replaced with salt for rubbing in wounds. The presentation is lost, charred or even bloody. This may be the most antagonizing meal you'll ever make. Careful, you might burn yourself in the process.

VEAL DE VILLAIN

This is a choice cut, a dinner that should not sit well upon being digested. Vegetarians and humanitarians look no further.


STEP ONE: Kill innocence 
Much like a baby calf, our villain must kill something of innocence. That might be something internal or external-- taken in a literal sense. No cut of meat is born a villain... its soul must be butchered-- carved and contorted into a bloody piece of veal. Greed, lust... these are motivators, but weak ones. A great villain is disturbed, changed in some way. Show the eater of your veal the death of its innocence. Horrify them.


STEP TWO: Determine Color
You must decide how dark your want your meat-- or how red. Prior to any seasoning and prepping, choose whether you want a rare veal willing to draw blood or be lethally under-cooked. Is the soul charred beyond recognition? Is it medium? In between and seemingly good, putting on a persona and keeping its nose clean by manipulating others?

STEP THREE: Cook the Grenade
Once the color is decided, throw the veal in the oven. As you cook, give the proper heat and motives. Allow the eater to understand why the meat tastes the way it does. Allow them to detect subtle hints of how it was cooked while still maintaining an air of foreboding mysteriousness. Be sure to burn in grilling marks, scars, external evidence to the pink evil inside the Villainous Veal. Be sure to check on your meat occasionally to see the progress of its development-- the hardening of its character. It is not uncommon to burn the veal to a crisp by the time the story ends.

STEP FOUR: Add Seasoning
A villain has its quirks too-- its idiosyncrasies. What grass does did it graze upon as a young calf? What does it revel in now? How about what it hates? Hate. Hate and a perversion of love are your greatest seasonings. Dark ambition is almost required. Make it strong tasting, perhaps even chilling. Make it so bad that the eater won't be able get the taste from their tongue, or so devilishly good they can't stop eating it up. The right dressing can amaze... but it can sicken... nauseate... or kill if poisoned. 

STEP FIVE: Support with Sides
Optionally, (yet highly suggested) you may support your dark dish with some sides that will compliment your Villianous Veal and play off its sinister flavor. Perhaps a kind pawn, like a healthy yet doomed veggie. Maybe an equally mashed potato-- made evil by the meat's gravy. Tasteless and useless garnish goes a long way, like a henchman used only to fodder the villain's presentation. A lonely villain can be extremely effective, but one surrounded by sides is a force to be reckoned with.

FINAL STEP: Use your own Darkness
The cook needs to always cook a bit of itself into its creations, even the culinary disasters. Seek into the darkest recesses of your mind to find an ingredient you've chosen to hide from others. Putting your own evil into the veal--regardless of how small or repressed it is--makes the taste explode on the plate.


Now your cooking with hate, making a tragic masterpiece. Your veal may not sit well with many, but it won't   be forgotten. After all, we always remember the meals that made us sick. Food poisoning can be deadly, but it remains a constant fear in our minds.

- B