Sheila: A Morality Tale

 I share this tale with some trepidation as it was originally intended for a very small group of people who would understand the milieu of the tale. Allow me to elucidate.

Written many years ago, Sheila: A Morality Tale takes place in a parallel universe where sentience developed among humans and various species of animals. Much like Zootopia they live together basically in harmony and all the tales I wrote about this universe center around a watering hole called The Unicorn & Gryphon Pub, probably the only bar in the world that sports busts of St. Francis and St. Patrick above the door.

So if you can handle Sheila being an anthropomorphic goat, please enjoy this little tale of hamfisted morality that is quite suitable for this Halloween season.

Sheila: A Morality Tale

A Tale From The Universe The Next Door Over

by Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Sheila hit the play button on the CD and smiled as the guitars ground out the familiar intro. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, humming along with the ZZ Top tune that she adopted as her personal theme song.

Her hands smoothed her black, velvet dress along her perfect hourglass figure, the high hem showing legs that would have made Venus kill.

She's got legs, she knows how to use them. She never begs, she knows how to choose them.

A caprine face looked back at her from the mirror framed by a long, lush mane of glistening brown hair. Her archetype and face corresponded with a Toggenburg goat, but her figure would be recognized in any dimension as female. And as far as Sheila was concerned, her figure was prime regardless of her original derivation.

She's my baby, she's my baby, yeah, it's alright. She's got hair down to her fanny.

The phone rang and she let it go unanswered as she continued to primp in the mirror.

She's got a dime all of the time, stays out at night movin' through time.

On the fourth ring, her answering machine picked up. “Sheila? It’s Jackson. Why don’t you return my calls? Can we talk?”

Sheila smirked and let the poor slob talk himself out. Jackson had proposed two nights ago and that always signaled the end of the game and time to move on to another playing field. She paused before the mirror in thought. She had never tried dating a canine before. Maybe she could hang another different type of heart from her hemline.

She checked herself out in the mirror one more time and smiled at perfection.

Oh, I want her, said, I got to have her, the girl is alright, she's alright.

Her archetype may have been that of a vegetarian, but all her victims knew Sheila as something else. Sheila was a real man killer.

***

The Unicorn and Gryphon Pub sat on a lonely street and Sheila had hunted there before. She didn’t like to go to places where she might bump into old boyfriends with a grudge, but it had been over a year since she had hung out at the U&G. Surely, old boyfriends had moved on by now.

She walked into the brightly lit establishment secretly pleased by all the heads that turned and looked at her. Take a good look, boys, she thought to herself. It don’t come cheap.

Sheila mentally took note of the male population. Yes, this would be a good hunting ground.

She walked over to the bar and got her first disappointment of the evening. Sheila had forgot about the bartender and evidently he hadn’t forgotten about her.

His archetype was human; not that common, but not that rare. He walked over to her while she took a seat at the bar.

“Hey, Sheila,” he said as he set up a glass. “It’s been awhile. Brandy Alexander, right?”

“You’ve got a good memory ...” she paused forgetting the name.

“Friends call me the Horse. Inside joke.”

“Well, barkeep, you’ve got a good memory.”

The bartender smiled at the obvious affront. “Yes, I do. I also remember you dated Franklin for awhile.”

Sheila paused in an exaggerated pose of thought. “Franklin? Franklin? I don't seem to remember him. There are just so many men.”

Heavy poured brandy and coffee liqueur into a shaker followed by two scoops of rich vanilla ice cream. “He probably doesn’t remember you either. We hosted his wedding reception just two weeks ago. He married a beautiful girl.”

“That’s nice,” Sheila said absently, “but all the men here aren’t married.”

Heavy shook the tumbler, gave it an artistic twirl in the air and with a deft move, unscrewed the lid and poured the creamy contents into her glass.

“One Brandy Alexander, ma’am.”

Sheila sipped the concoction with a smile. “I will say this, barkeep. Nobody in town makes a better Brandy Alexander.” She looked up at him, a warm smile on her face. “Why don’t I just come over to your place tonight and you can teach me how to make these?”

The barkeep smiled in return. “I don't think my wife and three kids would appreciate that.”

“Well, you could come over ..”

The bartender stopped her with a wave of his hand. “I’m happily married. End of story.”

“That‘s not true for every married man.”

The barkeep chewed his lower lip in frustration. “You know, a bartender today is the same as a professional counselor. Let me give you some free advice.” He ignored Sheila’s exaggerated sigh of boredom. “You see that bust over the door? That’s Saint Francis of Assisi. Know anything about him?”

Sheila looked up at the marble bust above the door. Next to it sat a similar bust of Saint Patrick. “Do you take up an offering with the sermon?” she asked.

“Sheila, all I’m saying is that you can’t be a happy person and you ought to ask yourself what those men had that made them happy in their circumstances. There are men and women here of all different species that would like to be your friend. Just a friend.”

Sheila laughed in contempt. “I don’t want friends. I don’t need friends. Every female here is only competition. Every male here is simply prey.”

The Horse’s response was interrupted by a tiger dressed as a chauffeur. “Forgive me, madam,” he said to Sheila with a small bow. “My employer wishes to speak with you.” He handed her a note written on cream-colored bond.

Sheila opened the note and read the elegant script. A smile came to her face.

She turned to the tiger. “Please tell your employer that I will be delighted to make his acquaintance.” The tiger nodded mechanically and walked away toward the front door of the pub.

“It seems,” she told the bartender, “that a wealthy man is waiting for me outside in his limo wanting to meet me.”

The barkeep looked worried. “Sheila, maybe ...”

Sheila put up her hand. “I’ve already listened to your sermon and I don‘t need another. Anyway, I know what you’re going to say about danger and that I‘m a defenseless little girl.” She threw a bill on the bar to pay for the drink. “Anyway, do you really think a serial killer is going to ride around town in a limousine and have his chauffeur deliver his love letters?” She smiled at the bartender’s increasing frown. “It’s show time,” she said.

Sheila put her hair in place with a toss and walked toward the front door. Old men in limos meant old money and Sheila liked money. She especially liked old males with old money because old males normally didn’t live long.

Sheila caught her reflection in the glass of the front door as she opened it. Her caprine face looked back at her, perfect in balance and beauty. Oh, Sheila, she thought. You’ve entered the big time and tonight you’ll collect a heart that will top all your other trophies.

The white stretch limo sat alongside the far curb. The tiger stood beside the back door, holding it for her.

Though dark inside the vehicle, Sheila could dimly see two extended leather seats facing each other.

“Welcome, my dear,” said a rich, cultured voice near the front of the limo. “I’m honored you would meet with so old a man. Please join me.”

Sheila saw only a dim silhouette, but the cultured voice and the atmosphere of money put all fears to rest.

Gracefully, she entered the car and sat facing the figure. The tiger gently shut the door with a faint click. “I’m glad to meet a man of such obvious taste and culture,” she said. “Could we have a little light so we can see each other better?”

“Of course. Forgive me,” the figure responded. “Men of my status have an inadvertent tendency to be rude sometimes.”

Sheila heard the car’s engine turn over and felt it begin to pull away from the curb.

In front of her the silhouette leaned over and flicked a switch and a dim white light illuminated the car’s interior.

Sheila screamed once and dove for the door, but there were no interior handles.

“Yes, I can imagine it’s a shock to see me,” the cultured voice said. “We chupacabras are so rare that very few people even remember us. I‘m even honored that you recognize what I am.”

Crying in terror, Sheila backed away from the reptilian figure, its eyes reflecting back the dim light like green fire.

