tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20643677207410219522024-03-19T03:13:24.162-07:00Koch BooksFinding the macabre in the mundaneBradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.comBlogger167125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-81022184594607744692023-09-17T14:02:00.003-07:002023-09-17T14:02:30.845-07:00The Hotline at the End of the World - Now Available<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXdSdPM7mmjRPlAMbMbW_DoGn54l-Otv8l2pOHk8NYNE5LWJKtC1ZqgM_3GKP-0zInqlZuBE-VDYxnA2Zb3GNk5eh3j7t6QttRKy_4sIHiZnIQLk3Wmjwh4sdLEhoHAIRNHu2twPSMdbWOK1hUawqRbVAlW1bjven8kWv5xTVEurGWXBF5ii9glodO1P0/s2560/Final%20eBook%20Covers-03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXdSdPM7mmjRPlAMbMbW_DoGn54l-Otv8l2pOHk8NYNE5LWJKtC1ZqgM_3GKP-0zInqlZuBE-VDYxnA2Zb3GNk5eh3j7t6QttRKy_4sIHiZnIQLk3Wmjwh4sdLEhoHAIRNHu2twPSMdbWOK1hUawqRbVAlW1bjven8kWv5xTVEurGWXBF5ii9glodO1P0/s320/Final%20eBook%20Covers-03.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p>The third book in the All Our Forgotten Futures series is<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hotline-World-Forgotten-Futures-Book-ebook/dp/B0BW8JHNST" target="_blank"> now available as an eBook at Amazon.</a> </p><p>More about The Hotline at the End of the World:</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 14px; padding: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><i>In a world paralyzed by an unprecedented outbreak, Clint mans the CDC hotline, a solitary beacon of dwindling hope. Then, one fateful day, a call comes in. Clint finds himself navigating a delicate situation involving a mysterious woman, hinted at in classified files, who may possess the coveted cure. As the world remains under a suffocating lockdown, Clint's every word, every choice, holds the weight of untold futures.</i></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: -4px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><i>"The Hotline at the End of the World" is a gripping narrative of responsibility and suspense, set in a reality where a single phone call can alter the course of humanity.</i></span></p>BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-25231203280718333932023-07-25T12:02:00.006-07:002023-07-25T12:02:54.690-07:00Always Looking for Readers - Want a Free Book?<p>I'm always interested in sharing my books with fresh eyes and getting their feedback. If you want a free eReader copy of one of my recent releases, just hit me up at <a href="mailto:BradyKochBooks@gmail.com " target="_blank">BradyKochBooks@gmail.com </a>and let me know your preferred format. It's an open-door policy, so if you have any burning questions about my books, email me, and let's chat.</p><p>As of late, I've been sharing out <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/122760358-the-negotiated-death-of-sara-glen?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=QqoFxGcK1V&rank=8">The Negotiated Death of Sara Glen</a>.</p><p>Also, whenever I have a new book coming out in the months ahead, I use my reader lists to send out advance copies. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKITc0aJYwh_pQhLkFWAgNDLvaebjieBvDUIzP8r9m4ZTtjFzxsG-HYib8UQZiccu0bfa6pvj484-bc-dpR-dU9Ot7LqpW5biwD2WnGJruRNDdr1QTFKaPLoT14qFMSFmB6V_oU4GoVDYwp428_kC2f2b-A8yxo6y52kxJLbe8GBn5eDNTT0MewylwTlI/s1920/Cover%20AOFF%20NPCs%20(Desktop%20Wallpaper).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKITc0aJYwh_pQhLkFWAgNDLvaebjieBvDUIzP8r9m4ZTtjFzxsG-HYib8UQZiccu0bfa6pvj484-bc-dpR-dU9Ot7LqpW5biwD2WnGJruRNDdr1QTFKaPLoT14qFMSFmB6V_oU4GoVDYwp428_kC2f2b-A8yxo6y52kxJLbe8GBn5eDNTT0MewylwTlI/w541-h304/Cover%20AOFF%20NPCs%20(Desktop%20Wallpaper).jpg" width="541" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-8735860180325444782023-07-25T11:41:00.007-07:002023-07-25T11:45:38.210-07:00The Forgotten Sons of Wyoming - Now Available<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9jJj2tr17mplefgMkM3orHkM1AgHcwBMWcXa0yIDCz84zbuOiezO_JWkUBd0ltThnCDkkNChrvdeQUlDYDulVppEUcnd94PNOKj8EZdMdjUETrQGSpkd2-ZQkm_RcBhB8YVG1G2ZNFw8hN2rair7ux0pA3NAAmvFg-Qc5WyHLDcd4iUIUPVfGRdx9U5A/s955/Artboard%201%20copy%2015%20(2).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="955" data-original-width="597" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9jJj2tr17mplefgMkM3orHkM1AgHcwBMWcXa0yIDCz84zbuOiezO_JWkUBd0ltThnCDkkNChrvdeQUlDYDulVppEUcnd94PNOKj8EZdMdjUETrQGSpkd2-ZQkm_RcBhB8YVG1G2ZNFw8hN2rair7ux0pA3NAAmvFg-Qc5WyHLDcd4iUIUPVfGRdx9U5A/w315-h504/Artboard%201%20copy%2015%20(2).png" width="315" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-size: 14px;"><i>The men at Trinity Ranch all have something in common: none of them can remember how they arrived there or the terrible secret they all share.</i></span></p><p><span face="Amazon Ember, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0f1111;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">The landscape of social media is imploding, bifurcating and changing so fast, that it's hard to know where to post updates on projects. I've recently released the second book in the <i>All Our Forgotten Futures</i> cycle and am grateful for all the positive feedback on this one. The horror I enjoy delves more into claustrophobia and paranoia and The Forgotten Sons of Wyoming dives right into that realm. </span></span></p><p><span face="Amazon Ember, Arial, sans-serif"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: #0f1111;">It's available at</span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Forgotten-Sons-Wyoming-Futures-Book-ebook/dp/B0BW8K287S/ref=sr_1_4?qid=1690309847&refinements=p_27%3ABrady+Koch&s=books&sr=1-4"><b><span style="color: #04ff00;"> Amazon</span></b> </a><span style="color: #0f1111;">as a stand-alone eBook. </span></span></span></p><p><br /></p>BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-11246051243044284062023-05-07T21:44:00.001-07:002023-05-07T21:44:00.140-07:00Voyage Observation - @MicrocosmsFic <p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--wp--preset--color--paragraph); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px; margin-bottom: var(--wp--style--block-gap); margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>It's been ages, but I'm working on my new volume of short stories and thought writing some flash through <a href="http://microcosmsfic.com/2023/04/30/microcosms-189-announcing-the-karen-cox-prize-for-entertaining-short-fiction/#comment-111341" target="_blank">Microcosms </a>would be a good way to dust off the form. </i></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--wp--preset--color--paragraph); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px; margin-bottom: var(--wp--style--block-gap); margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--wp--preset--color--paragraph); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px; margin-bottom: var(--wp--style--block-gap); margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--wp--preset--color--paragraph); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px; margin-bottom: var(--wp--style--block-gap); margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b>Voyage Observation</b><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--wp--preset--color--paragraph); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px; margin-bottom: var(--wp--style--block-gap); margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It took four cycles of the coin-operated pirate ship ride in front of the Piggly Wiggly for Observation Subject #4 to nod off. The little girl’s mother let the machine slow to a halt before putting another quarter in and starting the ship rocking against the invisible waves again. The woman checked her watch and rattled the last three quarters in her hand. It was enough to fulfill the agreed-upon time that allowed the person from the agency to watch her adopted daughter.