Halloween is two days away, and today is Part 7 of a short story from my compendium "The Illusion Exotic". I'll run an installment each day leading up to Halloween. If you missed Part 1, you can catch up here. THE CAVE, Part 7 A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate. "The Cave", & "The Illusion Exotic, "Copyright 2016 Brian L. Braden A grim calm settled over the dark man as he straightened and turned toward the entrance. He had his answer, but the answer didn’t make sense. The sun peeked under the top lip of the cave. He rolled down his sleeves and donned his coat. Before he stepped over the woodpile, something made him look back. He didn’t know why, because he didn’t want to. During the war the same inner voice made him duck right before a bullet whizzed by, or compelled him to advise General Palmer contrary to sound intelligence reports, thereby saving the division. Sunset now bathed the back of the cave in crimson light, highlighting every fly with crystal clarity. A ray of orange sunlight settled onto the gap in the pile where he removed Wellsby’s body. Something twinkled like starlight amongst ghoulish arms, legs and bones. Leave, his heart told him. Go see, something else whispered. The stink of rot and sour mash whisky enveloped him as he returned to the pile once more, careful not to block the sunlight from the sparkling place. Tangled black hair spilled over the body’s face, and Knight hoped he’d uncovered a freshly slain indian at the bottom of the pile. But the shade of black wasn’t quite right, and a few strands of gray stood out in the ruddy light. He kicked away another body to reveal white cotton and blue velvet. A silver chain wrapped around a delicate hand, which grasped a turquoise crucifix. As if watching someone else, he removed one glove and gently brushed away the black hair, uncovering pale, olive skin. Knight reeled backwards and fled the cave. Cleansing sunlight warmed his shoulders as he fell to his knees beside the stream. Knight stripped off his coat and splashed water over his face and arms. He kept scouring his forearms with water and sand until they bled, sucking in breath after breath, trying to purge death from his lungs. Townsend meekly approached. “Mr. Knight, are you okay?” Knight rinsed the bandana and folded it neatly in his pocket. He donned his coat, adjusted his hat and collected himself. “It’s just like Amado and I told you, isn’t it? Like something from hell,” Townsend said. Knight snapped his Colt up into Townsend’s forehead and shoved him against the ravine wall. “Where is Josefita Lucero?” He screamed into Townsend’s face. “You crazy som’bitch! Put that damn thing away!” Knight grabbed Townsend’s face and raised him off the ground with one arm. He shoved the black Colt up against the sheriff’s temple. “Tell me where Josefita Lucero is or I’ll shoot you dead now!” “Amado sent her to Santa Fe three days before you showed up! She went on the weekly coach. When we came back from the cave he said he was scared and didn’t want her ‘round. Yesterday he got word the carriage never made it. Amado was organizing a search party this morning.” Knight dropped Townsend into a dusty heap, turned and walked to his horse. “Señorita Lucero is in the cave, dead by two days near as I figure. Wellsby is in there, too. He’s been dead longer.” Townsend sat in the sand, face in his hands. Knight mounted up. He wasn’t going to tell Townsend, or anyone else, about his encounter with the Spanish Lady last night. “You still think I had something to do with this, don’t you?” Knight reached into this saddlebag and pulled out the unopened bottle of sour mash whisky. He cracked the seal, pulled the cork and took a whiff. Knight grimaced before his face solidified into a mask of determination. “There’s not a man alive with enough evil in his soul to do this. If there was, you ain’t him. The poor souls had their blood drained. They were feasted upon.” Townsend shuddered. “Probably some damned redskin.” Knight remembered General Palmer’s words: I fear, Silas, the old world is here, its sins and demons have followed us to the New World. “Get on your horse and ride hard back the way we came. Get back before sundown. I’m circling north via the rail line.” “Hell, I’d have to kill my horse to get back that fast!” “Then kill it. What did this knows we’re out here. If he catches you before you get to Espanola, you’ll end up stuffed under that pile