“I even wonder,” it continued, “if I may actually be the only chupacabra left, but it’s okay. There are so many goats...so many pretty, little goats to keep me occupied.”

Sheila spun around in her seat, screaming. Panicked, she ineffectively beat at the rear window.

“I don't think we need the interior light anymore, do you?” the cultured voice asked. With a click, the interior of the vehicle’s cabin was plunged into darkness.

Wailing, Sheila watched the lights of the Unicorn and Gryphon Pub recede into the night.

“So pretty,” the voice said behind her. Strong, taloned claws wrapped themselves around her slender waist and inexorably pulled her back.

“So pretty,” the voice whispered in her ear as Sheila struggled helplessly. Another clawed paw wrapped itself around her neck while another gripped a thigh.

“So pretty,” it repeated as four muscular arms held her in a powerful embrace.

“I could just eat you up.”

The Shrine War Update

Have some updates on my new work in progress:

1. The working title has been changed from Kitsune vs. Inugami to The Shrine War.
2. I posted a very rough cut of the opening scene, but because the emphasis is to be on the Kitsune and Inugami, I have opted for a new opening with the Kitsune having a war council at their shrine and preparing to receive an emissary from the Inugami.
3.  In the story, Kitsune are anthropomorphic foxes and the Inugami are anthropomorphic dogs (nice foxies vs. bad doggies). In the story, they can trick the human mind to perceive them as fully human, but it's not true transformation. If they were to extend their hand to you, visually you would see a human hand, but to your sense of touch you would feel the fur. In the illusion they project, they have no tails, but if they were to suddenly turn around, you could get whacked by a tail you could not see. And as Ane, the head shrine maiden, has nine tails, you could find yourself on the floor without a clue as to how you ended up there.
4. Trying to find a picture of an anthropomorphic Kitsune and Inugami shrine maidens for reference is almost impossible. Either they appear way too human (basically human girls with fox ears and tails) or the picture is not historical. I did find one for the Kitsune. The artist's name is Koggg (that is not a typo) and his art account is here. Anyway, this is a great representation of my Kitsune shrine maidens without the human illusion in place: 

1. As for the Inugami, it took me the better part of two hours, but I found one that captures the spirit of what I'm trying to communicate. I did not want werewolves but anthropomorphic dogs, ones that are committed to the Black Arts and the destruction of all Kitsune and Imari, the kami the Kitsune follow. The artist of the piece below calls him/herself YUS-TS:

One of the delightful challenges of writing fantasy is finding the best way to communicate the exotic to the reader. Without the use of visual aids, I need to find the right combination of words, written simply and succinctly, so that what you visually see above, you can see in your mind's eye just by using the written word alone.

We shall see if I am up to the challenge.

Kitsune vs. Inugami Intro

Ever try writing about a place you've never been to? The research that went into the following took three days. Three days for a tad over 375 words.

ADDENDUM: Though I love this part, I realized this would make a terrible intro to the story. The emphasis is on the conflict between the Kitsune and the Inugami so I'm changing the introductory scene and starting right with the Kitsune at the Inari Shrine preparing for an invasion of Inugami and meeting with their representative.  Then, I segue into this part of the story introducing Brennan Woodbrygg.

Untitled Story
by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Brennan Woodbrygg slid the dish of lavender ice cream across the table. Around him, people chattered gaily in Japanese enjoying the open air cafe. The town of Kamifurano reeked of lavender as the locals and visitors celebrated the middle of the growing season and not only did the scent of lavender fill the air, everybody ate lavender ice cream and drank lavender-flavored beverages.

For Brennan, though he loved the exotic, he could find little appreciation of an entire town reeking of a lady’s boudoir.

His cell phone buzzed and he picked it up from the table top and flipped it open.

“Brennan here,” he said.

He listened for a few moments, thoughtfully chewing on both his bottom lip and his thoughts.

“I know, Alyssa” he said, his tone hinting at an air of impatience and irritation. “I already know the grant money is gone, but I’m on a great lead. I’ll pay for the expenses from here on out on my own and you purchased the return flight for me when you ordered the tickets and that’s the biggest expense so far and already taken care of.” He looked around to see if his English had attracted any attention, but conversations around the cafe had drowned out any ability to hear him.

“I’m on Hokkaido in the Kamikawa District. The town is Kamifurano. You’d really enjoy it here. Smells like that perfume you love so much. Alyssa listen to me.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I think I have a lead on an Inari shrine near here that predates the 5th century. Yeah, well before Buddhism came to the islands. It’s in a forest near Mount Tomuraushi and it’s not even listed with the Jinja Honcho.”

He paused as Alyssa’s voice buzzed in his ear. “Okay, tell you what. I’ll wrap everything up with this trip. I’ll get some great pictures and you’ll get your book and I’ll complete my thesis, deal?

Again, he paused as he listened. “Okay and one other thing. I won’t have cell phone access at the mountain. I barely have coverage here. Yeah, I’ll call you tomorrow sometime. Bye.”

He flipped his cell phone closed, stared at his melting lavender-flavored ice cream and decided that the 300 yen was a suitable price to pay for just a taste.

Kitsune vs. Inugami Story

Kitsune (artist unknown)

Inugami (Artist: よっしー)

I announced my foray into Mirthstone Hall a tad prematurely as I have been approached by an anthologist to submit a story to his upcoming collection. After discussion, I will be writing a story of kitsune shrine maidens guarding a Shinto shrine against a band of invading Inugami shrine maidens. If you are confused by such strange names and words, click on the links, but they are all characters from Japanese mythology.

Faydra: A Tale From the Fractured World

I can write anything I want, but I can't write everything I want. At the age of 61 where a short story can take as much as three months, my time is limited. Here is part of a story I am shelving and thought you might enjoy the opening paragraphs.

Faydra: A Tale From the Fractured World,

by Alan Loewen

ROUGH DRAFT

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I’m going to tell you how I met Faydra, but I really should start at the beginning. I’ll follow the advice the King of Hearts gave the White Rabbit: 'Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: Then stop.'

Those of us born on what we arrogantly call Earth Prime all remember where we were when the Fracture occurred a good decade ago. Those of us who survived it of course.

I sat in the kitchen of the home I had been born twenty two years previously, freshly graduated from Penn State, and waiting for the job offers to just come rolling in. I had just hung up the phone after speaking to my parents who called me with last minute house sitting instructions before they boarded their cruise ship and I had just made myself the perfect sandwich for my lunch: minced bologna, real mayonnaise, a layer of sweet bread and butter pickles, and a few leaves of lettuce. And then the lights went out literally and figuratively.

I miss that sandwich so much.

When I came to, I lay on the kitchen floor looking over at Hypatia, my Sheltie, licking her lips, her breath smelling of minced bologna, real mayonnaise...well, you get the picture.

I had no idea why I blacked out and still feeling a little queasy in the stomach, I felt no hurry in getting up. I thought that I would just lay still for awhile and then see about maybe getting to a phone, crawling if I had to, and getting an ambulance to come take a look at me. The Biglerville Fire Department only had to travel one mile to get to my house, close enough that on days when the wind didn’t blow I could easily hear the siren calling volunteer firefighters and EMTs to some fire or medical emergency.

I’m convinced the shock of passing out is why I didn’t hear the screaming right away. I lay on the floor considering it, confusing it at first for the Biglerville fire siren, but the siren never paused for breath.

Somebody somewhere was having a hard time and after a few moments I thought I better look into it because the screaming just went on and on.

Carefully, I got up on my hands and knees and when my gut stopped flip-flopping, I crawled to the dining room picture window and took a peek outside.