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--wp--preset--color--paragraph); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px; margin-bottom: var(--wp--style--block-gap); margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--wp--preset--color--paragraph); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px; margin-bottom: var(--wp--style--block-gap); margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Martha pulled her binoculars down again and wrinkled her nose. She then impulsively yawned and rubbed her left cheek. She’d somehow picked up this exact trio of actions when she was a child. No idea where it came from, just born with the unusual trait. Unlike the rest of the lab team she had to observe the dozen Observation Subjects from afar and, while she liked to keep tabs on their placements, sitting in the heat of the car always tired her out.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--wp--preset--color--paragraph); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px; margin-bottom: var(--wp--style--block-gap); margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--wp--preset--color--paragraph); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px; margin-bottom: var(--wp--style--block-gap); margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Today her cheek was numb. That wouldn’t last too much longer. The Botox was her little treat for learning the Nobel committee had nominated her work again. Ultimately, they would probably reject it again. Martha’s ethics on cloning were at least a decade ahead of that stodgy institution. If they surprised her and Martha did finally win the prize, she wanted to make sure she walked on the stage fresh-faced.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--wp--preset--color--paragraph); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px; margin-bottom: var(--wp--style--block-gap); margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--wp--preset--color--paragraph); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 28px; margin-bottom: var(--wp--style--block-gap); margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The final voyage of the pirate ship ended, and the mother roused her sleeping daughter. The girl opened her eyes and wrinkled her nose before yawning and rubbing her left cheek. Just like all the others. Just like her source watching her in the binoculars.</p>BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-9178646428707462352023-02-19T20:36:00.004-08:002023-02-19T20:36:47.108-08:00New Book Incoming: The Negotiated Death of Sara Glen releases February 24th.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6CW0hO_fyaxabRtQmRKJnrWymI7mg1rLuPR0y3fU-xppkfqxCxsilcppHxMFpeKr4lUtGtvOB1J6Sih0L2c4F8IKON9TAl_hSqYxOhINnkpVcAN-3FounXcGrS5fYPhyCAtQmxvgqCd5eDkMW5WJb1fY9Ljseutm9LOBQseNy9hP9iunSEuFbrcNr/s2560/Final%20eBook%20Covers-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1600" height="497" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6CW0hO_fyaxabRtQmRKJnrWymI7mg1rLuPR0y3fU-xppkfqxCxsilcppHxMFpeKr4lUtGtvOB1J6Sih0L2c4F8IKON9TAl_hSqYxOhINnkpVcAN-3FounXcGrS5fYPhyCAtQmxvgqCd5eDkMW5WJb1fY9Ljseutm9LOBQseNy9hP9iunSEuFbrcNr/w311-h497/Final%20eBook%20Covers-01.jpg" width="311" /></a></div><br /><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The results of an at-home DNA testing kit reveal the key to eradicating an emerging threat. Getting that key may cost Sara her life.</span> </i><p></p><p>I'm still here and still writing. After a number of years working on new material I'm proud to share the first of four books that will be published this year. Like Voltron, all four of these stories stand alone, but interweave into a larger work called All Our Forgotten Futures. </p><p>While Guns, Gods and Robots, dabbled in the golden age of mid 20th century science fiction, The Negotiated Death of Sara Glen is near-future sci-fi that leans into suspense and paranoia. </p><p>Look out for it at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BW6PZ8SW" target="_blank">Amazon </a>and all your other favorite online retailers. </p>BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-69559835221451297742021-12-07T10:29:00.003-08:002021-12-07T10:29:57.366-08:00Mission Drift: A Single Page RPG Now Available<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I<span style="font-family: inherit;"> took a break between the novels I'm editing and writing to create a single-page RPG for the Tiny Tome game jam</span>. </span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mission Drift</span></b></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Will you achieve your charity's vision of a better realm or lose all integrity to chase donations</span></i></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.4; margin-top: 0px;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">While townsfolk sing songs of adventurers prevailing over ancient evils and visiting rogues tell tales of hidden, distant treasures awaiting plunder, your mind always drifts to the immediate needs of the world around you that are going unmet. With a vision of a better future guiding you and a single gold coin willed to you from your dear departed Aunt, you go forth into the world to attempt a feat that would cause even the realm's bravest warriors to cower: start a charity!</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.4;"><em><span style="font-family: inherit;">How long can you keep your charity afloat when your donor has drifting interests? What will you compromise to keep meeting the needs across the realm?</span></em></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.4;"><em><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></em></p>
