Category Archives: Concentration Camps

Hippie Snowflake Revolution: by Blast Thunderpunch ( Stuart Nager)

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@Richard_Kadrey Prompt

Hippie Snowflake Revolution

by Blast Thunderpunch (aka Stuart Nager)

Prologue

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Comrade Aleksandr “Moskali” Joneski broke the news just days before the revolution went live. It was first hand, no sources. He ran with what he knew, and it was a doozy.

He had infiltrated a Starbucks, ordering a Double Mocha Lite Latte with extra foam. His face contorted, teeth grinding away, he fixed his fake Millenial beard. It had been slipping off. The heat from the day was making him sweat balls, and it didn’t help that  the waiting line reached outside the hated cofevee place. He had already discarded the Man Bun part of his disguise; with nothing on top to hold it in place, he gave up after 22 tries.

Finally, his drink was ready. They got the fake name wrong, noticing this as he walked away to put ten packets of sugar in it.  He told the wench up front his name was Gerard. She wrote “Jerk.”

He slipped into the tail end seat of the communal table (“Ha!”, he thought) and sat. And sat, and drank. Sat and drank…and listened. Eventually, he had to use the restroom. When he came back his seat was gone. So he wandered, jockeying around for another spot. Towards the front of the store,  he heard the inflammatory words:

“So, what are you doing on July 4th?”

Pushing his way onto a stool, facing to the window, Aleks tuned into the discussion that was going on behind him.

“Oh, you know,” the pregnant tramp with the “Baby Bump: Drive Slowly” tee shirt said. “Food, drinks…fireworks!”

Aleks almost fell off the stool. This was it! Confirmation. He almost jumped up and yelled “J’Accuse!”, but he wouldn’t give the gay frogs the satisfaction. Instead, he hunkered down, taking a notepad and pen out of his shoulder slung Man Bag.

The bearded pot smoking revolutionary, who sat opposite the slut, leaned forward. Aleks saw this in the reflection from the windows. “Yeah, yeah. Fireworks, naturally. There’s gonna be a huge crowd. Best to get there early.” He paused.  “Is Alexandria going to be there?”

“Mayyybeee,” she said. Aleks saw a huge grin on her hateful face. “I know you have a thing. Does she know you have a thing?”

The libtard only shook his head back and forth, looking down into his large (not Trente! Large!) cup of iced treason. “Well, um, I don’t know. It might do more harm than good.”

Aleks was lapping it all up. Taking a sip of what remained of his drink, he spit it out. It was cold. As cold as their hearts, their allegiance to this great country. He was furiously writing everything down.

The trollop let out a piercing bark of a laugh. “Well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll come along with us. Be loaded for bear: you’re not the only one with sights on her.”

He had to stifle the giggles that wanted to break free. “I knew it! I knew it!” he thought. “I would have pegged him for a godless gay; maybe this hippie chick isn’t a chick at all. Maybe she’s a…a he! An affront to my God. My god!”

She levered herself up; her coconspirator stood up with her. Aleks noticed they gave each other what he could only assume was a coded body message: they hugged, and then she patted him on the arm three times. Pat. Pat. Pat.

“You better be there,” she said to him, pointing her finger. “Time to man up and fight for what you want.”

“Fireworks. Food. Alexandria. Fight for it. Got it.”

Aleks put his pad and pen back into the Man Bag and started to follow them out of the store. He noticed they went left onto Lexington, and then were turning left onto Concord.

“Hey, man, it’d help if you cleaned up after yourself. People here aren’t your slaves, you know.” The so-called man he had sat next to during all this piped up as he was trying to leave. Probably a Jew.

“Not yet they aren’t. Not yet.”

BREAKING: Democrats Plan To Launch Civil War On July 4th

 

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Author’s Note:

Fairly recently, author Richard Kadrey has been posting, on Twitter, reworked/photoshopped covers of old pulp(ish) novels, changing them to show off his  brand of humor. The above pic is one of them. I just thought it’d be fun to write the above from Mr. Kadrey’s posting: so, yes, this is my writing, not Mr. Kadrey’s.