The human mind has some very elaborate mechanisms for protection, so I could not take in all that I saw right away.

My mind first registered my next door neighbor, Miss Pitzer standing on her lawn with a push mower beside her. Facing away from me, I could not see the reason for her pointing in the direction of her house and screaming until my mind decided to do the great reveal.

Miss Pitzer’s house wasn’t there. In it’s place, stretching as far as I could see stood a forest with trees that would have made the California Redwoods look like twigs.

Standing behind the picture window I craned my head up to see if I could see the treetops, but no go on that plan. Just one of those trees would have met the world’s demand for toothpicks for millennia.

I rubbed my eyes a couple of times, and then made the decision to stand. After a while, with the help of the window ledge, I made it to my feet and after a few moments started feeling better. Tentative steps seemed to work so I went to the back door and with Hypatia at my heels, opened the back door into madness.

Miss Pitzer ignored me as I went to stand next to her. Not knowing what to say to her, I just stared at what must have been a primal wood that would have made Paul Bunyan drool.

The sharpness of the division between her lawn and the wood looked like it had been made with a cookie cutter. Not knowing what had happened to Miss Pitzer’s house or how a wood with giant trees had taken its place, I thought a phone call to 911 would be in order.

And my cell phone would not connect.

Of course it took seven years of suffering and fighting and trying to keep one’s sanity before we ever learned what had happened. When life reached some form of stability, that’s when we discovered the huge crater eighteen miles in circumference beneath the France-Switzerland border near Geneva where the Large Hadron Collider once lay.

The eggheads think a power surge made the universe go flip flop and about twenty three parallel earths became fractured and got all messed up like a jigsaw puzzle.

Now I know you know all this, but I’m telling the story and I’ll get to Faydra eventually. Just let me tell the story my own way.

All I know now is that a forest from some parallel earth ended up as my neighbor and on some other planet in some other universe, Miss Pitzer’s house and her yappy Pekingese sits without Miss Pizer in residence.

I miss my parents.

I miss my minced bologna sandwiches.

The shame that I did not help my next door neighbor is sometimes overwhelming, but does it help if I say I had a bad case of shock? Especially after the sun set and that big spiral galaxy filled up half the night sky and the truth hit hard that we weren’t in the world that we knew anymore. I never saw Miss Pitzer ever again. I never even knew when she stopped screaming. I just hope she’s okay.

Of course, we were lucky. Biglerville found itself surrounded by three other chunks of real estate from three other parallel earths: the primal wood, New Rome (that’s what we call it) where Romans discovered the New World but never grew beyond the Iron Age, and finally, Faydra’s world that we still call Disneyland to this day. Of course, I wasn’t going to meet Faydra for another eight years, but like I said, this is my story to tell. I’ll tell it the way I want.

Anyway, after my fellow small town residents and I endured the initial shock of being plunged back to the 19th century and its lack of electricity and Internet and video games and television and all the other toys that kept us busy, the only joy we had was to discover a world where basically peaceful red pandas lived and walked like human beings.

So New Rome gave us goverment and leadership, Biglerville still had working farmlands and orchards, and once we learned the red pandas weren’t murderous, they kept us sane with their inquisitive friendship.

Unfortunately, some of the parallel Earths that bordered New Rome and Disneyland weren’t very friendly, but unlike the Iron Age Romans and the peaceful red pandas, we of Earth Prime were fortunate. We had guns.

New Rome had to deal with a bordering Earth that would have made H.P. Lovecraft giddy with joy, but the monsters there were not like their literary or cinema cousins. When you shot them, they obediently lay down and assumed room temperature.

Connecting to Disneyland was another world of humans that bore some philosophical crossbreeding between Ayn Rand and Kim Jong-un, but as they had not fought a war in their world for centuries, they could not put up to much of a fight. The pandas just stood aside and let us play target practice. Once we removed the old guard, New Rome stepped in to teach them their version of a Roman Republic and that world seems to be doing better.

It took the better part of seven years for the Fractured World to reach a form of stability, seven years of a lot of wars and a lot of death. The number of suicides from Internet deprivation alone almost wiped out an entire generation.

Ecologically, it will be hundreds of millennia before our new Fractured Earth reaches some form of natural homoeostasis, but until then, we do the best we can. So far, a decade after the Fracture, we’ve catalogued about twenty-three different versions of Earth.

So here we are, a decade after the Fracture and I’m working for Knouse Foods on a plan to expand the orchards into Disneyland when there’s a knock on the door.

And here is where I finally get around to telling you about Faydra.

My Advice to Writers: 4theLuv Anthology Submission

Today I received a general invitation to submit to an anthology.

They wanted a 1,000 to 3,000 word story on the theme of Halloween, but until I went to their website, they did not say this was a 4theLuv market.

4theLuv means you get paid nothing. De nada.

But at least, you would be able to get a contributor's copy, right?

Nope. You had to buy it after it came out.

So let me get this straight. They want a part of my life just for the sheer joy of having my piece buried in an anthology that I have no assurance will be marketed well so at the very least I can get market exposure?

When I started out as a writer, I wrote for several anthologies like that and I was paid nothing. No problem. They stated that bluntly in their submission guidelines. They did not even send me a contributor's copy.

And where are those anthologies today? Well, because they were marketed poorly (actually they weren't marketed at all), they have dropped off the radar. I didn't even get market exposure for my work.

My advice is to take a hard look at any anthology you submit to. I'm not going to say 4theLuv markets are intrinsically bad, but just be fully aware of what you are getting.

Nothing.

Addendum: I have sent reprints for anthologies put together for charitable reasons. Speaking only for myself, I will submit without problem to a 4theLuv charitable market if I know the editor, support the charity, and know for a fact the monies will be ethically distributed.

Conversation With A Dying Unicorn

I did not write this, but I have permission from the author to repost it here. Ken Pick is my writing partner for the Jill Noir series and I met him through this work. The story is not for everyone, but I believe that it will speak to genre authors and readers who hope that the act of literary or artistic creation may somehow impact reality. I was deeply moved when I read this so many years ago and it moves me still. I'm grateful and honored to be able to bring this story to you now.

The Age of Reason Has No Need of Unicorns

Conversation with a Dying Unicorn

by Ken Pick

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The rumble of the garage door closing two floors down vibrated through my bedroom, followed by Steve’s motorcycle fading in the distance. With him gone to work, I could put in a couple hours without distraction before I had to crash for the night and go back to live-action Dilbert in the morning.

March was my month to catch up on my backlog of furry art projects, and I was finishing up the one original amid the xeroxed-and-inked copies of my doodle pile that I was sending off for a try at the conbook for the next AnthroCon. And deadlines for the conbook and at work had to coincide.

AnthroCon’s theme this year was “Join the Furry Revolution!,” and from the imagery on their Web page – Betsy Ross as a raccoon – they obviously were thinking “American Revolution.” As soon as I’d downloaded the detailed solicitation for conbook art, my mind had gone fiendish in a way it hadn’t in a long time. They wanted “Furry Revolution” art? They’ll get a Furry Revolution – just not the one they’re expecting!

I’d forwarded a copy of the conbook page and release form to Eric Blumrich – he drew his “revolutionary imagery” from the First Russian Revolution; that ought to be good for a few fried brains on the conbook staff. Steve had suggested a parody on Latin American banana republics and Clint something based on an Andrew Swann novel, but my neurons were already exploding down another path, prodded by memories of Tale of Two Cities, The Scarlet Pimpernel, and Here Comes a Candle. Why should Mary Hanson-Roberts be the only one of us to tap French Revolution imagery?