<iframe frameborder="0" src="https://itch.io/embed/1307429" width="552" height="167"><a href="https://bradythewriter.itch.io/mission-drift">Mission Drift by BradyTheWriter</a></iframe>BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-29169902918547458322020-11-10T17:39:00.001-08:002020-11-10T17:39:10.581-08:00Drive Thru FictionI posted the two free flash collections and GGR on <a href="https://www.drivethrufiction.com/m/browser/publisher/17496">Drive Thru Fiction</a> and they seem to have found a new audience. BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-64642188465335539422020-11-10T17:29:00.001-08:002020-11-10T17:29:42.627-08:00Trophy CaseI was looking for something else and discovered an older short story of mine was published on <a href="http://www.thestraybranch.org/archived-features/features-ss-2017/fiction/trophy-case-by-brady-koch/">The Stray Branch</a>. It's like finding an old business card from a job you no longer put on your resume.BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-39893956818910620492018-08-06T08:55:00.000-07:002018-08-06T08:55:17.743-07:00$2.75 Workout - @MicrocosmsFic<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>By my best estimate, I'm about 20% complete on my new novel and doing a little flash fiction to take a break. This week's <a href="http://microcosmsfic.com/2018/08/03/microcosms-134/" target="_blank">Microcosms </a>flash was fun, I got to set something in a place where I get to spend a part of my morning commute.</i></div>
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“C’mon son you only got five days to harden up. You want to take a beating in front of your boys?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Your girl?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Your momma?<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hell no.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Then get make a fist and get ready.” Doc Greene always closed out his protégé’s workout on the southern side of the 2 platform: the side the subway trains came in fastest. This was after a straight hour running up and down the 42<sup>nd</sup> Street station’s stairs, doing inclined burpees on the up ramp to the Port Authority Terminal, and repeatedly deadlifting the recycling bin at the end of the D line where the police rarely patrolled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m gonna make your fists concrete.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Julius nodded, jogging in place keeping his heart up and his mind off of the approaching headlamp. Later this week he’d be squaring up with Jackson ‘Big Bronx’ Davis who hit as hard as the oncoming subway car.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Doc Greene shouted, “Stick out those paws!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The subway roared from the tunnel and Julius shot out his fist. It connected with the steel side of the subway and he immediately retracted it. In quick succession, he pummeled the side of the train as is passed the platform. Each connection more excruciating than the last.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Jesus what the hell are you doing,” a new voice yelled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Julius turned to see a policeman, hand on his stun gun, ready to act.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You keep punching,” Doc commanded the boxer. He turned to the cop. “This young man is training for his upcoming fight.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You can’t punch the subway car, son.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“We paid our fare. This is the only gym we have, man.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The train stopped and Julius lowered his mangled fists. The officer grimaced and walked away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Doc turned back Julius, “OK two more trains for your knuckles then we’re workin’ that jaw.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-31545119940988854282017-09-06T09:33:00.000-07:002017-09-06T09:33:03.578-07:00Flight Attendants: Cycle 1<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I tried distilling a much longer story down to it's main conflict. The long version may come back in my new collection.</i></div>
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<b>Flight Attendants:
Cycle 1<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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The sound of the fingernail clippings bouncing down the
suction hose on their way the fission reactor were as satisfying today as they
were when their mission started five hundred Earth day cycles ago. The shaved
hairs didn’t make noise, but those nails ricocheting off the walls of the vacuum
were delightful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Twenty fingers and toes done. Smooth face and scalp. Francis
closed the chamber and floated over to the next waiting pilgrim. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“We need to talk about this.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Francis ignored her, which was surprisingly easy considering
they were the only two people conscious on the spacecraft. They’d grown to be
mutually amiable the way they would have it stranded on a desert island. The
chamber door hissed open and presented the next pilgrim in need of a trim. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Francis, this is important. We can’t wait another cycle.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes they could. Even with the impending collapse of the
Earth within itself, the planet’s best engineers had thought through everything
in their race to jettison a representative sample of humans to the closest inhabitable
planet. They had to have considered whatever it was Estelle was so worried
about.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“At lease let me get through my shift.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had five more pilgrims to clean. The suspended animation chambers
were great at keeping their occupants alive with the lowest amount of oxygen
and nutrition possible, but they hadn’t found a way around the hair issue. It
didn’t stop growing and clogged the machinery. That’s where Francis and Ester
came in. They would run first shift for the initial fifty years of the mission,
trimming the hair and nails of the 1,008 remaining humans from Earth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When their shift was up they would wake up the next pair of custodians
for the remainder of their journey. Esther and Francis would clock out, so to
speak. There was only enough oxygen to go around. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Francis.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Four more Esther.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She floated over to him and he finally turned to her. A bead