Richard Kadrey is a writer, photographer, comic book writer, and an all-around interesting guy. His fiction straddles the Urban Fantasy, Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Cyberpunk worlds, and he’s pretty darn good with it all. I fell in love with his writing starting with his first Sandman Slim novels. Gritty, sometimes violent, often full of whimsey, worth reading. He’s not just another pretty face.

You can check out more fun covers by following him on Twitter @Richard_Kadrey.

To get into his body of work, visit him at his website: Richard Kadrey

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Real Neat Blog Award: Peachy Keeno

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So, second time in two weeks, I have a blogging award. Never heard of this one before, but it was created by Dear Kitty: Some Blog in 2014.

I was nominated by someone new (to me) who I discovered, again, through the 2018 AtoZ Blog Challenge. The blogger behind A Creative PTSD Gal is busy busy busy. She writes from the heart, and it has been a pleasure to discover her. Two blogs, a whole big family, life…and she does it. Not everyone can. Since she writes a bit more personal items, I don’t think it’s in my wheelhouse to go deeper into her reasons. Check out the above link and I think you’ll be pleased you did. Thank you for the nomination. I hope I can remain neato keeno.

Here come the rules:

The Rules:

  1. Display the award logo: DONE
  2. Thank the blogger who nominated you and post a link to their blog: DONE
  3. Answer the questions of the one who nominated you: See Below
  4. Nominate 5-10 bloggers: See Below Below
  5. Ask them 7 questions: See Below Below Below

PTSD Gal’s Questions for MOI:

  1. What is the most difficult part of your artistic practice? I try not to write during the day because of interruptions (phone calls, mail, meals, life). I usually like starting about 11:00 pm EST.
  2. What has been the most difficult thing to date that you have written about? My one man play based on my father. He was a survivor of Auschwitz.
  3. Do you limit yourself to edits? Not sure how to answer this one. I hate editing, but I know it has to be done. I’ve gotten better as I’ve aged, like a fine cheese.
  4. Snack or no snack when writing? Beverages always; snacks only when my taste buds cry.
  5. What or who encourages you to keep posting to your blog? Right now, I push myself. It keeps me from negative things.
  6. What did you want to grow up to be when you were little? A scientist &/or a comic book writer.
  7. Do you have a writing buddy? (Dog, cat, fish, snake etc…) Nope. I’ve got dust. Does dust count?

Bloggers I nominate are:

Seven Real Neat Questions:

  1. What car would you own if money is no question?
  2. What author would you like to sit down with and pick their brains?
  3. What is your favorite story about Winter?
  4. If you had to “Kill Your Baby” (talk to Stephan King) in a book/story you’ve written, who are you most sorry you had to do in? If you haven’t, who should get the axe?
  5. What book have you read more than once?
  6. One of these is real: Magic (Paranormal) or UFO’s. Which one, and why?
  7. What is YOUR favoriteist blog posting from your blog(s)? Please copy and paste your link here

Zoll Douane (SIGNS: #AtoZChallenge)

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Zoll DuaneIt was unbelievable to him, to be able to pass over the border, to be waved through with such freedom. Just a few months had passed, and the changes…a month ago, he just expected every next second would be his last. Now, this!

He had gained some of his weight and strength back, again something he thought would never happen. Proving his worth by being able to speak so many languages, he had worked hard, helping others like himself who had been so lost.

The border far behind him now, he stopped at the crest of the hill.

Home.
Home!

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For the April 2014 A to Z Blog Challenge, you will find a story a day (except Sundays) from me. A to Z: Staring with A on Tuesday, April 1st and ending with Z on Wednesday, April 30th.

Signs is my theme for this year’s outing. Road signs, building signs, warning signs…Signs alert us to a multitude of messages. My plan is to use the alphabet through Signage, but not to stick to what the sign was originally intended to convey. So, the genre of story writing, and styles, of the posts will vary as my mood and interpretation sees fit. Possibly a poem or two. We’ll see.

I’m also trying something more of a challenge: each post will be a Drabble. A Drabble is 100 Words Exactly.

Hope you enjoy the stories.