with Wellsby and Amado’s wife.” “Well, tell me who done it. I’m the sheriff, and I’ll take care of ‘em!” “I suspect Wellsby left here with a good idea, too. I think he kept his suspicions to himself until he could confirm them. He underestimated this enemy and paid for it. I suspect the Lady Lucero knew who did this, though I don’t know how.” Knight reeled his horse around. “A good deal of what’s transpired here remains a mystery, but my gut tells me Father Garza may be dead, too. The faster you get back, the better the chances are you’ll find Amado still alive. “Now this is important, so listen carefully. When you get back, organize a party of about five men to come back at first light. Drag all that timber into the cave, soak it with kerosene and burn it to ashes. Then dynamite the cave and collapse the bank. As for tonight, stay at the tavern. “Don’t be alone, not even for a minute. If Amado hasn’t gone off looking for his wife yet, then.... well, tell him what I saw in there. I, for one, think he already suspects as much. Watch over each other, or you may not live to see the dawn.” Townsend swallowed hard. “I’ll bring the padre to bless the grave.” “If it makes you feel better, but this ground is cursed...deeply and forever.” “Are you going after who did this?” Knight jiggled the bottle. “I’m going to drink this, all of it till I can’t feel or smell anything else. I’ll see you back at the tavern. Tell everyone I plan on being mean and drunk, so stay the hell out of my way. In the morning, I’ll ride for the monster who did this.” “Who’s gunna watch your back?” Knight patted his Colt and rode off to the north without another word. He followed the cart tracks he scouted when they arrived at the river. He didn’t tell Townsend about the tracks, the less he knew the better. THE CAVE, Part 8 As darkness crept across the high desert, the wind howled up the Chama Valley. By the time Knight darkened the tavern door, the wind switched from the north, carrying flurries foretelling the season’s first storm. He swayed as the wind blew out the oil lamps. His glazed eyes swept the room until they fell upon Townsend. The lawman and the aborted search party sat quietly in the tavern, somberly nursing beer and whisky. Stumbling in, he slammed the empty whisky bottle on a table. The railroad agent raised his head and squinted at the wailing drifting from the upper rooms. “I take it Amado and his daughter know,” Knight slurred. Townsend nodded. “I caught ‘em just before he set out for Santa Fe with the search party.” “You did everything I asked?” Townsend nodded again. “I’m going to bed. There’s killing needs doing come dawn. Wake me before first light.” With that, Knight stumbled to his room and slammed the door shut. A barmaid closed the tavern door, but not before another slipped in unnoticed from the windswept darkness. Knight lay fully clothed, boots on, on top of the sagging mattress. Motionless and eyes closed, he breathed deep and ragged like a passed-out drunk. Townsend and his men’s muffled voices floated down the hallway and mixed with the branches rattling the window. Something slinked across the floor in the pitch-black room. Alert and cold sober; Knight’s senses were fully engaged. Eyes closed, breathing unchanged, he knew hell shuffled only a few feet from the end of his bed. He smelled the cave in the cramped space between the bed and the washstand. It’s deciding whether or not I’m really asleep. Like a spider, the enemy needed to ensure the venom was fully engaged before it wrapped the fly. Suddenly, the dark presence seemed to expand. The Colt blasted from under Knight’s right leg. In the muzzle flash, Knight saw a man slam against the opposite wall. Knight sprang up and discharged another cartridge where he calculated the body fell. Through the ringing in his ears he heard a groan. Townsend and his men exploded into the room brandishing guns and lanterns. Through oily gun smoke and dingy light Knight saw the motionless form of Nesbitt Carl against the shattered washstand. ("The Cave" concludes tomorrow.) ![]() I hope you enjoyed this installment of THE CAVE. It will continue tomorrow on The Illusion Exotic and conclude on Halloween! Can't wait to find out what happens? You can get The Illusion Exotic here, featuring The Cave and other short stories. #shortstory #horror #halloween #spooky #western #serial *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places."