of water lifted up from her eyelash.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Francis, I’m pregnant.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He froze. “No, the engineers. . . we’re sterilized. . . I.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m pregnant.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But, the oxygen.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-43545084777792603642017-02-21T15:22:00.000-08:002017-02-21T15:22:09.654-08:00Flash! Vol. 2 Now Available<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAgZEHsKbzIcSmuFCk2MVc81z8j9FT6BshCvDR0gTrlboJ28daIHNnn39OsAdTgaZucpKVpzJhTvtA2p3DeU_-mkpEh58zF5b_nMp0KnK_0hJrQztruUovy6yrLajOb49qf8dNr9DHIWM/s1600/IMG_0751.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAgZEHsKbzIcSmuFCk2MVc81z8j9FT6BshCvDR0gTrlboJ28daIHNnn39OsAdTgaZucpKVpzJhTvtA2p3DeU_-mkpEh58zF5b_nMp0KnK_0hJrQztruUovy6yrLajOb49qf8dNr9DHIWM/s320/IMG_0751.JPG" width="205" /></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: raleway, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: raleway, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: raleway, sans-serif;">The end of the world in five minutes or less! Three dozen fictions of bad people and bad decisions across the galaxy or maybe just on their lunch break. I've boiled down the short story format to it's essence and offer science fiction, horror, and criminal misdeeds in these bite sized tales.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: raleway, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: raleway, sans-serif;">Just like Vol. 1, I'm making this new collection <b>FREE </b>to download on <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?hl=en&q=http://books.noisetrade.com/bradykoch/flash-vol-2&source=gmail&ust=1487718972689000&usg=AFQjCNGZzy1tsNNcpfqHUiI6kfAVHeNT1A" href="http://books.noisetrade.com/bradykoch/flash-vol-2" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">NoiseTrade</a>. ENJOY!</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: raleway, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: raleway, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">And of course if you would rather </span></span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">purchase</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> directly. Flash! Vol. 2 is also available on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06W5C7NYT/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1487632861&sr=8-1&keywords=brady+koch">Amazon </a>and <a href="https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/flash-vol-2">Kobo</a>.</span></span></span></div>
BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-55757723705110309012017-02-12T11:43:00.000-08:002017-02-12T11:43:02.999-08:00 An Afternoon In the Arena at the Duval County Fair - Angry Hourglass<i>This week's <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/2017/02/11/flash-frenzy-round-126/comment-page-1/#comment-5582">Angry Hourglass</a> Submission!</i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>An Afternoon In the Arena at the Duval County Fair</b><br />
<br />
The beast towered over him. Silent. Guymon hadn’t thought about spiders having vocal chords before this moment. It made sense. If they didn’t have any means of making noise before The Process, they wouldn’t have any afterwards.<br />
<br />
“Don’t hurt him Papa,” Carla shouted from the crowd. His daughter sounded just like she did in the basement when determining that the creepy crawlies in the window sill was a just a daddy long legs. She had no heart for other spiders, but daddy long legs always earned her sympathy. “Their mouths are so tiny they can’t even bite people. Just other bugs,” she would educate him.<br />
<br />
“OK, Carla. I promise I’ll never kill any daddy long legs.”<br />
<br />
Twenty feet above him though the spiders’ mandibles looked like they could exposed Guymon’s skull with the efficiency of a can opener.<br />
<br />
The rain-rusted loud speakers buzzed from the four corners of the dirt arena. “And here comes hometown hero Guymon Mallerno. Let’s see he’s a match for Big Daddy!” The crowd cheered. If it was for the once-defensive end of the Reagan High Growlers or the double decker sized spider threatening to eviscerate him, it didn’t matter. The noise of the drunken mob agitated the arachnid.<br />
<br />
The promise of The Process had bankrupted the nation. A chemical reaction that could instantly expand organic materials held unlimited promise. Produce and livestock could be exponentially enlarged to feed everyone and reduce the farmland needed. All government resources were steered immediately to the full scale roll-out of The Process by executive order.<br />
<br />
The problem was that ten months after enlargement, the cells broke down. Killing anything that had become gigantic. And anyone that had consumed Process-treated items. The only thing that The Process didn’t destroy were arachnids, leaving the nation stuck with thousands of the giant monstrosities. Not wanting to miss any opportunity to placate what was left of the masses, the beasts were put into service entertaining them.<br />
<br />
Guymon didn’t care about this history though. It didn’t matter in this moment. He seized the spiders leg and started to lift before the creature could react. He wouldn’t be able to keep his daughter’s promise today.BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-75015112922515822712017-02-07T15:10:00.000-08:002017-02-07T15:10:00.522-08:00 Titanium and Supplication - Angry Hourglass @LadyHazmat<i>A prequel of sorts to a story in Guns, Gods & Robots. This is my weekly <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/2017/02/04/flash-frenzy-round-125/comment-page-1/#comment-5563">Angry Hourglass</a> entry.</i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Titanium and Supplication</b><br />
<br />
<br />
“Sorry I’m kind of in the middle of nowhere. . . OK I’ll try that. . . Thanks.”<br />
<br />
Bisim slid the phone back into his cargo pocket and approached his lifeless travel companion.<br />
Reaching behind the solar panel his pinky finger found the recessed toggle the Taladez operator had just told him existed. The face plate on the Tyson.2 flash white then offered the text: SOLAR BYPASS NUCLEAR AUXILARY INITIATED. BATTERY LIFE 93 HOURS. REBOOTING. ENJOY. <br />
<br />
Of course his Tyson.2 would breakdown at the most important part of this whole deployment to Wat Arun. The robots were made for rain, snow, heat, but the constant cloud cover over the past four days had been too much for the machine to overcome. Bisim sat down on a low temple wall hoping to get a few rounds of Popping Penguins in on his phone while the machine started up.<br />
<br />
The monk, Bisim’s contact at the temple, spent the robot’s reboot time examining the automaton. The small man looked especially interested in Tyson’s articulated hands.<br />
<br />
“Why am I setting this up here?”Bisim asked the bald man.<br />
<br />
“You don’t know?”<br />
<br />
“I mean, I know the purpose. But why here? This is the temple of sunrises right?”<br />
<br />
“Young man, someone’s setting sun is another’s sunrise.”<br />
<br />
Bisim rolled his eyes. The monk sounded just like the rest of the holy men he’d been working with since taking this internship. He thought the stereotype of these divine thinkers would have been debunked. The more Tyson.2 deployments he worked through the more the stereotypes were reinforced.<br />
<br />
The machine clicked and picked itself up like a time-lapse of a mushroom springing into existence. “Wonderful,” the monk declared. As soon Tyson’2 faceplate was illuminated Bisim dialed the first of what would be a lifetime of clients to use the robot’s services. An old man in a dark room popped onto the screen.<br />
<br />