In all my life, I’ve only had one story, one possible paranormal experience, and two other pictures burst full-honk into my mind like this one – straight into my head, demanding to be drawn. A melodramatic, sort-of-Gothic horror piece – an anthropomorphic unicorn, traditional Western symbol of purity getting the chop during the Reign of Terror. Striking on the surface – the black silhouette of the guillotine looming over the white figure of the unicorn – and symbolic on a couple of levels, my commentary on attitudes both inside and outside the fandom.

I’d never done a unicorn before, but this one came out surprisingly well – sort of a Stephanie Peregrine style, with a facial expression mixing shock and dread that had come about completely by accident I’d dressed her in some simple generic period garb I remembered from my SCA days, and (after a hurried e-mail warning from Blumrich) given her enough points of difference from Vicky Woman’s “Empress Alicia” that no one could possibly confuse the two. Which, of course, guaranteed that some fanboy would. Even more striking when traced and cleaned-up, late at night on that light table at Kinko’s with nobody else in the store, afraid someone would see it and get the wrong idea.

And now, I was puffing the final touches on the piece. Actually, two pieces – an inked black-and-white version, Victim of the Furry Revolution, for the conbook and a color version, The Age of Reason Has No Need of Unicorns (L’Age de Raison n’a pas Besoin de Licornes), for the art show. I had just put my signet and date on the former – dated using the French Revolutionary Calendar – and was getting the release forms ready when the Reality Barrier broke.

“Why?” The voice was female, sweet and musical – and coming from inside the room, behind and to the left, from the direction of my bed.

“HUH?” I spun the desk-chair around, homing on the voice.

She was sitting on my bed. The unicornette, exactly as I had drawn her – white fur, disheveled golden mane, liquid golden eyes, petite cloven hooves, white peasant-blouse top and coarse white skirt soiled with prison dirt, hands/forehooves/whatever lashed behind her back and a large cork stuck on the end of her golden horn.

“If I am to be executed, Monsieur, I should at least know why.”

“You – You’re real?”

“Non, Monsieur.” She shook her head, golden mane falling half-over her eyes. “I live only in your mind, and there -” She angled her horn toward my drawing table and the artworks. “- I am about to die.”

A tulpa – an imaginary construct that somehow jumps over Planck’s Wall into reality? Or just my neurons gang-firing from sleep deprivation and stress? Or subconscious storytelling making the jump into consciousness, like Clint’s characters telling him “how it really happened”? But in a full-sensory hallucination? The last time anything remotely resembling this had happened – “Thirty Seconds Over Narnia”, that possible paranormal experience – it had come in the form of a vivid mental image, not an apparently-solid critter materializing in front of me.

“You created me, Monsieur, and in creating me you condemn me to death,” she continued. “What crime have I committed to deserve la guillotine, to ‘sneeze into the sack’ before a cheering mob?”

“N-none; you’re – innocent.” Like so many others, from Paris to Phnom Penh, in the two centuries of revolutions patterned after the French.

“But of course I am innocent, Monsieur,” she said, getting the hair out of her eyes with a toss of her head. “I am a unicorn, Non?” She rose off my bed, the futon mattress rising as her imaginary weight left it, and stepped over to my drawing table, her hooves sounding daintily on the carpet. Eyes wide with wonder; she looked over the furry art hanging on the wall; then bending down, she pulled the lamp around with her horn and studied both unicorn-and-guillotine pictures intently.

After a moment she spoke again. “So why must I die unjustly? Do I represent something or someone you hate? Am I a martyr for some cause I know not what? Or do you simply wish to see a unicorn beheaded?”

“No, unicorn – I’m not completely sure myself.” I reached out to touch her on the shoulder; she felt solid, and warm. “If there’s any reason, you’re there because you’re a unicorn and what unicorns represent.”

“Explain, s’il vous plait?”

Great. Where do I start? I tried to tell her how she first came to be, how the image of a unicorn going to the guillotine had come out of nowhere into my head and wouldn’t let go, how everything had just fallen into place when I’d gotten the details on AnthroCon’s theme and conbook.

How I’d poured myself into a picture for the first time in years, and how it had drained me afterwards, and how anything that could have that effect had to have power in it.

About causes gone lunatic, from Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité! to Prohibition to militant anti-smoking to Save the Fill-in-the-Blank to whatever was the latest Important Cause of the week, and how the perfect Utopian omelet always required smashing more and more eggs.

About my hyperactive, runaway imagination that had spaced me out until I was well into my twenties, and how that awe and wonder had worn down over the years – like my father; who had lost his ability to dream by the time I was old enough to notice.

How imaginary critters like her had been a part of that imagination as far back as I could remember -classic Poul Anderson and Andre Norton “aliens” with fur and tails, mythical critters like herself, a noble young white lion, a one-shot skunkette glamor-actress, two-legged talking beasts of every species. Then my own critters; imaginary playmates becoming safe rehearsals for how to act on dates which never came, finally growing into full-fledged characters and stories and art as I aged, all expressing what C. S. Lewis had expressed the best:

You had an animal with everything an animal ought to have – glossy coat, liquid eye, sweet breath, and whitest teeth; and added to all that, as though Paradise had never been lost and earliest dreams were true, the charm of speech and reason.

And how those “earliest dreams” had become “adult” nightmares – like that “furban legend” of a Blumrich rant, the one everybody claimed to have seen but nobody could produce a copy of, the one that goes on and on about all that these creatures of the imagination could do or be and ends with “And all you can think of doing with them is to draw them with their clothes off.”

And how dealing with the fandom – the Muckers, the yiffy-boys, the Spandex Commandoes, the way over-the-top lifestylers, with only the occasional thinker amid the droolers and foamers and wankers – had worn me down.

“But they’re not human! They’re Furry!” The cry of the fanboy always used to justify sick and twisted behavior of or towards the critters they’ve created – just like “But I was only role-playing my character” always justified any sort of treachery in D&D. Never uplifting the critters to their level and beyond – transcending the animal – instead of seeing how low they could go with them. Even animals eat, sleep, and play as well as rut.

If insanity was part of these times, we’d embraced the madness as thoroughly as Paris 207 years ago. Our mobs of fanboys howling for spooge, up to and including stuff that would make the Marquis de Sade vomit. Our factions and denunciations, our Girondists and Jacobins, our high-sounding Robespierres, our gloating Heberts, our vicious Marats.

And me? I’d come into this like Lafayette only to wind up with a rep like Dr. Guillotin, the part of me that could dream those “earliest dreams” slowly dying in writer’s block, artist’s block, stories sitting half-complete and art commissions sitting unsaturated for years. Until her.

Vive la Revolution de Pelage.

She listened quietly, with an occasional flick of her tail. When I finally finished rambling, she spoke again, thoughtfully.

“I believe I understand. I am the innocent who finds herself in the path of a cause so ‘righteous’ as to justify any evil. I am a creature of imagination, who cannot possibly exist in an ‘Age of Reason’, so I cannot be permitted to live. And to you, mon createur, who can see virtue only when embodied in such creatures of imagination, I am something else.”

“I represent what was worn away in you, what these – pelagists – throw away when they make of their creations less than animals.” She shrugged against her bonds. “You do not kill me, they do; your art but records the fact, and my – execution – mirrors what they have done and what they have become.” Her voice softened, turned even more thoughtful. “When to be called ‘Virgin’ is an insult, to whom can a unicorn appear?”

“To me.”

“Oui, and you know why.” Oh, I knew – all the years of embarrassment and ridicule, direct and indirect. The biggest continuing failure in my life; blindsided by another revolution, saving myself for a marriage that never came.