A to Z: The Complete Swan Rise Series

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Open House: Trespassers Welcome

Swan Rise Apartments went out like an exploding lamb; it came in like a sleeping lion… but the building, and its inhabitants, did not always remain so. They lived lives that were hungry, playful, sleepy, lusty, fearful, agitated and on the prowl; they reared their young, and did what they needed to survive in this vertical village.

Welcome to… Swan Rise Apartments

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…and so, the story unfolds. 26 interlocking stories set in the world of Swan Rise Apartments, all written for the A to Z Challenge that ran throughout April 2012.

You’ll find links to all the stories below; each one stands alone, but many have roots and connections in other chapters.  As a whole, it tells a story of the lives that swirl around apartment building life.

Each Sunday, I’ll re-post these links in case you missed any and for your ease in finding them.

The stories will remain up only for the month of May. As of June 1st, I will be taking all of the stories down from Tale Spinning so I can work on a larger second draft of the work. Some of the earlier pieces need fleshing out, and discoveries I made along the way need their roots dug deeply in the beginnings.

May 30th will be your last chance to read, and comment, on these stories. Hopefully, you’ll eventually hold an expanded version in your hands.

Comments are always welcome no matter when you read the story.

Week #1: A to G

All, Tumbling Down

Basement Boogie

Children in the Hall

Doggie Doings

Equivocation Elite

Fire(escape)

Ground, Breaking

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Week #2: H to M

Holidays, Haunts and Hearts

Imaginings of Love

Jung, @Heart

Kindred Spheres

Laundry Room Mafia

Mrs. Beatty

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Week #3: N to S

Not What They Seem

One Man’s Ceiling…

Pollination in the Parking Lot

Quack, Quack

Retraction of Gravity

Super, My Super

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Week #4: T to Z

Thieving Ways

Underneath It All

Vertically Challenged

Weather Man, Oh

Xanthippe

Yeah…Life Goes On…

Zenith: Arising

Impressions of Perfect Fifths

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Marc Chagall

His hands played along the surface of the violin, tracing the patterns worn into the wood. Slight depressions,  imprintings of someone’s fingering, their palm, chin, sweat. Empty of catgut, Avram, the luthier, caressed and stroked the violin that was given unto his care for restoration. He closed his eyes, held the violin to his nose, and breathed in its history.

The drawing of the horsehair bow that had slid along the strings left intermittent grooves in the wood. They showed where a well loved piece was played,  how the violinist drew against the grain of the violin itself. Clumsy or a style, it was all the same to Avram: this was a well loved instrument, that was apparent, and it would become one again.

He noticed the nicks, the dimples in the varnish, the grain of the wood, the stains not readily perceived, but there. There was a very slight crack near the base of the right F-hole, the chinrest needing to be replaced, a refastening of the tailpiece and scroll. Sitting on his wooden stool, Avram kept the violin out of direct sunlight, a strain for his eyes but a blessing for the instrument.

The tuning pegs were worn down, without sheen. Avram could tell that the strings had been replaced, often, their lifespan given to the music: either no longer playing true, losing the desired tone, or snapping in the frenzy of the player.  That did not matter to Avram. He would eventually make a new marriage, adding the G first, then the D, followed by the A and E. He would attach them at the base, up the bridge, along the neck and finally connect them all to the pegbox. All would then be tuned, in harmony, restored.

This though, was still a ways to come. All in due time…

Eventually, time for music to be lifted out and carried, vibrating its musical message to others. Time for this violin to find new hands, a new lover, to be held towards and against the player, to communicate and be in tune once again.

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Author’s Note:

I was given a newspaper article by my SO about Violins of Hope, a project of restored violins that had a history of pain: they came from musicians who “experienced” the horrors of the Holocaust. There was a concert in Charlotte, NC in April 2012. The violins are now back in Israel.

This immediately got my writing gears in motion: I have plotted out titles of chapters, an outline, for what I will be working on next. I plan to get a first draft done of all this while it is still “hot” for me; then, in June, I’ll put this aside and start working on the second draft of the Swan Rise stories.

