SECRETS ONLY THE DEAD MAY KNOW_3rd entry RULE OF THREE blogfest

http://jc-martin.com/fighterwriter/2011/10/ren3-round-3-prompts-pay-it-forward-blogfest-and-upcoming-book-trailer/


There is the dark born of midnight.

There is the Dark born of souls having consumed themselves.

That Dark is midwife to a never-ending hunger for the souls of others. That Dark resides in Renaissance, a nexus between our world and many others.

Three heroes are all that stand between that Hunger and this world. Listen to the 600 words of one of them, the one who understands that Hunger the most : the Victorian ghoul, Alice Wentworth …


There are sounds only the dead may utter. Secrets only the dead may know. Still I do not comprehend why Victor insisted on walking blithely into this ambush.

Not as the living do the dead see : one moment frozen after another. It is why we are distanced from the hearts of the living.

Except for Victor Standish.

My Victor, of the gypsy laugh and poet’s heart. Our love breaks the chain of reason. But deep in my dry bones, I know that love will one night break my heart … as I eat his.

This frozen moment may spare us that …

I see Renaissance’s mayor thrust Maija into the onrushing hungry soul-echoes.

“Ningyo whore! My father’s race cast yours out of their dimension. Did you think I would ally myself with you? Come, Citizens, feast!”

As Maija tumbles to the floor, he laughs, “All you touch you can drain. All that is water you control. They are ghosts, filth. Now, you die.”

Thunder rumbles as Captain McCord growls, “You first.”

His strange Colt bellows. I clutch my ears as if the sound itself would kill me. I watch as the Mayor grabs his chest. I have never seen the like. With the swirling of an open drain he seems to spin into nothingness.

McCord yells, “Maija, they are echoes of life but life still. They shape themselves from mist. What is mist but ….”

She smiles like a released demon, “Water!”

Even I, who live off the flesh of the living, am sickened by the atrocities she inflicts on the screaming soul-echoes.

Victor laughs, “Boy, you guys picked the wrong dance partners!”

The survivors laugh themselves as they turn to one who appears helpless. My Victor helpless? Never! Not while I stand by his side.

They halt as I flow to them. They thought me ghoul. Fools. Not ghoul. Not ghost. Not revenant. I am unique.

Shaped by my mother’s mishandling of voodoo to make me a zombie, I became Other … when Victor’s mother took me for hers.

My hunger is about to be satisfied. I stiffen as Victor smiles. This is why he walked into certain death … to feed the one he … loves. Tears burn my eyes.

I am loved.

I turn hotly to them and speak words only the dead may hear. “I am not ghoul, leeches. What am I?”

I feel my lips pull up in a Cheshire grin. “I am the far end of the graveyard where the nettles grow. I am the Jester in the Theater of Bone. I AM HELL TO PAY!”

I sweep over them like the Death that took the first-born in Egypt. I flick undead eyes to McCord. He had been speaking to me as well to let me know I could … eat them. So I do.

His strange Colt bellows. Maija laughs hellishly. The soul-echoes scream.

I eat.

Suddenly, ball bearings, washed in the Waterfall of Eden, pepper the air behind me. A blur of movement. I smile. Victor is twirling in what he calls, in his quaint way,

a Full Arabian Cartwheel. He lands lightly behind me as three soul-echoes learn that acupressure can kill the undead.

He laughs like a gypsy. “Alice, you have to watch that lovely … behind of yours.”

I give Victor one of his winks. “Why ever should I do that? You watch it enough for the two of us.”

He smiles wide and kisses me. I wait with dread heart for his lips to flinch from my cold ones. But they do not.

Not even a little.
***
Alice, being a gracious Victorian ghoul, used all 4 prompts in her narration :

•The impending misfortune foreshadowed in the 1st set of prompts comes to pass, but one or more characters laugh at it.

•Betrayal is in the air.

•Relationships unravel or strengthen.

•A long-kept secret is revealed

***

TO BE REBORN...FIRST YOU MUST DIE_2ND RULE OF 3 entry

The iron tongue of midnight tolls. It is Renaissance time :

http://stuartnager.wordpress.com/2011/10/07/second-set-of-prompts-ren3-and-a-renaissance-story-too/

The murky waters of the bayou bordering my apartment know. The veil is unraveling. Soon THEY who once ruled this world will slip through. One portal is in the nexus called Renaissance.