“Unicorn, I might be able to spare you. I’m no Scarlet Pimpernel, but -” I was babbling now, my stomach doing slow sick backflips. “- I can shred the pictures – or at least not submit them or show them. Nobody will ever see them, and you’ll keep your head.” I didn’t like destroying artwork, any artwork, especially my own – but ink on paper and Prismacolors on illustration board was one thing, but to actually take a living, breathing unicorn-girl – even in imagination – and slice off her head  

“NON!” A hoof stamped against the carpet, sounding through the room. She shook her head like a stallion in triumph, eyes flashing golden fire; I remembered the earliest tales of unicorns, and how they could vanquish elephants in a one-on-one fight. “Mon createur, I now know I die for a reason, not just amusement or titillation.” She paused, seemed to shrink a bit. “You may take my head.”

Anything I said now was going to sound really stupid – especially so to an imaginary critter about to die an imaginary death – but I said it anyway. “I don’t want your head, unicorn. I don’t want you to die – not after actually meeting you.”

“Neither do I, but we both know I must. You drew me for a purpose, and I fulfill that purpose by giving up my life. And with that life you drive home your point” – she tapped my head with the corked tip of her horn – “to the mob. Perhaps some will listen.”

“They won’t.” I had enough experience along those lines – Clint quitting in disgust halfway through his grand story arc, Canuss gone to ground, Blumrich’s on-target rants, the pros who’d bailed because of “one fanboy too many”, the career-killing reputation of being “one of them!” More eggs cracked for the perfect Furry omelet. Vive la Revolution? Vive la Terreur.

“You don’t know that” She shrugged again. “The draw of the card, the roll of the dice – you never know the results before you make the attempt.” She took a deep breath, stretching the ropes that bound her; and power entered her voice. “And for whatever purity and virtue remains in you, and by my blood about to be spilled, YOU MUST MAKE THE ATTEMPT.”

She stood tall, head high, nostrils wide and eyes blazing. “And I shall be part of that attempt, sealed with the lifeblood of a unicorn. Perhaps my death will bring that part of you back to life.

“Now, mon createur,” her voice returned to normal, “I ask one last favor from you, before I go.”

“What?” I had learned long ago never to answer “anything” to an open-ended favor – especially when magic was afoot – and physical courage was never one of my strong points. What could she want? She’d refused my offer to spare her; she was a classic unicorn of pre-mass-market Western Christian tradition, not some fanboy spooge-i-corn…

“I know I am not ‘real’, and do not die ‘for real’, yet still -” Her voice started to quiver; her expression changing to the one in the picture. “-I am afraid. Embrace me – s’il vous plait?”

I gathered her in my arms, crushing her against me until she stopped shaking, her heart hammering faster than mine at my father’s funeral; her breasts pressed against my ribs, her ear and mane tickled my nose and her snout rubbed against my cheek, her tail flicked against my thighs. So unicorns must have lain in the laps of other virgins, so long ago…

“Mon createur?”

“Yes?”

“I am honored to have spoken with you, as if I were real.” She pulled her head off my cheek and looked at me with great golden eyes. “I came from you, and I am always a part of you. You know Who we unicorns – at least our males – have symbolized in every Medieval Bestiary. You once wrote Stauros how much you ‘longed to romp and play with the furries in Aslan’s Land’. If and when you do, I pray that I shall be one of them – given substance in reality instead of imagination.”

I squeezed her tighter, kissed her on her snout, between the nostrils; her breath smelled like fresh roses mixed with cinnamon. She pulled back, blinked once in astonishment, then raised her head to where our mouths met – para-equine to human – and reciprocated with a long, gentle kiss. Just like my only girlfriend had, on our first date, all those years ago…

“Merci – and adieu.” She stepped back, radiant despite the bonds and prison dirt; I brushed her mane back from her eyes. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must go. La guillotine is waiting.”

And turning around, with head held high and tail flicking, she walked through the wall and was gone.

A Dream That Would Shake the Foundations of the Literary World

Some year ago, I read that you should keep a dream journal by your bed and since a goodly number of my stories find their seeds in my dreams, I thought that sounded like a rather good idea. Like most people, I have these incredible dreams, but I can barely remember them at all upon awakening.

Last night I awoke from a dream so profound and so exquisitely moving, I grabbed the notebook and, in the dark, hurriedly wrote down the dream particulars.

This morning, I eagerly grabbed the notebook to remind myself of what was going to be a future story that would momentously move the hearts and minds of my readers and I read,

Lady of the

Mirror

2 rules

Only when visited

Could take

nothing with her

She sought to understand

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd... I got nothing. Sorry. Mind's a total blank. 

Change of Plans: Introducing Jill Noir

A number of years ago, I met a gentleman at a convention named Ken Pick who had written and illustrated a fascinating fantasy dream sequence about an anthropomorphic unicorn being led to the guillotine during the French Revolution. The name of the piece, translated from the French was, The Age of Reason Has No Place For Unicorns.

Ken's Interpretation of Jill Noir and companion

Since then, we have collaborated on the first book of what we hope will be a science fiction trilogy loosely titled, The Adventures of Jill Noir. A braided novel, each chapter can be read independently, but together they tell a complete story about a genetically engineered, anthropomorphic ferret named Jill Noir and her struggles to be accepted into society. Unfortunately, she has these continuous run-ins with a human Roman Catholic priest named Father Eric Heidler who is something of an enigma himself.

The chapters in the first book are:

Episode 1: Mask of the Ferret
Episode 2: Ferret and Rabbit
Episode 3: Down to Cathuria
Episode 4: Dyads, Part 1
Interlude: On the First of Winter
Episode 5: Dyads, Part 2
Interlude: Breaking News
Episode 6: Dyads, Part 3
Episode 7: Nameless Guild
Epilogue: Until Then...

The projected titles of the three books are:

Book 1: The Ferret and the Priest
Book 2: Ice Vixen, Golden Marten
Book 3: Sargasso and Saint Dismas

Some of the chapters have already been published in assorted anthologies:

 

The anthology, Infinite Space, Infinite God (Karina L. Fabian and Robert Fabian, editors) contains the opening stay, Mask of the Ferret that was reprinted in Fred Patten's anthology, Anthropomorphic Aliens (currently out of print)

The anthology, Different Worlds, Different Skins (Will A. Sanborn, editor) carried the story, Down to Cathuria.

Infinite Space, Infinite God II (Karina L. Fabian and Robert Fabian, editors) contains the full novella, Dyads.

In 2008, Ken and I received an Honorable Mention at the 2008 Washington Science Fiction Association award for Mask of the Ferret.

Needless to say, this means putting aside Return to the Vicarage. And that is for the best. Jill needs her final time in the sun and the Vicarage story shares too much in spirit with my recently released, Strange Streets.

So Sunday, I travel deep into WebFed space and track down an illusive anthro-ferret thief with ADHD paradoxically combined with some serious thanatophobia.

Return to the Vicarage: List of Characters and "Cheat Sheet"

I have begun the process of writing Return to the Vicarage (working title only) and I have cobbled together a list of the characters and a "cheat sheet" to remind me of personality traits and the "rules" the Vicarage and the Presence follow. This is a rough draft and very much subject to change.

The Vicarage

The Vicarage and the Presence that lives within it are universal, mythic characters—archetypes—that reside within the collective unconscious of humanity and accessed only through dreams. All humanity dreams of the Vicarage at least once in their lives (you included) though the actual appearance of the building depends upon the culture of the dreamer. The two main characters of the story, Scott and Jenny, perceive the Vicarage as large, two story Victorian mansion that contains a furnished basement. 