“The incense,” Bisim prompted the monk. The diminutive man handed the robot a bindle of the perfumed sticks. Tyson.2 lit them with a butane fingertip. The robot lifted the incense to its forehead and in unison, recited prayers and last rites with the dying man on the screen.BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-40024852810052783782017-02-07T09:57:00.000-08:002017-02-07T09:57:00.433-08:00Stonework<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>This is from an October Flash competition I didn't finish in time. Always a fan of banished pilgrims.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Stonework<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Each time it happened Joseph had to travel deeper into the
woods to find the right stone: soft enough to chisel yet durable enough to
withstand the harsh rain and wind of their new frontier claim. Wood didn’t work
for the grave markers as it quickly took to rot and fell apart after two
seasons. This afternoon he happened across a large block of limestone that
would make a fine marker.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After dragging it back home, he took to hammering the boy’s
name in to it. What did she decide again? Ezekiel? “That’s the one,” he
sniffed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He wouldn’t want to check in on Maria just yet. She was
still in a tempest after delivering the child into the world on a Thursday and,
if past experience were to hold true, she’d be pouring over her astral charts
to determine where she made her mistake. And start plotting out their next
attempt at a Sabbath born child.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A small row of grave markers cataloged their other attempts
to fulfill his wife’s efforts to summon a proper demon into their plane. Maria
had a lifetime of revenge to extract. Starting with all of those folks in Cow
Ford who chased her out of town. They would soon learn what kind of heretic she
truly was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At first, Joseph secretly welcomed the banishment. It
allowed him to live a quiet life and offer his wife a chance to study her arts,
no matter how dark they were. Over time though, his heart ached more with each
new gravestone he made. He’d already outlived his father, yet was denied
fatherhood himself. He’d given up on his wife long ago, and only stayed to
protect any more of their offspring from her ongoing vindictive acts of
procreation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hammering of his chisel on the stone drew the Lokota. They
were always watching. They were as
scared of Maria as anyone else, but they honored the agreement Joseph made with
them upon first arriving in the prairie. Take and raise the newborns and Joseph
would provide them with talismans needed for what seemed like an endless,
formless war they continuously were fighting. What were they doing with the locks
of Maria’s witched hair Joseph harvested from his wife with each Wolf Moon?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The scout’s shadow at the edge of the woods, knelt, lifted
the swaddled babe and walked away. Joseph continued hammering, hoping it would
hide any of the baby’s crying from Maria. As he worked the stone, the farmer
catalogued the rest of his day. He’d dig the hole, put in the dead rabbit, fill
it and plant the grave marker. Only then would he interrupt his wife and
declare the task complete.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today he had another task requiring a larger stone. There
would be no more need for the babies, the rabbits and the truce with the
Lokota. He raised his hammer again and started to scribe his wife’s name into
the rock. <o:p></o:p></div>
BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-73212917102217173612017-02-04T09:26:00.000-08:002017-02-04T09:26:02.336-08:00Sleepover<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sleepover<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Mom I don’t want to go to a sleep over.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No protesting, Diane. You’re going to have fun.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“But I don’t want to babysit Jason.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Don’t worry I’m packing his Game Boy and charger. He’ll
entertain himself. Now zip up so we can </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Outside was even colder than it looked. The three feet of snow
had hardened into frozen crust covering the cul-de-sac and all routes to the
school. What had started as a snow day four
days ago had become another reinter break with the promise of adding days back
at the end of the school year. Diana should have been Forrest High decorating
for the Winter Formal. Trying on her dress. Practicing looking up into Grant
Banion’s eyes as they slow danced. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now she was trudging through the snow to Rory Hive’s house
for some cockamamie sleepover her mother had negotiated with Rory’s mom. She’d
been friends with Rory in Elementary school, but they just grew apart. Diana
got into cheerleading. Rory kind of became a dork. Mom still thought they were
best friends, but then again, she also still talked to her daughter like she
was a still a 5<sup>th</sup> grader.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jason lagged behind crunching the ice building around the
sewer grates. Diana would have yelled for him to catch up if the wind wasn’t
promising to suck her breath out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rory’s mom answered the door offering two large red
unwrapped lollipops. One was instantly in Jason’s mouth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh you’ve thought of everything!” Mom praised.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It’s not my first rodeo. Now why don’t you two go up to
Rory’s room. All of the kids are up there already.” The house still smelled
like Diana had remembered it when she was a kid, menthol and electrical fire. Rory’s
mom knelt and whispered in Diane’s ear, “Grant Banion is already up there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her heart dropped into her stomach and instantly started
dissolving. <i>Why was Grant here?</i> Under
her winter outwear she had on her dumpiest outfit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It’s just like the Winter Formal,” Mom said, planting her
hand in the small of her daughter’s back and pushing her away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Diane’s head was swimming with embarrassment and she lost
control of her body. Her hand grabbed the lollipop and feet carried her up the
stairs to Rory’s room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jason violated the first rule of entering a teenage girl’s
room when he swung the door open without knocking. Thankfully there was nothing
to see. “Is there a wall charger in her?” he yelled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rory was sitting at the same desk they used to play MASH on.