This was just to whet your whistle. I will NOT be posting any of my Violin stories on Tale Spinning after this: I want it to be marketable for an agent/publisher, if worthy. I WILL be looking for readers along the way, to form a small core group, maybe our own writers group, so if you’re interested, please EMAIL me (please don’t post it here: my email can be located on the right sidebar).

As to Tale Spinning: I’ll be dropping some pieces here and there throughout May, as the story comes to me or I find a fun prompt that inspires. Please check out my backlog of past pieces; there is a lot here, and if you’re new, well…then they’ll be new to you as well.

Remember: comments are always welcome.

Zenith: Arising (#AtoZChallenge)

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The A to Z Challenge : 26 Stories during the month of April

Welcome to… The Apartment Building: Swan Rise

(For Links to ALL the previous stories, CLICK HERE

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Goodbye…

The wrecking ball wrecked, the explosives exploded, and all the debris was carted away. Stone, bricks, glass, wood, metal piping, aluminum, copper, brass, steel, plastics, rubber hoses, cables and…among the detritus there were also bits and pieces of lives mixed in: slivers of dolls and toys; charred papers that once were whole books,  someone’s thesis or love letters, wills, documents, pictures; cloth that, in some pieces, you could see patterns that illuminated a sun dress or once expensive curtains; some bones, those of the pets that were never found. So much life mired in destruction.

Swan Rise Apartments was no more; really, it hadn’t been for months. The property was condemned: the damage from the explosion and fires were too great. Part of the foundation was in shambles. Inferior piping was found to run through the remaining section of the building, and some of the landings were precarious in any hope of their holding up. The majority of the building inhabitants were not allowed to retrieve their belongings. They all settled, out of court.

Swan Rise fell in November of 2005.

That winter was fierce, and building anything was held off for months as ice storms and heavy snows blanketed the area. There was also litigation for wrongful deaths, finger pointing, bribes not paid, fines not paid, union disputes, haggling over bids, and planning…lots of planning. The real estate was too valuable to leave an empty lot.

Construction began in the early fall of 2006.

The wild life that floated up and down Swan River ignored all the doings. They lived too far away to be inconvenienced beyond the initial blasts. They’d fly over for the morsels that were tossed from workers meals, carelessly done so in the already made squalor. The birds let their presence be known in a number of different ways, many times being cursed out by a construction worker who was “hit.”

For close to two years the area morphed from gravel, dirt, weeds, and the past into a new edifice of metal, concrete and glass. Swan River Road was bustling with traffic, the sprouting of other buildings and businesses growing substantially from 1960. New construction always brought gawkers around, rubberneckers ogled the cranes bringing girders to be placed, and the welding and gluing and mortaring and tarring  brought things to a standstill all too often, much to the chagrin of the other inhabited area.

2008, and a new renamed building was erected, zoned for two extra floors, standing seven stories tall. Taking far longer than anticipated, the building management was chomping at the bit for all the lost revenue. They made it a condo, and had nice down-payments in the bank for all of the apartments by the time the construction was complete. There was a waiting list, and would continue to be one in the years ahead.

The tenants of Mallards Crossing Condominium moved into their new residences.

Hello…

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Author’s Note:

April 2012 comes to a close and this year’s AtoZ Challenge with it. 26 posts about Swan Rise Apartments and its residents. 24 stories; two poems (one free form; one sonnet).

If you were wondering, I wrote 18,032 words during the month; if you add in The Whistler is Dead, it is 18,493 words in length. Not too shabby.

Please note that these stories will be left up only through May 2012.

I will then take them offline as of June 1st, as I plan to put this whole thing through an editors pen and a second “draft.”Quite a lot of the early ones need some fleshing out, especially the two poem posts, so I hope  to bring it over 25,000 words; more, if I get really ambitious.

From there, it will be query letter time.  If an agent or publisher only sees this as tainted goods (already published) then I WILL go the self publishing route, but there will be a lot that was never intended for the AtoZ that I had in mind and little to no time to write. The reaction on the comments and in emails has been so positive that I’d be silly to let this just lie here solely on a blog.