The Vicarage contains several mysteries. The three most prominent are: 

1. A chapel devoid of all religious emblems and symbols. All is constructed of polished dark wood. Ten rows of pews are divided by an aisle and behind them, elevated on a small balcony, is a moderately-sized pipe organ. The organist, if there ever was one, sits with his or her back to the congregation, facing away from the altar, pulpit, and lectern. Heavy, dark red curtains hide the walls behind the organ and if one pulls aside the curtain on the left, an entrance to a "priest's hole" can be found. This location is the only safe place where one can hide from the Presence.

2. On the second floor one of the bedrooms contains access to a crawlspace that can only be accessed by a small child. The crawlspace goes back some distance and toward the rear, the walls are painted black with what appear to be obscure and complicated mathematical formulae. Unfortunately, children cannot understand the import of what is inscribed on the walls and adults simply are too large to enter the crawlspace.

3. When people first dream of the Vicarage, they awaken in a furnished basement bedroom that is inhabited by the Presence, an invisible entity that is perceived as intelligent and malignantly evil. The victim spends the night cowering under the sheets, paralyzed with terror. There are people who have actually died from their exposure to the Presence, but Jenny (see below) is the only person whose soul has ever remained trapped within the walls of the Vicarage. If a person has future dreams of the mansion, she or he will appear in a random spot in the mansion and they have the freedom to explore the house, though they will always avoid the basement bedroom. Only 5% of people who dream of the Vicarage ever return in future dreams and those that do, only 3% of those can remember their experiences when they awaken in the real world. Occasionally, the Presence leaves the basement walking "primal and serene" throughout the mansion and those trapped in the house with it are consumed with an overwhelming terror of encountering it. People either flee before it in the circular hallways of the mansion or they eventually hide in the sanctuary of the chapel's hiding spot where the Presence cannot enter. There are never more than four people in the house at any given time and one of those is always Jenny.


Scott James Thomas, our narrator, was born Saturday, August 31st, 1957 in Bonneauville, Pennsylvania. The story takes place in the present day when Scott is in his 58th year. Scott dreams often of the Vicarage, usually about once a week and has been doing so for about 45 years, often enough that he can easily draw the floor plans from memory. Though aware of the Presence that walks the hallways of the Vicarage, he seldom has to deal with it leaving its room and the dreams center on his interactions with Jenny (see below) and his attempts to solve the various puzzles and mysteries of the mansion. Scott believes that Jenny is nothing more than a recurring aspect of his dreams and in the beginning of the story is unaware that Jenny was once actually alive. Married on Saturday, June 17th, 1978, Scott’s wife passed away rapidly from malignant cancer in 1980. The marriage was childless. On the Jung Typology, Scott would test as an ISTJ—Introvert(38%) Sensing(12%) Thinking(34%) Judging(25%). His major personality traits are:

1. Keen sense of right and wrong
2. Noted for devotion to duty
3. Often gives the initial impression of being aloof and perhaps somewhat cold.
4. "Just the facts, Ma'am."
5. Usually keep his feelings to himself unless asked and when asked, doesn’t mince words. Truth wins out over tact.  

Genevieve Morgan Lee

Genevieve Morgan Lee was born Tuesday, May 1st, 1883 in Chiltonville, Massachusetts. She passed away in her sleep on November 14th, 1897 at the age of 14 years, 6 months, 13 days during her first dream of the Vicarage. Her soul is now frozen in time and trapped. Other than the Presence, Jenny is the only permanent resident of the Vicarage and she acts as guide and guardian to dream visitors. On the Jung Typology Jenny would test as an ISFJ—Introvert(62%) Sensing(1%) Feeling(19%) Judging(47%). Jenny’s personality traits are summed up as follows:

1. Strong desire to serve others, has a strong "need to be needed."
2. Very much bound by prevailing social conventions of the 1890s.
3. Can be relied on for loyalty and unstinting, high-quality work.
4. "If you want it done right, do it yourself."
5. Methodical and accurate worker.
6. Very good memory and analytic abilities.
7. Good with people in small-group or one-on-one situations because of her patient and genuinely sympathetic approach to dealing with others.

Return to the Vicarage

For those who have read my short collection, Come Into My Cellar: Darker Tales From A Cerebral Vault, you were introduced to the Vicarage, a recurring nightmare I have suffered from for years:

All my life I have enjoyed the experience of being a dreamer. At night, I wander dreams flowing with color, rich in plot, and often stay with me upon awakening. Yet, no other dreamer has ever mentioned one aspect of my daily nocturnal wanderings. My subconscious, much like a Grade-B film director, has for six decades repeatedly used the same sets as if the budget for backdrops and scenery had vanished. One place I always return to is the Vicarage.

I have been dreaming about the Vicarage for almost four decades now, a setting so commonplace I can actually draw the floor plans for you.

Well, last night I returned to the Vicarage and it felt like I was there all night long. However, unlike other nights spent avoiding the unholy, otherworldly, and invisible Presence that walks its halls "primal and serene," I met a young lady of about 14 who is as much trapped in the house as I am, but she never leaves simply because she can't.

Looking at her oddly dated clothes, a strange thought came to me and I asked her what year it was. "Oh, it's 1897."

Poor child.

So, when I awoke, a full-blown story popped into my mind, a story about a young child trapped in a nightmarish mansion that others visit in their dreams, a Vicarage that holds a primal terror that walks its halls and, if it finds you, it will kill you, but only if it's in a merciful mood.

(sigh) I'm busy as it is, but as the cliche goes, you strike while the iron is hot.

I'll keep you abreast of my travelogue as I plumb the mysteries of the Vicarage and try to save a young girl who has been trapped inside its walls for almost 120 years.

I've got a gut feeling this is NOT going to end well.

A Day In The Life of Detective Nick Weaver

Some say I write very good detective noir satire. Others say I write passable detective noir satire. And then there are the others who wish I would simply break my fingers and take up chicken farming.

With apologies to Nick.

A Day In The Life of Detective Nick Weaver

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Nick Weaver sat at his desk, his feet up on the blotter, his pavement-worn patent leather shoes dangerously close to knocking a rum bottle off onto the floor. Around his fedora, pulled low to shade his eyes, cigarette smoke lazily made its way to the fly-spotted ceiling where a slow ceiling fan mixed the tendrils into the general haziness that filled the room.

True, the cigarette was an e-cigarette and the rum bottle was filled with tepid black coffee, but a man who made his living as a private detective had to keep up appearances.

There was a tentative knock on the door.

Nick tipped his fedora up and saw a silhouette on the glass office door, all curves and all woman which meant all trouble. “Come on in,” he said.

The door opened and she stood in the doorway, long, subtly curled red hair accentuating a perfect face. Large green eyes stood out amidst a perfect complexion marked only by a splash of freckles across a pert nose. She wore dangerously high stiletto shoes and all was barely covered with a little black dress with emphasis on the words little, black, and dress.

“Come on in, sister,” Nick said with a growl. “The meter started ticking when you opened the door.”

“Oh, Mr. Weaver,” she said, breathlessly, “I so need your help.”

Her first step into the room sent her careening against the door jamb where physics threw her against a bookcase followed by a glorious cascade of first edition Mickey Spillanes, Rex Stouts, Erle Stanley Gardners and cheap Alan Loewens, and then she immediately hit the overstuffed chair Nick had placed across his desk for clients. With an ungraceful forward roll, she flipped over the back of the chair, head over heels and finally sprawled out of breath into the chair itself.