Six other kids from the neighborhood all stared back at her in silence. Diane
scanned the room for Grant and found him in sitting on the beanbag chair in the
far corner. Somehow he was dressed even more haphazard than she was. He had his
sweater sleeves rolled up to his elbows and was scratching his forearms. The
same arms that should have been holding her at the formal that evening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> “Welcome to my party
Diane.” Rory leap from her desk and showed her once-friend the small banner
she’d been coloring in. POX PARTY 1988!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Confused, Diane looked up at Rory and for the first time saw
all of the red dots on her skin. They were all under a film of dried lotion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Diana swung in place to see her mom closing the door behind
her. “It’s for the best honey.”</span></div>
BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-51218011556323480502016-12-16T06:10:00.000-08:002016-12-16T06:10:04.628-08:00Bonemeal - Flash Fiction <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Here's a little flash I wrote for <a href="http://www.mashstories.com/">Mash Stories</a>. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bonemeal</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Release your fist.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Gladys did as Inspector 2 requested. Her fingers became pink
as blood flowed back into her hand and into the government man’s vial. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“We’re almost done for another month,” the man sighed;
exchanging an empty vial for a full one. Last visit he’d been the one assigned
to inspect the farm. His partner was on blood duty. She thought of them as “Inspector
1” and “Inspector 2.” Gladys knew if she got comfortable with the men and their
unannounced visits she’d start chatting with them. As her breeder’s circle
reminded her, being hospitable would do her in. They’d find out about the hidden
room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was all she could do not to at least offer these amiable
men something to drink. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Sorry to have to visit so early.” Inspector 1 silently returned
from the farm. His vinyl biohazard suit still smelled of the fresh bonemeal
fertilizer they’d laid on the potato field on Monday. “These schedules they assign us are randomized.”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Oh, I understand.” Five in the morning wasn’t too bad a
time for an inspection. She was already up making coffee; a routine she kept in
the two years since Jerry has passed. At least the bathrobe she’d been wearing
made the blood draw easier for the men.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“We’re living in different times I s’pose,” Inspector 1 yawned.
“You ‘bout done Simon?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Dammit, now I know his
name.</i> She tried to purge the man’s name from her memory. Simon slid the
needle from the crook of her elbow and replaced it with a bandage. “Got what I
need till next time.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then the man yawned. “Geez, Dave look what you have me
doing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Again, Simon stifled a yawn. “Sorry, Gladys. You’re not
boring, it’s just early.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Looks like we’ll have to stop somewhere for some coffee.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Oh nonsense Gary,” she instinctually said reaching for the
pot of coffee she had no intention of finishing. She stopped, hoping they hadn’t
caught her gesture. <i>The chickens behind
the wall knew how to keep quiet, why can’t I?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Thanks for offering. We have time. Next farm is only about
twenty minutes away.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The men quietly packed up their equipment as Gladys poured
the coffee. “Gary, Simon do you ever
miss the chickens?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Can’t say that I do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Yea. I always thought they were nasty little animals.” Simon
wrinkled his nose. “Not surprised they triggered the plague. Didn’t break my
heart we had to exterminate all of them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Mine either,” she lied. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“You know what I miss? Especially this time of day?” Gary
asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Eggs.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Rather be alive than eating an omelet,” Simon concluded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Cream?” She offered, swinging the refrigerator door open. Gladys
froze. Her carton of fresh eggs were tucked into the door. A relic of
pre-plague life, now prohibited by international law. Punishable by prison. Her
stomach dropped.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to step away from those eggs,”
Gary warned. “I’m afraid we can’t match your hospitality.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="giphy-embed" frameborder="0" height="366" src="//giphy.com/embed/12Kbpf9xCbQcjC" width="480"></iframe></div>
<a href="https://giphy.com/gifs/12Kbpf9xCbQcjC">via GIPHY</a>BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-88775595092736645692016-11-20T08:40:00.000-08:002016-11-20T08:40:01.026-08:00Sleight of Hand - @MicrocosmsFic<i>I'm slowly getting back into a flash groove with <a href="http://microcosmsfic.com/2016/11/18/microcosms-46/#comment-33273">Microcosms</a>.</i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Sleight of Hand</b><br />
<br />
“Show me.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t.”<br />
<br />
“Ma’am I need you to show me the place-“<br />
<br />
“No, I can’t. Truly,” she pleaded.<br />
<br />
Tears were welling in the woman’s eyes but Detective Brigham had press on. He pointed his pencil at the lone item on the stage of the empty theater: a large cabinet on casters. The trails in the pool of blood on the stage floor were evidence enough that the cabinet had been moved recently. “I know you’re shook up, but I need you to focus for me. Show me where the swords go.”<br />
<br />
“If I tell you, if voids my contract with the union and I’ll never get work again.” She wiped her nose on a sequined sleeve that matched her skin tight leotard.<br />
<br />
“And if you don’t tell me, I’ll have to assume you’re an accessory to this man’s death.”<br />
<br />
“I’ve got a daughter at home.”<br />
<br />
Brigham tucked his pencil behind his ear and approached the dresser where, until half an hour ago, a man’s dead body had been lying out of. A dull sword still impaled in his stomach.<br />
<br />
“So you were having an affair with your employer?” The Detective checked his notepad again. “The Amazing Gerald?”<br />
<br />
She nodded. He continued, “You know you weren’t the only one right?” She blinked indifferently. He’d seen that look on her face enough to know his instincts were still strong.<br />
<br />
“You found out today didn’t you?”<br />
<br />
A cold stare. Her tears were gone.<br />
<br />
“That he was sleeping with all of his assistants? Not one. . . but all.”<br />
<br />
She nodded.<br />
<br />
“So you did it. You switched out one of the dummy swords with a real one.”<br />
<br />
She nodded again. Brigham had seen many a death of lady’s man before. But never one that played out in front of a sold out theater.BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-62087439089830079412016-11-12T08:53:00.000-08:002016-11-12T08:53:01.467-08:00Honorable Ink - @MicrocosmsFic<i>Took some time off from writing. Cleaning out the cobwebs with a new contribution to <a href="http://microcosmsfic.com/2016/11/11/microcosms-45/#comment-32262">Microcosms</a>.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<b>Honorable Ink</b><br />