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Halloween is two days away, and today is Part 6 of a short story from my compendium "The Illusion Exotic". I'll run an installment each day leading up to Halloween. If you missed Part 1, you can catch up here. THE CAVE, Part 6 A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate. "The Cave", & "The Illusion Exotic, "Copyright 2016 Brian L. Braden Formed by successive floods, heaps of gray scrub oak and rotting pinion formed a wall guarding the cave’s mouth like ragged teeth. Death lurked in there, every bit as grim as Amado and Townsend described. Josefita’s words came back to him...you will need more than fire and steel. Knight cocked the Colt’s hammer. Fire and steel will have to do. He stepped gingerly over the woodpile looking for the telltale sign where men had repeatedly transversed the heap. Knight quickly found a path of flattened sticks and followed it. Immediately after clearing the woodpile, Knight spotted the first bones. Covered with tattered flesh, they formed a scattered trail stretching into the dark recesses. Then the hot, putrid reek of rotting flesh assaulted him, along with the deafening buzz of a million flies. Knight pulled a flask of rye from his coat and took a long pull. He poured some over his bandana and tied it over his face. Returning the flask in his pocket, he knelt down examined the cave floor. Once again, the tracks told the story. Knight slipped deeper into the cave until the sloping roof forced him to stoop. That’s where he found the pile, exactly as Amado and Townsend described it. Clouds of black flies ebbed so thick they partially obscured the flesh mound. Arms, legs and bloodstained indian garb poked out from sheets of squirming maggots. Fighting an overpowering urge to vomit, his nostrils rebelled against an unholy stench the bandana did little to curb. Knight wasn’t familiar with the local savages, but he felt confident these weren’t white men. The corpses weren’t piled as much as stuffed into the back of the cave, new corpses tossed atop the old ones instead of spreading the pile out in the ample cave. The pile looks compressed. It’s been arranged. Beyond the scene’s sheer horror, that fact puzzled him. Knight glanced back at the bright entrance. The bone trail leading to the cave’s mouth obviously came from the older bodies near the bottom. Four men have been here. Amado’s, Townsend’s, and perhaps Wellsby’s tracks were several weeks old and easy to spot: straight in, straight out and close to one another like frightened creatures. The fourth set of boot tracks cut fresh and deep and bold across the cave floor, proclaiming the predator’s lair. The only scavenger tracks were those of the freshly killed coyote, and its tracks only meekly penetrated beyond the woodpile. It snatched the first scrap it found and high tailed out. Every critter for miles around should have been in here, feasting and dragging the carcasses up and down the riverbed. The only buzzards he saw were freshly arrived and circling over the dead coyote outside. From First Manassas to Gettysburg, Knight had witnessed fields of blood and carnage. Nature wasted no time feeding on war’s grim bounty, but here only flies reported for duty. The evil that repelled the scavengers began to seep into his bones. As bad as he wanted to run, grim duty kept his boots planted in the cave. If the bone trail leads from the center of the pile, it means someone needed to make room. Knight returned to the woodpile, thankful for the fresh air. He removed his drover coat and pulled a pair of leather gloves from its inner pocket. He laid the coat over the pile, rolled up his sleeves, and donned the gloves. That’s when a thought occurred to him. He looked back at the cave floor, and blew out a long breath of air between his teeth. There weren’t any signs of bodies being dragged, either inside or outside the cave. That’s why the killer’s tracks are so deep. He carried them, perhaps for miles. Returning to the corpses, Knight pulled on a rotted leg protruding midway down the pile. At first it didn’t budge, but his efforts released a fresh wave of foulness along with a cloud of flies. Knight coughed and fought for breath as he pulled again. The body slid out with a wet sucking sound. On a hundred battlefields Knight had never seen a corpse like this. The indian, perhaps in his late teens, had been here over a week, but wasn’t as stiff and bloated as would be expected. All the dead grow pale, but even a red savage wouldn’t be this eerily white, even after a week. Then he saw how the indian died. The man’s blood had been drained through a long gash ripped into his neck. Knight looked around, but there was no evidence of mass bloodletting anywhere in the cave. He wasn’t killed here. He pulled another corpse from the pile, this time an older man. He died the same way. Another older, badly decomposed body told the same story. He examined their necks more closely, trying to deduce the weapon that inflicted the killing wounds. “Knight, you alright in there?” came Townsend’s voice from beyond the cave. “I’m alright,” he yelled back. “But I reckon you won’t be if you don’t high-tail it back to that‘X’.” “I ain’t moved, Mr. Knight.” Townsend responded a moment later in a fainter, more distant voice. Knight leaned closer over the dead. No other wounds were apparent, only the gashes which delivered the killing stroke. Too jagged for a knife...maybe a saw? He peered closer at the necrotizing flesh, occasionally flicking away a maggot. Knight couldn’t believe what his eyes