Thank you to all of my readers. You’ve been my “beta” testers, my writing cohort, as I’ve explored this story as you have: day by day. I made many discoveries along the way, and very few of the original titles I “planned” out remained. I never knew there was a murder in the building until I wrote it into one of the stories, a throw-away line that had a life unto itself. Mrs. Beatty was only a small dot to me when I wrote the first story: she became a loved character to many of you (and me as well). So many others in the building took on more weight (Amy came out of nowhere, and I’m glad she did), and a few will get some expansions when I work on this over the summer months.

A big Thank You goes to Lisa Vooght for being my sounding board, playing editor and  finding some of my outright mistakes, and for all of her support. She is an amazing writer in her own right and you should check out her creative fiction blog, Flash Fiction.

I also want to thank Arlee Bird (founder of the blog fest: click on the logo heading this blog post to go to their site) and his co-hosts for running this and giving over 1500 bloggers a chance to spread their wings (and go a little crazy in the process).

I hope you’ve enjoyed this series of interwoven tales. This was both tiring and exciting for me as a writer.

Comments are always welcome, no matter when you read the stories.

Did you have a favorite of the 26? I’d like to know which one(s) were for you and why.

That’s always a big help and a blessing for a writer: feedback.

Thanks all!!!

Stuart

You Ain’t!

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You ain’t gonna tell me what to think

You ain’t gonna tell me what to say

You ain’t gonna tell me what to read

You certainly ain’t gonna tell me how to bleed

What I care for; What I think

Mine to choose; I ain’t no sheep

 

What I choose, for my own good

Not hateful, it’s understood

Freedom to live, in my own way

Your condemnation will not sway

But try cutting me off

Try shutting me up

You ain’t…you ain’t…you ain’t…

 

You ain’t gonna tell me what to think

You ain’t gonna tell me what to say

You ain’t gonna tell me what to read

You certainly ain’t gonna tell me how to bleed

What I care for; What I think

Mine to choose; I ain’t no sheep

 

The Many Goodbyes

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“Do widzenia!”

The old man in the park called out with a smile on his face.  The teens-Cathy and Jane-turned and waved, and they answered his goodbye together with “Do svidanja!” The girls continued walking out of the park, scuffling the mounds of fallen leaves on their way.

“Good…good. Next time I will teach you more!” he shouted to their retreating backs.

It had been a nice day already. He had been feeding the birds, talking to them: sometimes in Russian, sometimes in German or any other number of languages he knew. Sometimes-just sometimes- the languages mixed around when he spoke out loud. It had been a long time since he had cared about those things.

The girls had been sitting near him, chatting for a long time. During one of their pauses, the dark haired one-Jane?- heard him, and the two listened for awhile as he spoke to the pigeons and sparrows who had not left the area yet . It was when he had finished singing a small song to the birds that they came over.

They were curious about the song, which he explained was a song he sang to his son when he was a very little boy. They asked for him to sing it again, and he did, instructing them to sing “Klip Klop!” when he paused and pointed to them. The girls were all smiles and joined in with nice harmonies at times, and this made them all grin. When they finished, there was some applause from passersby  who had caught the impromptu choral arrangement. Cathy blushed and put her hand over her mouth, Jane threw her arms up in the air,  and the old man nodded his head and gestured a triple theatrical bow of  his hand.

For the next twenty minutes they were a trio. He knew songs and poetry from many different countries, “from a time long ago, where I shared too many years forced in with too many others” was all he would say about it. When the girls heard certain words or phrases they liked, they tried them out, and he helped them until they got it right.

They tried to learn the “Klip Klop” song, but…he said he would write it out for them, if they liked. They both nodded with enthusiasm.

“I’m here most days at this time, just not in the rain, and not for much longer,” he said. “It’s going to get too cold to sit out here for very long.”

Cathy said: “We can come this way every day after school. It was just too nice to just walk right home today.”

Jane agreed.

Getting up, Jane said: “Arrivederci.”

Cathy added: “Aloha!”

“Ah…future linguists,” he beamed at them, and then followed a stream of ways to say “Good Bye” in the many different ways of the world. They sat down again, and more time passed.