Nick nodded to himself. “While you catch your breath, I will tell you why you are here. Seeing how you just destroyed my office, how you are squinting at me like a mobster in an interrogation room, and that when you fell, I saw you were wearing intimates marked Tuesday when today is Friday, I can see you have come to me to find your lost glasses.”

She held her clutch purse to her bosom as she panted for breath. “Oh, Mr. Weaver!” she gasped. “Craigslist was right. You’re amazing. That’s exactly why I’ve come.”

With controlled ease, Nick swung his legs off the desktop, stood up and walked over to where his new client sat. Taking her clutch purse, he opened it, dug around, and took out a heavy pair of black-framed glasses and gently put them on her face.

The woman squealed with delight, hugging her glasses to her face, bouncing her little feet up and down like a toddler seeing a store Santa Claus for the first time. “This is wonderful!” she squealed. “I can see. Oh, what can I do to repay you?”

Nick shrugged. “Going rate is 60 greenbacks an hour. For as long as you’ve been here, that’s three dollars.”

“Oh,” the woman said, “but Mr. Weaver, I’m so grateful. Just three dollars? I … I would do anything out of gratitude. Anything!”

Normally, Nick would have thrown her out, but her large, green eyes, made abnormally huge by her thick Coke bottle bottom glasses reminded him of those infamous 1960’s paintings of over-sized, doe-eyed children his own sainted mother loved and collected.

“Anything?” he asked.

The woman furiously nodded her head up down. “Anything!” she insisted.

Nick turned and pulled a card from his pocket. “Okay. Here’s the address of my house. Be there at three. You can wash my windows.”

Rowan Dreaming Is Live (With Bonus Story)

Rowan Dreaming is now live and includes the story, Strange Streets, as a bonus. For lovers of dark urban fantasy romances, it is only available as an eBook for the Kindle reader.

It was just a ball-jointed doll and for pawnbroker, Auden Gray, it was just another item to sell. Until Auden found his business partner dead with the doll in his arms. Investigating, Auden discovers the doll serves as a gateway to a dreamworld so seductive, men die under its spell. And Auden's time is running out as his resolve to discover the origin of the doll crumbles under the allure of Rowan, the dreamworld's sole resident. Rowan Dreaming is the second installment of my expanding Doll Wars saga, but can be read on its own without reading In The Father's Image.

Strange Streets is included in the work as a bonus telling the story of James and his cousin, Darcy, as their window shopping leads them to another world.

The work is 99¢ (U.S.) and Amazon estimates it takes 90 minutes to read both stories. As here in the United States, it is not uncommon to pay $8 to $10 for a 90 minute movie, this is a bargain. You can purchase the work by following the appropriate links below:

Amazon US
Amazon UK
Amazon Germany
Amazon Australia

What If The House You Lived In Was Alive?

Since the tenth century A.D., Shingon Buddhism has entertained a concept known as Tsukumogami. It is a difficult concept to define, but loosely described, it is the belief that when any object has reached its 100th birthday, it becomes alive and self-aware.

My first introduction to Tsukumogami was through Le Portrait de Petit Cossette, a very odd animated Japanese film. In the movie, items from the young French girl’s boudoir enact a brutal revenge on the reincarnation of her murderer, an assistant to an antique dealer.

Though I cannot say I’m convinced of the reality of Tsukumogami, my fascination with old houses embraces the concept. In my novella, Yew Manor, my essay, The Vicarage (found in Come Into My Cellar: Darker Tales From A Cerebral Vault), and Coventry House (found in Opal Wine) and various future works, my houses all become characters in their own right.

Last night I was musing on the old homes I have been privileged to live in and visit and thinking about Tsukumogami I wondered, if true, does the house develop sentience in a flash or is it a gradual growth of self-awareness? You may think me addled in the brain, but I do entertain a subjective belief that some houses inherently make me feel welcomed. Some make it clear that I am most unwelcome. Some feel like I am in a house trapped in a waking dream and the aura of the house is, dare I say it?, wistful.

I can imagine a house, filled with family, and on the celebration of its centennial, there is within its walls, a spark of awareness, much akin to that of a newborn child. As I allowed the fantasy to evolve in my imagination, I followed its developing personality affected by the attitudes and actions of those that lived within walls. Those houses that entertained a family that was loving and supportive took on a personality of love and support. Those homes that harbored hatred and perversion within their walls were destined to have their newborn hearts twisted and malformed to become, like the Vicarage in my essay, a Bad Place.

And then there are homes that contain within their walls, the lonely and the unloved, the aged who dream of a better past and others who can seek refuge only in their memories. What of those houses, I wondered? Could it be that when they lay empty they cry for love and yearn for true life to blossom within their walls, longing for what they have been denied. Making it worse, it is unable to define what it is it cries for as it never experienced love to begin with.

Mayhap when a loving family moves in, the house responds with joy, and those who walk its halls may find an odd reluctance to leave its embrace.

This house does not like you. Welcome home.

And for those lonely houses forced to suddenly harbor evil tenants? How they must rage to have their needs denied, their own hearts darkened into murderous fury to be forced to home parasites instead of the love they long for. Their vengeance must be terrible to behold.

And that, my Dear Reader, is where my ideas for my stories come from.

Allow Me To Entertain You (Horror Thriller Sample)

I wrote this so many years ago I honestly can't remember its genesis any more. However, I canned the project when the film 28 Days Later basically copied the same scenario to start their own story. I have since come up with a completely different beginning, but i thought you might enjoy reading the original opening scene.

As this is a horror thriller, this is probably not one for the kiddies.

Chapter One
June 12, 2002
2:00 a.m.
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

Tony drew the last drag on his cigarette and threw it to the ground where it sizzled in a thin puddle of rain. Crap, he thought, six hours left and four security rounds to go.

He stood at the gated entrance to Bright Futures, Incorporated, the chill from the rain penetrating the small, lighted booth where he sat doing gate duty. At two in the morning he appreciated the phrase, graveyard shift. The city streets lay empty. Tony hated being outside alone.

The fact there were two higher ranking security guards located in the large building complex behind him, didn't give him any warm feelings of safety. Three more months of night work at the gate and he'd be in the warmth sucking down coffee and watching old movies.

Well, watching television and dealing with the moody Doc Virkler. Virkler had a habit of working late and even tonight the Doc's car was still in its parking slot.

"Hey, Webby!" the intercom squawked. "You made a perimeter check yet?"

Tony cursed and hit the button. "Just leaving. I'll get back to you in fifteen minutes."

"Hey. Jones says not to get wet." In the background the other guard could be heard laughing like a moron. Tony shook a fist at the intercom and grabbed his flashlight.

The lights of a van slowly coming down the street illuminated Tony as he left the booth. He tensed as the van pulled up to the gate, but relaxed when an elderly woman rolled the driver's window down and yelled at him through the rain. The concern on her face was evident through the light drizzle.

"What?" Tony asked as he shrugged his shoulders for effect. The woman waved a road map and yelled something about a something, something Avenue.

Tony sighed and unlocked the gate. The rules were specific about going outside the perimeter, but he hated to think about an old woman riding around this part of the city at night. All sorts of maniacs ran the back streets of Harrisburg after sunset.

As Tony walked up to the van, he tried to blink the raindrops away. His vision finally cleared just in time to see the strange-looking gun the woman pointed at him. Before he could react, the gun gave a loud pop and two darts went right through his rain slicker and into his chest. Connected to the gun by thin wires, one hundred thousand volts of electricity slammed him to the ground.