told him, but the dead don’t lie. Chew marks. Bites. “Poor bastards.” As a deputy in Kansas City, he once investigated a prostitute’s murder. Something about these bodies reminded him of that brutal violation. He examined the rest of the three corpses and discovered bruises around their wrists. Someone very powerful pinned them down, ripped open their necks and drained every ounce of blood from their dying bodies. They didn’t struggle much, and that he didn’t understand. They all looked to have been strong bucks. Shaking, Knight stood and took several deep breaths. He placed his hand on the holstered Colt until the trembling ceased. Looking back at the cave entrance, the light slowly dimmed as the day wore on. The tracks in and around the cave gave Knight confidence Townsend wasn’t responsible for this atrocity. The evil here wasn’t indian handiwork, either. Even the monstrous Comanche had never done anything like this before. Knight battled the urge to bolt, but an unseen force held him. He glanced back at the pile and saw black fabric poking from beneath an indian leg. Knight shoved the leg aside and discovered a hand and arm wearing a white man’s coat. Knight grabbed the sleeve and tugged at the body buried deep inside the pile. Initially, it wouldn’t budge. Knight dug in his heels and turned his head against the hellish fume rising from the heart of the pile. The body broke free as corpses tumbled right and left, leaving a stinking valley in the death mound. Knight gasped for air and took a long pull from his flask before examining the new corpse, two holstered pistols strapped to its hips. “Wellsby.” He’d never met the man, but felt sure it was him. A tin star topped Wellsby’s black overcoat, his white shirt now stained with rot from his new companions. Wellsby died differently from the rest. His mustachioed face was purple and bloated, his body stiff with rigor mortis. Bruises encircled the lawman’s throat, but the neck wasn’t ripped open. Someone snapped Wellsby’s neck with bare hands before the sheriff could even draw, carried the big man here, and then stuffed him deep inside the pile like a rag doll. Probably a hard man, Knight knew someone like Wellsby didn’t have his neck snapped easily. Still leaning down, Knight caught a faint scent hiding beneath the blanket of rot and decay. A familiar scent. Knight pulled down the whisky soaked bandana, closed his eyes, and whiffed the air. At first, the putrid rot overwhelmed his senses, but then he caught it again. Wincing, he filled his lungs again and again, leaning over the pile like a chef taking in the aroma of the day’s soup. Whisky. This wasn’t the hard-edged old rye soaking his bandana, but a sweeter, more refined aroma of Kentucky sour-mash. (to be continued tomorrow) ![]() I hope you enjoyed this installment of THE CAVE. It will continue tomorrow on The Illusion Exotic and conclude on Halloween! Can't wait to find out what happens? You can get The Illusion Exotic here, featuring The Cave and other short stories. #shortstory #horror #halloween #spooky #western #serial *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." In 2011 I sat in a Manhattan publisher’s office pitching my novel to several editors who were supposedly big deals in the publishing business. Everyone at the conference was trying to tie their novels into Game of Thrones, Walking Dead, Breaking Bad, or Ready Player One. My novel? Not so much.
"Where does your manuscript fit on the book shelves?" they asked. "Not next to Game of Thrones, Breaking Bad, Walking Dead or Ready Player One," I said. "Its more like Ten Commandments meets The Odyssey." Needless to say, I didn't land a fat publishing contract that week. I can’t remember her name, but one publisher from that conference stands out in my memory. All the female authors who were pitching their novel to her were warned not to show too much cleavage in her presence. I had no cleavage, so I felt confident going in (though I can’t make that claim today). She listened to my pitch with a dour expression, like she had to pass a kidney stone, and then asked me if my novel (Black Sea Gods) was going to be a series. “Three or four novels,” I replied. “The first novel is complete, the second well underway.” “Too ambitious for a new author,” she scoffed, and summarily dismissed me. And thus ended my attempt to get The Chronicles of Fu Xi traditionally published. Every new word added to the Chronicles of Fu Xi, Book IV’s manuscript is a blow against Anti-Cleavage Lady. Take that, mammary hater! Sometimes that moment in New York drives me onward, just to prove her wrong. Actually, she was probably right. I should have started my writing career on something a little less ambitious, and a lot more commercially viable. If I wanted a traditional publishing contract, a historical fantasy, set in central Asia, and bordering on literary fiction probably wasn’t the place to start. Not that any of that matters now, I’m committed. The Chronicles of Fu Xi, Book IV is well underway. This story must be told. I completed 2000 words this weekend and two more chapters in the can. That brings the word count to 22,000. The writing is coming easier now, and it isn’t. When I write, I have Books I-III open on my desktop, plus The Golden Princess, trying to avoid plot holes. It’s a Herculean effort to keep characters straight, events lined up, and everything in sync. I think it’s working. I’m back in the groove. Regardless, it's ambitious, to say the least. Anti-Cleavage Lady's warning echoes in my mind. One major change came out of this weekend’s