<br />
Repeatedly Jesus extended all of his fingers then gripped back into a claw trying to get the tremor out of his hand. He’d been tattooing for three hours at this point and his hand ached, but he knew that his canvas was in even more pain. She’s asked for a large chestpiece. Something big enough to cover the large zipper of a scar running the length of her sternum. The chest was thin skin but she was tougher than he expected an 80 year old woman to be.<br />
<br />
“You done with your break, Jesus?” She asked. Ernestine had been fidgeting the whole time. Not from the pain of the tattoo gun, but because she’d been on the phone the whole time arguing with an electrician she was convinced was overcharging her.<br />
<br />
“You know we can break this into multiple sessions.”<br />
<br />
“No time for that. C’mon get back at it.”<br />
<br />
Jesus clicked the gun back on and dipped the needle back into the watery ink. He picked up the shading of the thorny band across the sacred heart.<br />
<br />
“Watch your outlining,” she warned.<br />
<br />
He sighed and kept at her tattoo. At first he thought this would be a good trade-off for Ernestine turning a blind eye to the tattoo parlor he ran out of his apartment kitchen.<br />
<br />
“Wait, this looks off.” She tapped her fingernail on the reference photo she’d brought with her. After close inspection he did see the difference on the thorn he was greying in with that in the photo of the same tattoo on her heart donor’s chest.<br />
<br />
“How can I commemorate this man if it’s not identical?”<br />
<br />
“Anything you say, Ernestine.” He deepened the shading until it was as dark as the photo of the man she was hoping to honor for making the ultimate donation.BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-44904777437213304012016-10-07T05:30:00.000-07:002016-10-07T05:30:10.799-07:00Fall Festival<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Fall Festival<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hersh to the day when we don’t neeed this stinkin’ festival
anymore!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like the clapping crowd, Mayor Billingsly was already drunk
from the tub gin Amos Walton had been making all Summer long. Dolly was happy her
boss didn’t mess up his first duty for the day, but she needed to make sure he
made his way through the rest of the day’s obligations. He still had to hand
out the trophy at the zombie chuckin’ competition, put the first rubber band
around the undead man’s head at the “How many till it pops?” tent and the one
he was most looking forward to, hosting the Miss Post-Apocalypse McKohn County pageant.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You need so slow it down sir,” she said, pulling him off
the platform.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nonsense,” he countered. “Gotta make this last festival one
we all remember.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sir, there will be
another on next Fall.” November was the perfect time for the event. It was
right before the welcome of winter where the remaining zombies would freeze and
give the survivors some respite.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not for me.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a yellowing
bite on his forearm. Her stomach dropped. “C’mon Dolly let’s make this one for
the ages. Just promise me one thing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Anything sir.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When I turn zombie. Make sure I don’t end up in Amos
Walton’s goddam catapult.”<o:p></o:p></div>
BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-78141849366279827232016-09-09T10:21:00.000-07:002016-09-09T10:21:00.155-07:00Playlist - @200WordTuesdays<i>One of August's themes for <a href="http://www.200wordtuesdays.com/">200 Word Tuesday</a>'s was Strange Songs. Here's' what I got:</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<b>Playlist</b></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Glenna thrived on finding new music, but anticipating Mondays was starting to ruin her weekends. The pit in her stomach soured with each week that she received her updated YourTracks Weekly playlist on Sounder; Thirty songs the service curated based on her listening history.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A month ago she got hooked on the new song “Greener Things” by The Fireflies and favorited the track. Looking the band up on Twitter later that week, she saw that the bassist died the prior day from undisclosed causes. Her heart broke a little and made her love the song even more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three weeks ago, two band members from two new favorites died later in the week. It continued with each passing Monday. More recommendations, Glenna favoriting more songs and more undisclosed causes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite sharing an account and password with her friends, Glenna couldn’t tell them about the pattern. They’d think she was crazy. <i>Should I contact Sounder? The police? What if I don’t even listen to the playlist? Or favorite the track?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Glenna’s phone chimed. A new notification. YourTracks Weekly was ready for her. She hovered her thumb over the Sounder app fighting the impulse to discover a new favorite. Maybe this was week the pattern will change.</div>
</div>
BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-36978704131173405742016-09-09T05:00:00.000-07:002016-09-09T05:00:37.587-07:00#CoverReveal: Flash! Vol. 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuXgBbO_D6iy6uip336hsV-Kk5YfApzX1duCoKI9_nyw29FAHs4xKIdQIccArCdUGjcTDOFD9OYhrZ02DzkwXEzDMrSqGILlZ7_1IB85NOIu9eHsAPscGY3oyfJFL4Hyvany2knWH4QB8/s1600/IMG_0751.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuXgBbO_D6iy6uip336hsV-Kk5YfApzX1duCoKI9_nyw29FAHs4xKIdQIccArCdUGjcTDOFD9OYhrZ02DzkwXEzDMrSqGILlZ7_1IB85NOIu9eHsAPscGY3oyfJFL4Hyvany2knWH4QB8/s640/IMG_0751.JPG" width="409" /></a></div>
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In what I hope to become an annual event, I'm publishing Flash! Vol. 2 this November at pay-what-you-like sites <a href="http://www.noisetrade.com/">NoiseTrade </a>and <a href="http://www.openbooks.com/">OpenBooks</a>. In between my longer pieces and novels, I like to write flash fiction and short stories to shake out the cobwebs and try out different formats and story approaches. As you'll see soon, some of these stories evolve into longer tales that I flesh out further for other publications. </div>
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For those of you who prefer your e-reader's book stores, I'll also be making this available at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Brady-Koch/e/B00JK67W5Q/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1470608892&sr=8-1">Amazon </a>and elsewhere later in the month. </div>
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More soon!</div>
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<br /></div>
BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-2435333396005181972016-09-03T09:00:00.000-07:002016-09-03T09:00:23.626-07:00Epilogue from Missing Justice: Inside the Rose Murder Trial - @MicrocosmsFic<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Here's another <a href="http://microcosmsfic.com/2016/09/02/microcosms-35/#comment-18123">Microcosms </a>entry from this week.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Epilogue from Missing Justice: Inside the Rose Murder Trial</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Life after the Rose verdict was as you could imagine. Nobody
trusted me anymore. My wife left and took the kid with her. The bowling team
dissolved. I found myself assigned to the worst details the force had to offer.