Three heroes stand in the breach. Captain Samuel McCord, the Texas Ranger with the blood of Death in his veins. Victor Standish, the young Ulysses of the French Quarter. And his Victorian ghoul friend, Alice Wentworth.

Tonight, the shadows will listen to the 600 words of Victor Standish as the three face the mysterious Maija under the sneering eyes of Renaissance's mayor :


There were echoes of hurt to Captain Sam’s eyes as he studied Maija. I knew he wasn’t seeing her but her twin, his wife, who was seven years gone.

Was he looking for some trace of Meilori in the dead-soul eyes of her sister?

“You said you needed my help with a murder.”

Maija, despite her sneer, somehow looked like a jilted girl. “Yes. Yours.”

I forced a laugh to perk Sam up. “He and I knew that.”

Alice went stiff. “You knew and yet you came? Is your hubris truly that great?”

I shushed her. “Don’t talk about my anatomy in front of Maija.”

Alice slapped her sides. “Idiot, dolt, knave! Hubris means pride.”

I winked. “I just love it when you talk dirty.”

Maija fought a smile. She had a sense of humor? It must be the end of the world.

Sam said, “She is better than she believes.”

Maija’s face softened, creeping me out more than her usual razor eyes. “No, Samuel, I am far worse than you could possibly imagine.”

Aw, man, her eyes were wet as she murmured,

“I shall feel the emptier tonight after you are … gone. Yours is a face I shall miss, strong without the cruelty of toughness, kind without the bruise of weakness. When I have rid the world of that face, I shall have earned the hatred of Meilori -- and of myself.”

Suddenly, I saw Maija for what she was. A haunted woman, withered by countless wrong choices that had swept her far beyond her beginnings, beyond betrayed friends, long lost from the lands of her youth, the dreams of her childhood,

beyond being the kind of woman the man she loved could ever love back.

I didn’t think even she knew where she was coming from … or where she was really going.

There are no round-trips across the Rubicon.

I looked at the mayor, things rippling under his cummerbund like knotted ropes,

at the partiers turning as one towards Maija’s unsuspecting back,

at Captain Sam’s gloved hand, suddenly holding a Colt the size of the National debt.

I said, “To achieve, you need thought. You have to know what you are doing, and that’s real power.”

The old Maija returned, “You read Ayn Rand?”

“She’s a pain, but suffering builds character. You know me, a real character.”

The mayor rumbled in a voice, that had it been a face, I would have slapped, “Nonsense words.”

Alice eyed the partiers whose faces suddenly had fanged mouths literally from ear to ear. “It means, scion of an Old One, that you two should mind your surroundings.”

“I know my surroundings, ghoul. I know that the murderer of my cousin stands before me!”

Maija raised an eyebrow. “You killed a half-breed Elder?”

“He was trying to make Victor tartar out of me. I took it personal.”

The mayor turned his shadowed face to me. “And I will personally take your life.”

Sam’s eyes became windows into Hell. “You try. You die.”

“No weapon made by Man can hurt me.”

Sam smiled like a wolf. “Lucky thing that Hephaetus made this just for you.”

The mayor edged forward. “You lie!”

Sam cocked the Colt. “You’ll have to pay to find out.”

Alice grimly eyed the flowing bodies of the partiers getting ever closer, unseen by Maija or the mayor, then turned to Sam.

“This region of Renaissance is still a ghost town, is it not, Captain?”

Sam nodded his Stetson at Alice. “Afraid so, princess.”

Maija turned in a whirl. “No!”

“Yes!,” laughed the partiers as they rushed us.
***
All 4 prompts were utilized :

1.Someone is killed or almost killed.
2.One of the characters is revealed to be not who he or she is.
3.A relationship becomes complicated.
4.A character lies to another on an important matter

FIRST WINNERS in the
FRIENDS OF VICTOR STANDISH CONTEST!

{Please email me your addresses to receive your prizes!}

1.) Wendy Morrell won :

Alexander Skarsgard's autograph!

2.) Francine Howarth won :

Megan Fox's autograph!

3.) Hart Johnson won :

Brad Pitt's photograph.

(These 3 got entries because they put up posts about me BEFORE they even knew the rules!)