efforts…I’ve changed the last novel’s title. It was going to be “The Children of Fu Xi”, but I’ve ditched that. That title was suggested many years ago by an editor, and I kept it in my back pocket. I’m not going to divulge the new title until the publication date approaches. However, it ties the final novel back to the first novel and sounds great. That’s all I have for today. I’ve got to keep my energy focused on the writing. However, if you haven’t picked up the series, you really should. There are three ways to start: First, you can get copy of Black Sea Gods, the first installment in the series, Second, you can buy a copy of the prequel, The Golden Princess. If you really want a treat, get the Audible copy of The Golden Princess, narrated by the BBC’s Philip Battley. You will not regret it, he sounds great. I’ll see you later this week for another installment of Photography Phriday. *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." #books #blackseagods #writing #philipbattley #audiobooks #epic #fantasy #epicfantasy All titles by Brian L. Braden are either on sale or free in e-book from now until 15 July. the illusion exotic in e-book is FREE through 11 July! This diverse short story collection is a great introduction to the style and prose of Brian L. Braden. Brian L. Braden presents six tales of souls turning life’s corners. From the Old West, to the edge of space, six people must learn to abandon the illusions that feed their fears, and trust in love, friendship, and their own courage. The end of the world is bad enough, but its worse when you’re a kid. For little Anant, hope comes in the most unlikely of forms, the voice of Captain James T. Kirk. However, in "Spaceship Name", hope does not come without a price. In "Green", a young pilot’s courage and fledgling skills are tested to the limit in the pitch black skies above a treacherous battlefield. In one terrifying moment, she will either lead her crew to triumph, or perish. A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate in "The Cave." After a long day, second grade teacher Margaret Nichols only wants to go home, run a warm bath, and open her wrists. Fate has other plans, however, in the form of a bloodstained Bible and "The Boy in the Hole." On a Saturday night, high school nerd Mike faces a tough choice: pursue a chance for romance with a popular cheerleader, or hang with Todd, his best friend and notorious loser. What he doesn’t know is his decision will mean life and death, and forever go down in history as the "Incident at the West Flatte Dairy Queen." "Carson’s Love" takes the reader into the lives of the Campbells, a family falling apart. Megan and Rob have become so lost in their own lives, they’re about to lose each other. Then, while giving their baby a bath, Rob Campbell makes a startling discovery, and their world suddenly turns upside down. THE GOLDEN PRINCESS is free on e-book through 11 July! Enter the world of THE CHRONICLES OF FU XI with this stand-alone prequel to this ground-breaking epic fantasy series. "Escape the City of Gold, or live forever in chains." Raised in splendid isolation. Betrothed to a man she despises. Destined to rule over the greatest city on earth. She is the Golden Princess. Sarah dreams of love and adventure beyond her gilded prison, but tonight her dreams come true in the most terrifying way imaginable. A bloody power struggle erupts for the throne, and dawn finds the princess on the run with a bounty on her head. Alone and hunted by guards, criminals and a ruthless slaver who will stop at nothing to burn his brand into her flesh, Sarah must summon courage she never knew she possessed. Hope, however, comes in the form of two lowly thieves. Driven by a secret, they race through Hur-ar’s underworld to find Sarah before her enemies do. Before the next sunset, Sarah’s fate, and that of empires, will be decided with gold, steel and blood. THE CHRONICLES OF FU XI, Volume 1 and 2 e-books are discounted 9-15 July!
Semifinalist, 2013 Kindle Book Reviews Sci-Fi/Fantasy Book of the Year! The fish have disappeared from the sea. The animals have vanished from the land. All humanity, and even the gods, tremble under the specter of a pending cataclysm. The demigod, Fu Xi, races home from the edge of the world bringing news of a looming god war, but finds his land under attack by monsters he once called his children. He discovers a terrible curse has been cast, one intended to destroy the gods and all life. To his shock, Fu Xi learns that mankind's last hope rests solely on him, a simple fisherman, and a banished slave girl. Beset on all sides by ancient foes, both immortal and mundane, Fu Xi knows he must act quickly and races west to rescue the saviors. Unaware of the real doom that awaits, Aizarg the fisherman and his party begin a perilous journey across a dangerous steppe. They seek the last of the Narim, the legendary Black Sea Gods, who hold the key to their salvation. Leading them is the rescued slave girl Sarah, the only one among them who knows the path to the land of the god-men. Over seven days, the defining struggle of gods and humans begins under the onslaught of a powerful force whose true objective and origin remain a mystery. Fu Xi knows the secret to victory resides in the fisherman and the slave girl, whose lives he must protect, even if it means the rest of the world must perish! *** If you enjoyed any Graham Hancock's books, you will love BLACK SEA GODS. BLACK SEA GODS transforms recently re-discovered Black Sea legends, possibly the root of all Eurasian mythology, with ancient Chinese