Some loyalty, huh?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Seeing as how Rose walked because of me losing my service
weapon, Chief only let me carry a Taser. That didn’t slow me down though. I led
the precinct in collars till the day I retired. You can look that up. I also unofficially
led the precinct in Tasings. With guns they count every shot you make, every
bullet gets inventoried. With the Taser though, you can go hog wild with the
thing and no Internal Affairs pencil pusher is the wiser.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And I suppose you read this whole tell-all wondering if I’d
ever mention the incident at the Duval County Renaissance Faire? I know you’re
here for the main course: finding out how an obviously guilty Wallace Rose walked
free. You really want to know about me getting my comeuppance at that festival.
Right? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I hate to disappoint, but everything you want to know is already
in that police report. You can find it on the internet with all of the videos
of the day. Yes, there was a riot when those two princesses were fist fighting
over the last turkey leg. And yes I got kicked in the teeth by the donkey that
the wizard guy was riding. But here’s what I’ll say that wasn’t in the report:
I Tased that donkey to the point where he threw that wizard off and then
relieved himself on that dopey pointy hat he had on. Probably the most
rewarding day on the force in my life. Who’s laughing now? Hope you your money’s
worth from my book.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-23601701074375443872016-08-20T08:56:00.000-07:002016-08-20T08:56:06.142-07:00Post Bellum Praxis - @microcosmsfic<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thought it was be impossible to use <a href="http://microcosmsfic.com/2016/08/19/microcosms-33/#comment-15343">Microcosms </a>default prompts of double decker bus and children without it turning into Harry Potter and Prisoner of Azkaban.</span></i><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Post Bellum Praxis</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Does it actually drive?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“How do you think we got it here?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rollie hadn’t seen a wheeled vehicle much less a double decker bus outside of a museum in his short lifetime. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Now sit still.” The nurse pressed Rollie’s arm against the padded bar. The bus was full of ten year-olds with June birthdays going through the same procedure. Even though the Faceless arrived on Earth with the gift of anti-gravity technology, they didn’t bring a better way to inject tracking chips into their subjects. The syringe bores were as large as the straws used to puncture their allotted calorie bags.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hold your breath.” The bus was supposed to keep the children’s mind off of the anxiety of this process, but only made it worse. Rollie would rather go through this alone than in front a dozen other crying children. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pain shot up his arm before he noticed the nurse make her move. The small chip was in his arm now. Tracking his movements. Making the Faceless more comfortable at home in their latest planetary conquest.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> “You’ll get used to it. The rest of your birthdays are much easier.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The small metal probe under his skin felt like a grain of rice. She was right, his other birthdays would be better. Eleven: aptitude screenings. Twelve: career assignments. Thirteen thru sixteen: mind sync regimen . Seventeen: mate designation. And so on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You’re blessed to not know of life before the Faceless. The war, the strife, the overwhelming weight of it all.” She placed the bandage on the wound. “I saw your little brother outside. I tell him you were brave and didn’t even cry.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rollie and the nurse placed two fingers over their hearts reciting the Earth’s new credo, completing the new tradition. “By giving up all we gain all.”</span>BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-3593363340916860672016-08-18T13:30:00.000-07:002016-08-18T13:30:09.120-07:00#GGR Review Quotes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Made these little do-dads with some pull quotes from recent reviews. Definitely going to use them in the back of my new books. </div>
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<br />BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064367720741021952.post-14876244945900760122016-08-13T09:18:00.000-07:002016-08-13T09:18:04.051-07:00Bohemian 13<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>I started writing this for Microcosms, but I went off the given theme and well past the word count. Unable to reign it in for competition, I decided to love it as it is. Enjoy.</i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bohemian 13</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“That’s baloney.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I assure you it is not.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“The fourteenth floor is just the real thirteenth floor. They
just changed the buttons.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“There is a thirteenth floor,” The elevator man yawned.
Every summer the Grand Bohemian was inundated with wealthy guests, all bringing
their miserable children with them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I heard at school that it’s unlucky, so they don’t even
build one. But that makes no sense.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Young man, if there is not a floor you need me to drop you off
at, I’m going to need you to get off my elevator.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I swiped a twenty from my mom’s purse this morning. It’s
yours if you take me to the thirteenth floor. That’s probably more money than
you make in a week.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Steer clear of the
door,” Clive announced, simultaneously twisting the lever holding out his hand
for the bribe. The nameless boy parked the twenty spot into the man’s glove.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The elevator man stopped the lift deftly between the twelfth
and fourteenth floors and pushed the boy aside. The gate opened to a locked
door. With a twist of the key from Clive’s ring, the thirteenth floor opened up
to them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The floor was completely unlike the others in hotel. Except
for the support beams, the floor plan was completely open. Long rectangular wooden
crates lay evenly across the floor like dominoes on a table. The boy cautiously
stepped from the elevator while Clive remained inside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Wow, what is all of this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The hotel employee sniffed. The floor smelled sweet like
fresh leather. “The Grant Bohemian was build atop an old grave site from
influenza days. The only contingency the county gave us for this property was
to relocate the remains. Irrationally, no other county wanted the diseased
bodies. So this is our compromise. We simply moved all of them on the unused
thirteenth floor.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“That’s baloney,” the boy turned, his confidence wavering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Is it?” Clive shut the gate before the boy could stop him. After
lowering the lift two floors he could no longer hear the brat screaming. He
didn’t need the twenty dollars before, but it made it easier to walk out on
this miserable job at the Grand Bohemian.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
BradyKochhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15160607789569089213noreply@blogger.com0