When they mispronounced something, he guided them to to the correct pronunciation. They heard many Slavic, European and Germanic terms, some easier than others to pronounce, and learned some. They rehearsed, laughed at their mistakes, practiced together, and finally they said they had to get home. It was getting late, and the sun went down early.

“Oh…we never asked your name,” said Jane.”That was rude of us.”

“Gustaw,” he answered, and shook both of their hands.

Cathy whispered in Jane’s ear. They both said: “Viszontlátásra, Gustav.”

He put both hand over his heart, closed his eyes, smiled and opened his eyes. The girls were off.

They had been gone for awhile when Gustaw made the attempt to get up from the bench, picking up the bag he had been feeding the birds from earlier. He had been sitting too long, and was stiff. His normal old man getting up sounds at his pains were accentuated. A few steps, faltering, and he had to sit down again. It was swift, and sent the few birds around him flying.

“Oy vey,” he said, his hand went to his chest. “No.”

Gustaw dropped the bag he was holding, the dried bread scattering around his feet. First one bird, then many, flocked down to feed. There was no movement to shoo them off, to startle them. The area was just about picked clean when a toddler came running through them, sending them aloft.

They winged their farewells over Gustaw.

I Will Do As You Say

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Tell me what you want me to do
And I’ll do it
Tell me what I need to be
And I’ll be it
Tell me who I should become
And I will become it
Tell me what to love
And I will love it.

I have no powers of my own
Not thought or reason or opinion
Without you to manipulate me
I’m on my own.

Tell me what to kill
And I’ll kill it
Tell me what to hate
And I’ll hate it
Tell me to ridicule, spit on, defile,
And I’ll do it all, all, all…
I have no thoughts of my own
Let me live through your control

So…tell me what to think
And I’ll mimic it.

..and i will be free

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Freedom by artist Zenos Frudakis

Freedom, and the taste of it is so sweet.

Elephteria, released, ran out into the quad and raised her arms and head to the heavens. Five years of interment, awake the entire time. The madness that she thought would never end, ended. She was ready to take flight, ask for forgiveness, ask for acceptance.

Xaris, released, tried to warn Laurel, to hold her wild rush. His fear for her was brimming over. He, too, was aware the whole time, and what he heard as people sneered by made him dread this day. There was no forgiveness, in his heart, to ask for. Xaris knew he would never be accepted.

Laurel, released, was hesitant, and despaired in what she witnessed. Five years of hatred for Elephteria, five years of tearing herself apart knowing Xaris was only thinking of her. She was twisting in despair, and she wondered if he would ever forgive her, if she would ever accept herself as she was.

Raffaele, released, refused to be, for he had not forgiven himself in these long five years. He felt the four of them should stay imprisoned, in that immobile state until all who knew them were long gone. There was a need for atonement, for them all, and he hit the button under his palm that encased him again. He did not wish to have to deal with any of them ever again. He accepted that.

News Ding 2049/15/11:  Freedom, and the taste of it is so sweet.

The October Malcontents were realeased  at 0700, back into the land we love. Fiver years ago, the collective tried to break down our beloved system, saying NO to the rules that keep us all safe. Shouting slogans against our beloved establishment, the rousing of ire caused their downfall. Here’s hoping they have learned their lessons.

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Tymothy Longoria of Aspire No More posted this on his blog and the picture went viral around FaceBook (not sure if anywhere else). Here is what Tymothy wrote:

The piece, for me, is stunning and thought provoking to say the very least.

It also inspired me to write something, not so much about it, but along the lines of what is happening here. Fighting for freedom and the feeling one may or may not feel is he succeed/fails.

So, that inspired me further.

And that is this:

Write your piece, under 500 word for short story or a suitable length for poetry 

Title? I’ll keep it simple.

Freedom.

What will you get? The writing experience, the joy of creating, a spot on this blog and permission to gloat on Facebook, The Twitter and anywhere you choose. You may find a new audience.

I did not take the title he gave (Sorry Tymothy), but I did take the challenge, and used Freedom as the first word. I hope you like it.