mythology to create an unprecedented epic fantasy series. Find out more about this series at blackseagods.com A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate in "The Cave." The Cave is one of six short stories in my book "The Illusion Exotic." Here is a small sample, I hope you enjoy it. *** “It’s there, in the cliff face on the east side of the river.” Townsend pointed down to a sharp bend in the river about half a mile north of their vantage point on the cliff. Knight lowered his hat against the naked sun and followed Townsend’s finger to an overhang in the opposite cliff. There, the river had carved out a hollow in the soft yellow clay. In the stark midday shadows, he couldn’t be sure how far it penetrated the cliff. With monsoon season nearly over and the Brazos Mountains snow pack almost gone, the Chama shriveled to a trickle. The challenge would be finding a way down the cliff to the streambed. “I see it. How do we get down there?” “The cliff descends in another mile north.” “Something is moving down there, just south of the cave,” Knight pointed to a dark speck trotting out from the cave’s shadow. Townsend shielded his eyes from the sun and sat higher in the saddle, wiping sweat from his brow every few minutes. “That there’s a cay-yote-aye, maybe a mangy wolf. Hard to tell from here, I didn’t see any sign of a...” Townsend jumped in his saddle as Knight’s Colt thundered inches from his ear. “SON OF A BITCH! I’m gonna be deaf in that ear for a week, you...” Ignoring Townsend, Knight calmly replaced the revolver in his holster, and rode through the blue smoke. Townsend rubbed his ringing ear and looked where Knight shot. Far below, the animal lay motionless on the riverbank. “It had something in its mouth. I want to see it.” “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled and spurred his horse after Knight. As Townsend promised, the cliff soon descended to the sandy streambed. Knight stopped just short of the river and trotted back and forth, looking intently at the ground as Townsend caught up. “Hell of a shot back there. Musta been three hundred yards. Never saw a revolver shot like...” “What’s east of here?” Knight interrupted, pointing to a wisp of black smoke on the horizon. “That’s Foreman McGhee’s railhead camp, maybe four miles. The line stays north of the river until it enters the mountains.” Townsend took off his hat and wiped his head with a rag. “Looks like ole’ McGhee’s making good progress all things considered.” “Answer me this, and answer carefully.” Knight turned and directed his gaze squarely on Townsend. “Have you told anyone what Amado spoke of last night? Does anyone in town, other than you and Amado know of this place?” Townsend shook his head. “Only the kid from the pueblo and Father Garza.” “I ain’t worried about the boy. If what Amado told me is true, there isn’t a red skin alive who’ll come near this place.” Knight galloped about fifty yards downstream and halted, studying the sandy bank. Warily, Townsend trailed a few yards behind. Knight suddenly wheeled about, pulled his gun and pointed it squarely at Townsend. “The boy, did he accompany you and Amado back to the cave?” Townsend slowly raised his hands. “Hey, I ain’t done nothing to you or any of those poor souls!” Knight cocked the hammer. “Answer my question.” “No, he was too afraid. Stayed upstream ‘til we came back fer him.” “Father Garza...when did he leave you and Amado and head back to the Espanola?” Knight asked. Townsend looked confused. “I don’t understand.” “It’s important you answer my question, Mr. Townsend. Otherwise, it’s going to go bad for you.” “Last night, neither of you told me what happened after you found the cave. Tell me what happened to Father Garza after you left the cave.” Sweat poured down Townsend’s face. “He took the boy north, to the pueblo. Don’t rightly know what became of them since. I suspect Garza made his way back to San Marcos.” “And Wellsby?” “He went back with us, I know Amado told you as much.” “We’ll see. Turn around and ride north ahead of me.” “Are you gunna tell me what the hell’s going on? I ain’t done wrong by you or anyone.” “Maybe,” Knight replied casually from behind. “There’s what you tell me and what the tracks tell me. I’ll find out soon enough who’s telling the truth.” They rode several hundred yards north toward the distant railhead, until the terrain flattened and sand gave way to scrub and thistle. He commanded Townsend to stop, but stay on the horse. “Keep your hands were I can see them.” Knight dismounted and walked through the scrub, once again studying the ground, Colt always pointed in Townsend’s general direction. He bent down and examined the dirt. “Wellsby vanished, just like that?” Knight inquired. “It ain’t no damn different than like we told you,” frustration rising in the sheriff’s tone. “We got back just before dark. Wellsby told us to keep quiet and he was gunna wire back to Colorado Springs what we found. He never met us the next morning, like he said he would. Ain’t seen him since. Amado said we should keep quiet until you showed up. That’s the truth, I swear. Hey, if we were lying, why would I bring you up here?” Knight remounted his horse. “Because this would be a good place to dump the body of an agent of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Now, turn your horse around and ride back to the river.” Townsend spit. “You planning on killing me?” “Should I?” They returned to where the cliffs enclosed both sides of the river. The horses splashed up to their hooves in the muddy water as they rounded the bend