The back of the van popped open and five people in camouflage jumped out. Two of them grabbed Tony as he twitched on the ground and dragged him through the gate and into the booth.

"He's gonna be okay?" asked a woman, her bright blue eyes in contrast to the black shoe polish she had streaked across her face.

Tony gurgled as if he was trying to answer for himself.

"Yeah, he's gonna be fine," answered a young man. "Judy, you and Connie tie him up. Bill, you and Heather go to that back door. We'll be with you in just a minute."

The leader ran out the gate and to the woman who was still in the driver's seat. "Mary, park the van at the curb and turn all the lights off. We'll be out in thirty minutes."

"You be careful, Charles," she said as she shifted the van in reverse. As he waved, she gave him the thumbs up sign.

In the guard's booth, Judy was trussing up the guard with his own cuffs while Connie worked a gag into his mouth. Tony's eyes looked like they were just starting to regain their ability to focus.

Charles pulled out a leaflet and slapped it on the small desk. "C'mon. We've got twenty-nine minutes."

The trio ran out into the rain. As Tony struggled with his bonds and listened to the footsteps fade in the distance, a small breeze blew the paper off the desk. It fluttered down to land in front of Tony's nose where he stared vacantly at the typewritten words.

Animal Oppressors of the World Be Warned!

We, the soldiers of the Animal Freedom League have declared Bright Futures to be an oppressor of our animal sisters and brothers. We find them guilty of using defenseless animals for unnecessary cosmetic research.

These animals have been liberated and are under professional care. Their torments will be documented and all information will be released to the media.

* * *

Charles, Judy and Connie joined the other two near a side door of the complex. There, sheltered from the rain by an overhang, they quickly huddled together in conference.

"The door's open, Charles," Heather whispered. "The secretary did it!"

"Thank God for greed and low salaries," Charles grinned. "Now listen. You remember the floor plans. Bill, you, Judy and Connie go for the monkeys. Heather and I will go for the rabbits." He smiled, relieved at how easy everything was going. "We only have twenty-seven minutes at this point, so keep moving. Stay away from the main lobby. If you see any guards, get them with the mace. Now let's roll."

Bill opened the door into the fire escape. Following him, they quickly made their way to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, Charles slowly opened the corridor door and peered into the dimly lit hallway. Quietly, they made their way down the corridor where the group split at an intersection.

Charles and Heather stopped in front of a door marked Research. They opened the door into an open laboratory stocked only with equipment. They looked at each other puzzled.

Quickly, they went back into the hallway, but all the rooms were offices, meeting rooms and other laboratories empty of animals. Where the bribed secretary had assured them were helpless rabbits held slave to the vanity of American women, there was nothing but rooms filled with desks, chairs and microscopes.

They made their way back to the fire escape where they found Judy waiting for them.

"Did you find the rabbits?" Judy whispered.

"No. Did you find anything?" Charles asked.

"We didn't recognize the hallways, but we found this big metal security door. C'mon."

They followed their fellow member who led them through the maze of hallways. At the end of a short hall was a large, metal door marked Authorized Personnel Only. A small panel with a silhouette of a palm print was the only other marking.

Charles tapped on the metal door. "I would love to know what's behind this," he muttered.

Suddenly, Heather grabbed his shoulder. "Shh. Listen," she whispered intently. Down the corridor behind them, came the sounds of footsteps.

Charles motioned the rest against the wall. He slipped the mace out of his pocket and flipped the lid.

Around the corner, intently reading a sheaf of papers, an elderly man in a laboratory coat made his way toward the door. Engrossed in his reading, he didn't know about the intruders until the mace hit him in the face from only ten feet away.

With a cry, he grabbed his eyes and dropped to his knees. Charles and Bill grabbed him and dragged him down the hallway.

"Shut up! Shut up!" Charles hissed at him. The three women simply stared at the men with guilty looks. Animal oppressors weren't supposed to look like their grandfather.

The old man coughed and sputtered. Charles stared at the scientist and then stared at the handprint on the door. With a triumphant grin, he and Bob manhandled the employee to the door and forced his hand on the template. In seconds, the panel glowed and, with a hissing sound, the door gave a click.

Bill quickly opened the door and they dragged the man into the adjoining hallway. Leaving him slumped against the wall, Charles brusquely motioned the women through the door.

"Keep an eye on him," Charles ordered the women. He started opening doors. "Bull's eye," he said. Inside the room were stacks of large, empty animal cages. "We're getting closer."

Charles grabbed the employee by the lapels and glanced at the name on his security badge. "Listen, Doctor Virkler," he said to the man who was still coughing and rubbing his eyes. "If I hear you yell, you're dead."

He motioned for Bill to help him and, again, they half-dragged, half-carried the doctor into the room where they tumbled him into a cage. Charles locked the cage and motioned for Bill to close the door.

"Charles," Heather said, her face twisted in contempt. "We're pacifists. You threatened that man!"

"Now's not the time to worry about it," Charles hissed back. "We're in the right section. Let's go."

Charles and Bill began throwing open doors, the women reluctantly following behind. Though there was still no sign of rabbits or monkeys, the laboratories were obviously designed to handle animals.

Around a hallway they found another door with a large wheel located in its middle. The unmarked door appeared to be solid steel.

"Jackpot?" Bill asked, smiling at Charles.

"Only one way to find out."

A few turns of the wheel and the door opened to show seven feet of hallway and another similar door. Bill and Charles looked at each other in puzzlement.

Heather put her hand on Charles' shoulder. "Listen," she said. "It's weird to have two doors like this. This looks like an airlock. How do we know there's not something poisonous or radioactive on the other side?"

Charles gave her a patronizing look. "In a cosmetics firm?" he asked. " Anyway," he said, motioning to the bare walls. "If there was anything bad on the other side, there would be some special symbol. It's required by law. If you're nervous, go outside and close the other door. Bill and I'll open the other. We'll knock when everything is okay."

Heather looked at the other two women who shook their heads in the negative. "No, Charles. We stand together. Open the door."

Charles spun the wheel until it could turn no further. With a tug, the heavy door easily swung open on its hinges.

* * *

The pain in Doctor Jonathan Virkler's eyes had finally begun to recede and he could take deep breaths without coughing when he heard the first screams. Oh, no, surely they didn't.

He kicked at the cage door, but the lock held. Knowing what was probably in the hallway by this time, maybe he was safer inside the pen. He heard people running and screaming.

In a moment the screams stopped.

Virkler discovered the silence was worse.

Not aware he was holding his breath, he watched the shadows form underneath the door. It shook as someone jostled it. Virkler's heart began beating so loud, he was certain what was outside could hear.

Silently, he prayed, remembering there were no atheists in fox holes. Or animal cages.

His heart surged with fear when he heard the sound of the door knob slowly turning. The door slowly opened to blazing hall light and the doorway filled with the silhouettes of his children.

All sixteen stealthily entered the room and surrounded his cage. Sixteen pairs of golden feral eyes glared at him through the thin bars of the cage.

Virkler curled himself into a fetal position and his mind made him go far, far away.

* * *

Tony was still groggy from the taser when creatures from a fever dream galloped past his guard station.

Running on all fours, they were much bigger than his Great Dane. One stopped at the open door of the station and stared in at him.

Stupidly staring back at it, Tony watched in a daze as the creature snuffled at him. It ran long-fingered, heavily calloused hands over his uniform. It puzzled at the handcuffs, sniffed at the gun and batted it away.

Tony was glad when the bad dream turned its back on him and run out the door. That's when he heard the screams and the sound of breaking glass.Tony started to cry and thought sad, befuddled thoughts about a lost, elderly woman in a van.