So you can read my books

Friday, May 6, 2011


Come join Cherie Reich's FLASH FICTION BLOGFEST :

{From the journal of Captain Samuel McCord} : (500 words)

What did Oscar Wilde write me?

“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight,

and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

The house is dark, its empty windows more like vacant eyes than dirty glass.

They give the building the look of some discarded skull of a lost god.

I don't like this.

Lt. Trifle (yes, that's her name,

and why she got a black belt in Karate)

called me out here in the middle of nowhere.

Nowhere being on the outskirts of Metairie --

which is on the outskirts of New Orleans --

which, itself, is on the outskirts of Hell some nights.

She said I was needed out here and then hung up.

Or got the phone snatched out of her hand.

I came as soon as I could.

Was I in time? Time. I could stop it for awhile --

if I was willing to pay the price.

I was. It hurt like hell. I deserved worse.

Ask a thousand widows what the undead McCord deserved, and they'd tell you the same thing.

The time-snared air felt like heavy invisible water pressing in against me. I endured.

It's what I do.

I made my way to the back of the house. I tried to cat-foot in out of instinct.

Reality trumped instinct.

The weight of frozen time made each step feel as if I were lifting the weight of the world. Cat-footing was out.

Lumbering like a dinosaur with arthritis was all I could manage. I smiled sad.

Everywhere is within walking distance if you have the time.

And time was mine. For as long as I could endure the pain.

The house of shadows was deserted. No furniture. Lots of needles. Lots of spoons. Discarded rubber tubing.

A crack house.

I made it to the front room.

It wasn't empty. A young punk had Trifle dead to rights.

Mostly dead if I didn't act fast.

How he got the drop on her was obvious. She was cradling an unconscious girl. Trifle's heart had blind-sided her.

I released time.

The addict yelped in surprise. He jerked his gun towards me.

I spoke low, hearing the thunder sent by the Turquoise Woman above me.

"How young can you die of old age?"

"What the fuck?"

Sad last words.

I answered my own question.

I sped up time all around him. He squealed, squirmed, then wheezed into raspy coughing. He aged into an old man in seconds.

As he fell, he crumbled into dust right in front of Trifle. The moon caressed the hot sunset of her hair as she looked down, the beauty of her pale face twisted into ugliness by horror.

The mound of dust drifted away with the faint breath of the night. Trifle turned hollow eyes to me.

"You're a monster.”

What had Oliver Goldsmith written?

‘Silence gives consent.’

I left without saying a word.

Become part of Hollywood magic :


  1. Nice, I love the phrase "catfoot"

  2. Thanks, Johanna. I'm off to work now for the late, late shift. Have fun, everyone, with the flash fiction blogfest, Roland

  3. Thank you for entering! I'll announce the finalists on Monday on my blog, and I'll drop back by here and give you a comment on your entry then as well.

  4. Poor McCord! Much misunderstood!!!

    Great story - powerful and emotive as always! Take care

  5. Kitty :
    With McCord, no good deed goes unpunished. It is the irony of his life that others and he, himself, think of him as a monster when he is usually the most heroic in whatever situation he finds himself mired in.

  6. ...would love an encounter with dear Mr. McCord. Nothing fancy, a simple conversation over a drink or three in some shady establishment only Sam could feel comfortable in. Oh the inspiration he could dig up:)

    There's a third chair at the table if you're interested, Roland. Bring some paper and your thoughts;)

    Take care, my friend.


  7. Elliot :
    I often find myself wishing I could stroll into Meilori's just to chat with Sam.

    The prelude to RITES OF PASSAGE is "written" by William Faulkner of his talks with McCord in 1923.

    Send me your email address and I will send you a copy of it so you can listen in to late conversation over glasses of whiskey between Faulkner and McCord.

    Maybe one day the two of will find ourselves in the infamous Meilori's, too, and chat and laugh with Sam. Nice fantasy. Huge sales on SOUTH OF CHARM, Roland

  8. I like this scene.

    I've been reading your book tonight. Sort of like eating creme brulee. (=

    I'm enjoying the layers.
    I suspect there is a great deal of you in Sam's thoughts as well as some stark opposites.

    Thanks for adding Clark's link. (=

  9. Jo :
    When Clark fixes the embed part of his video, let me know. I want to post it.

    I'm glad you're enjoying FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE. Yes, there is a lot of me in Sam's thoughts. Those that are stark opposites grew from the experiences that the haunted Texican survived.

    I'm glad you like the layers to it. I tried to make it a book you could enjoy reading more than once. Many of the characters from RITES OF PASSAGE (Ada Byron, Margaret Fuller, Renfield, Elu, Maija, and of course, the Hannibal Lector of supernatural villains ... DayStar) are in this urban fantasy.

    I hope you continue to enjoy it, Roland

  10. Wonderful, Roland. Layers and layers of depth and mystery. I love this.

  11. What a wonderful picture.. :)

  12. Roland, this has wonderful voice. I loved the time magic abilities. Great quotes! It's very fitting. The setting, plot, and action are wonderful. Great job!