and the cave came into view. “Dismount,” Knight ordered. The railroad agent dismounted and cut an “X” in the sand with his boot heel next to the stream. “Stand here. Don’t move until I see if what you and Amado told me is true. Most of what you said lines up with the tracks going in and out of this canyon. If I see tracks newer than two weeks old coming from the south, I’ll know someone lied. And if I don’t find what you described in the cave, I’ll still know someone lied.” “We weren’t lying, Knight.” “We’ll see. If you move off that ‘X’ I’ll kill you before you mount your horse, understand? Even if my back is turned, I’ll still hear you. And if I can’t hear you, I’ll smell you. If I find what I should in there, then me and you, we’re okay.” Townsend remained silent as he tied his horse to a piece of scrub and stood on the X. “Ain’t you gunna take my gun?” “If I thought you knew how to use it, I would.” Townsend’s cheeks turned red. He jerked his hat low and crossed his arms with a huff. Knight tied off his horse and crossed the sluggish current, barely getting his boots wet in the process. As he walked down the canyon the cliffs rose higher and the breeze abandoned him to the New Mexico sun. Overhead, buzzards dragged their shadows over the creature lying next to the stream bed. It turned out to be a mangy coyote with a mottled coat and sore-covered skin. Jutting ribs and bulging eyes spoke of a creature already dying of hunger. A human femur, partially covered with dried flesh, lay beside its head. He nudged it with his boot, revealing blood-soaked sand under its chest. Lung shot. Knight stepped over the coyote, not bothering to look back at Townsend, knowing he hadn’t moved. The cave waited. *** If you enjoyed that sample, you can read the rest of The Cave and other short stories in The Illusion Exotic.
Brian L. Braden presents six tales of souls turning life’s corners. From the Old West, to the edge of space, six people must learn to abandon the illusions that feed their fears, and trust in love, friendship, and their own courage. The end of the world is bad enough, but its worse when you’re a kid. For little Anant, hope comes in the most unlikely of forms, the voice of Captain James T. Kirk. However, in "Spaceship Name", hope does not come without a price. In "Green", a young pilot’s courage and fledgling skills are tested to the limit in the pitch black skies above a treacherous battlefield. In one terrifying moment, she will either lead her crew to triumph, or perish. A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate in "The Cave." After a long day, second grade teacher Margaret Nichols only wants to go home, run a warm bath, and open her wrists. Fate has other plans, however, in the form of a bloodstained Bible and "The Boy in the Hole." On a Saturday night, high school nerd Mike faces a tough choice: pursue a chance for romance with a popular cheerleader, or hang with Todd, his best friend and notorious loser. What he doesn’t know is his decision will mean life and death, and forever go down in history as the "Incident at the West Flatte Dairy Queen." "Carson’s Love" takes the reader into the lives of the Campbells, a family falling apart. Megan and Rob have become so lost in their own lives, they’re about to lose each other. Then, while giving their baby a bath, Rob Campbell makes a startling discovery, and their world suddenly turns upside down. (...or "why it's important to know the difference between a kidney and a spleen)I've finally started on the road to audiobook for both THE GOLDEN PRINCESS and BLACK SEA GODS. I've been hesitant to do so up to this point for several reasons. First of all, I didn't know how it all worked and I naturally fear change. Second, I didn't have the time to figure it out because I naturally fear work. Third, I knew it was likely to be expensive and I naturally fear spending money. With the help of government-funded therapy I've licked the first two hurdles. I've made some time to research the process, and asked the opinions of some smart people who have travelled this road ahead of me. I listened carefully to what they said, which was for me to give up writing and remember what it was like to live again. I told them I don't remember the taste of strawberries and they should get bent. But I digress. So...I've chosen a production company and narrowed down the list of potential narrators. By the way, I've also chosen a private jet and a villa in the Swiss Alps for, you know, when all the money starts rolling in. I did, however, run some figures and come up with a basic budget for making an audio book. There is only one small problem...how to pay for it all. Its good to have a budget. Its even better to have money. Scratch the villa and the private jet and focus on the audio book and how to pay for it. Option 1: Revenue sharing. Brutal truth time - if I were a narrator, I wouldn't agree to revenue sharing on any of my books. In fact, I'd laugh if I asked me to share my revenue on my books. I know that's harsh, but I know a lot of indie authors can sympathize with me (can I get an Amen from the crowd?) While I believe strongly in the caliber of my work (especially when I've been drinking), I just don't sell enough books (yet) to make revenue sharing attractive. I think, however, I could get a good narrator if I pay upfront. But it still leaves me with the conundrum of where to find the money. Option 2: Pay with cash from my day job. That money is already budgeted for real-life stuff, like food and kid stuff and air conditioning. Like many authors, I do not