Please, guys, write a review of THE LEGEND OF VICTOR STANDISH so you, too, can be eligible to win. WRITING A REVIEW is the FIRST STEP in entering his contest!

***

THIS IS RENAISSANCE? Rule of THREE blogfest entry

Damyanti and Stuart H. Nager

originated this whole thing; Lisa and JC were invited to join them after the concept was done.

JC was the last to join in, as she was on her honeymoon and it took awhile for her to connect.

They DID contribute, but they did not create the blogfest nor the idea of Renaissance.

That was already established: stories done within the same mythical town, RENAISSANCE.

{Sorry for the earlier misunderstanding. Oh, so there's no misunderstanding again -- I am not competing for the prizes. Like Victor Standish, I race for the pure joy of it.}

http://jc-martin.com/fighterwriter/2011/09/rule-of-three-blogfest-1st-set-of-prompts/

I especially find it interesting since all of my novels exist in the same mythic universe, too.

And so to join in the festivities with my 600 word entry, I have selected THREE of my heroes --

Ouch! All right, Alice : two heroes and One HEROINE to fend for themselves in the eerie community of RENAISSANCE.


"This is Renaissance?,” said Victor Standish, his face puckering as if he had bitten into a pickle.


He had a point. I had brought us to the woods bordering the Country Club, a modest monument to the greed and prejudice of the White Man only a little less large than a football field. I made a pickle-face myself.

White Man?

I had been spending too much time with my Apache blood-brother, Elu. I eyed the black mists curling and creaming in the night air like an unspoken fear trying to form itself on the edge of consciousness. A trick of the polluted air, the moon of blood leered down upon its reflection on the black waters of the bordering lake.

That same moon struck fire from the silver trimming to Alice Wentworth’s black Gothic Lolita dress. “It does not seem proper to slip unnoticed into the ballroom.”

I smiled. Alice might be a ghoul, but she was a prim and proper Victorian ghoul. Victor winked at her.

“It’ll be fun.”

She frowned like a disapproving librarian. “Of course to you it will be fun. It is underhanded and sly.”

He laughed, “That’s me, all right.”

He looked puzzled up at me. “Captain Sam, why couldn’t we travel by bus here?”

I nodded to the west, “ The Schiavona Desert is that way, home of the native affrit.”

Victor went pale. “Merde.”

Alice whispered, “Who are the affrit?”

“Demons,” he whispered back.

Alice strangely long fingers went to her mouth. “Oh, my!”

Victor pointed east. “There?”

“A once-lush forest, the Culdee.”

Victor swallowed hard. “Once?”

“A meteor slammed into it. An Old One was slumbering in its center.”

I met Victor’s widening eyes. “The impact awakened it.”

Victor waved a shaky hand. “Bus rides are too bumpy anyway.”

Alice quavered, “What he said.”

While they were distracted, I folded space like a tablecloth. My head went light. The marrow in my bones became acid. But we were inside without being molested by any … surprises.

I had brought us to a modest drawing room the size of Missouri. Rubies and diamonds sparkled on ivory throats and wrists like drippings from the sea. The graceless noise of the latest pop music was interlaced with the rise and fall of empty conversation and brittle laughter.

I looked at the ebb and tide of desire upon wealth, greed upon opportunity. The social elite milling through the room seemed to be talking against a darkness that pressed in on them or pressed to escape from within.

“This part of Renaissance used to be a ghost town,” I said low.

Victor eyed a portly businessman slipping off his wedding ring as he approached a girl hardly old enough to be a cheerleader with a dress just as short.

“It’s plain to see decency sure died here.”

A voice sneered to my left, “It is only the superficial qualities that entice. Man’s deeper nature always is rancid in some fashion. Isn’t that right, Captain McCord?”

I turned to the Mayor with no desire to argue morality with a creature without any. “Tell our hostess that we’re here.”

Alice frowned, “We were invited specifically?”

Victor winked at her. “Could you say that last word again. Your British accent makes it sound so sexy.”

She sighed, “For once forget your hormones. This is obviously a trap if we were asked for with the good Captain.”

A velvet voice without any hint of humanity laughed, “Oh, how good of you three to come so meekly to your deaths.”

Alice squeaked, “Maija.”

Victor groaned, “Alice, I hate it when you’re right.”
***