have much excess cash to spend on writing. On that note, people often liken writing to having a mistress. I strongly disagree. Other than being demanding and expensive like a mistress, they have nothing in common. A mistress is (optimally) sexy, and (usually) a secret. A mistress should also make you feel better (at least temporarily). (BTW, what the hell do you call a male version of mistress? A misteress? If a lesbian has a mistress, is she still a mistress? If a gay man has a mistress, is he a Mister Misteress?) I digress yet again. Writing, on he other hand, is just demanding and expensive. No, writing is less like a mistress and more like an old college buddy who is out of work and staying for "just a few days" until "he can catch a break." Your spouse knows all about him because he lives on her couch and she hates his guts and keeps asking when he is moving out because its time to move on and he is eating all the food and leaves beer cans all over the floor and scratches himself in from of the kids and the toilet won't flush and where the hell is the cat... Did I do it again? I did, didn't I? Back to the topic. Option 3: Sell one of my kidneys. I'm not sure either kidney is working at 100% capacity anymore. Option 4: Sell one of your kidneys. Wanna go grab a drink? Ah, never mind. It's too much of a hassle to keep all that ice in the motel bathtub. Last time I tried it, my Chinese blackmarket connection said I removed the spleen, not the kidney. I didn't get paid and was out like, 40 bucks for all the ice and whiskey. The incident did, however, convince my old college buddy to move out. Option 5: Crowdfunding. Crowd funding is a great idea for some things, like raising money for legal fees and getting former friends a new spleen. But getting the cash to fund an audio book does not qualify, at least in my mind, as justification to ask people for money, even if I give them something in return, like a slightly used spleen. I make no judgements on others who do so, but for me it feels like begging. Option 6: Hold a telethon. Unfortunately, no one under 40 knows what the hell a telethon is. Option 7: Sell a kid or two. Tempting... On one hand, I'd gain a new office, but then I'd lose the tax write-offs. I like those tax write-offs Option 8: Writing hardcore erotica under a pen name. My doctor said my heart wasn't healthy enough (but he said I have the spleen of a 20 year old. He's right, I do). Option 9: Lit Funding. Otherwise known as selling enough books to pay for the audio version. With the exception of all the other options I've listed, this the most realistic avenue to funding my audiobook. I've lit funded a cover or two. I've lit funded a lunch or two. But an audio book is another matter.
In order to make this happen I have to do some math. Since I don't like public math, I'm going to pull the curtain...I'll be right back. (whisper whisper carry the eight whisper whisper seven to the eighth power whisper whisper E equals Eminem squared whisper whisper....) I'm back. In order to pay for an audio version my latest novel I will have to sell 2,342 ebooks. That's just a teency weency (pinches fingers centimeter apart for effect) bit more books than I usually sell, like a 2430% increase in monthly sales. No problem. Bottom line, one way or another I'll find a way to finance the audio versions of my novels. Its just going to take patience and a reckless disregard for the law. In the meantime, you can help my buying or renting my novels on Amazon. Every little bit helps. If you've already read them, please rate or review them on Amazon. Believe it or not, the number of reviews on Amazon greatly helps in book sales. If you've already bought and reviewed my novels, please spread the word. If you've already done all this, thank you! I can't tell you enough how much I appreciate it. In fact, we should go out for a drink to celebrate. Say, I'm just curious, do you have both kidneys? *** Brian L. Braden is the author of three fantasy novels: THE GOLDEN PRINCESS, BLACK SEA GODS AND TEARS OF THE DEAD. I will be at the Amelia Island Book Festival, Florida this Saturday, 20 Feb. Come on out and meet me, get a copy of one of my books, and find out about my company Underground Book Reviews.
Read More Here! What does it take to give your novel "shelf appeal"? In my latest Underground Book Reviews column I discuss cover, synopsis and sample - the three key elements required to get your novel noticed and on its way.
Here's a excerpt: Readers have money and time to invest. Authors want readers to invest that money and time in their novel. Ever watch the show Shark Tank? Its kinda like that. You have to convince the reader to take a chance on your story. A novel’s cover, synopsis and first few pages are what seals the deal. Read the rest on Underground Book Reviews. Here's an excerpt from my latest article on Underground Book Reviews. If you're an indie author, it may be worth your time. We keep hearing that independently published books need a “filter”, a formal process to separate the serious novels from the not-so-serious. If this is true, who is qualified to provide such a filter? Not us, we’re just indie writers like you. Anyway, thousands and thousands of indie novels are published in the English speaking world every year. A formal process of sifting through all of them is daunting, to say the least.
Maybe a different tack is needed. Maybe indie novels don’t need a filter. Maybe indie authors need a standard. Welcome to the Underground Certified program. |
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