The Chronicles of Dr. Orek Nebelwerfer

by Michael Morgan © 2018 All Rights Reserved

This is the first chapter of a Cattlepunk/Steampunk story I have been playing with. Hopefully, I can flesh this out into a series, and maybe a book. Quien sabe?

— 1 —

 

A screech-lurch and the tempo of the iron wheels clacking over rail joints changed. Roger shifted position in the angle of bench seat and wall as the sway of the second-class passenger car lulled him back to sleep beneath the heavy felt hat being crushed out of shape against the window.

“Clarksville next!” called the conductor as the door at the end of the car slammed open. “All out for Clarksville!” Another screech-lurch shook the car as the conductor stopped next to Roger’s seat. “Hey mister. Clarksville next.” At Roger’s feeble wave, the conductor shrugged and yanked open the door spilling the sulfurous reek of sooty coal smoke through the car.

The slamming door brought Roger fully awake. Pinching the crown of his hat, he straightened in the seat before settling the hat back on his head. The scrubby second growth trees crowded the window threatening to overrun and take back the land cleared by the Texas & Pacific through Fannin County, Texas.

Cleared fields broke out on either side of the car leaving the no obstacle to the westering sun as the tempo of the wheels slowed again and the engine’s wailing cry signaled arrival. A quick glance confirmed his soogan and the fringed rifle scabbard sporting Comanche beadwork still lay in the overhead rack.

The town rolled slowly past the filthy windows. People going about their normal business was no comfort. Roger’s toe gently tapped the sole of the boot worn by the man sleeping on the facing seat, “Up you get Gordon. We’re in Clarksville.”

“Yeah, I heard the man.” A gloved thumb pushed back the brim of the tan felt hat exposing an exceptional walrus moustache that had once been a luxuriant black before the silver took over, and friendly green eyes looking out past the crow’s feet in their corners. Gordon fished in his pocket and thumbed open the cover on his watch, “Damn. Stopped again.” He held it up to his hear and shook it gently before taking the finger of a glove in his teeth and tugging his hand free before winding the stem and returning the watch to his pocket.

Roger swayed on his feet as the train lurched to a stop along the station platform. He threw the bulky soogan over one shoulder, and held the cased Winchester at the balance. “I’ll circle and come in from the west. Meet you at the hotel.” At Gordon’s nod, he joined the other passengers headed for the front door of the car.

That kid is always in a rush, Gordon levered himself off the bench, and grasped the handle of the ratty carpetbag that had been lying on the seat like an old hound napping. Gordon tipped his hat to a passing woman and stepped in behind the last of the departing passengers headed for the rear exit. Just hope the folks hereabout are none too lively.

Roger turned right as he stepped onto the platform and began hurrying through the crowd ignoring the occasional complaint as he glanced rapidly left and right. Coming to the end of the platform, he took the wooden steps two at a time and stretched to jump the foul puddle at the bottom.

“Hey Mister!” The caller suddenly blocking Gordon’s path was a skinny younger fellow wearing a miserable excuse for a moustache and a dark green suit with brown velvet lapels. Weak-seeming gray eyes looked into Gordon’s, “May I have your name sir? For the Clarksville Times. That’s the paper I work for…” The man’s voice stumbled to a stop at Gordon’s noncommittal gaze. “Uh, We like to report on important folks coming into town…”

“Orek Nebelwerfer,” Gordon spoke the name slowly. “He come through town?”

“I-I don’t rightly know, sir.” The reporter glanced at the rapidly thinning crowd of passengers from the train, “If you’ll excuse me!”

Gordon watched the reporter hurry up to his next victim before turning left and heading for the stair at the end of the platform. Everybody in a hurry these days.

Roger turned between two buildings and found himself on what looked like the main street through town. The boardwalk along the shop fronts thumped a brisk rhythm of passersby.  Nodding to a matronly woman who shot a glance in his direction, Roger stepped up on the walk and proceeded to take in the town with a purposeful stride. Everyone he passed looked to be going about the business of the day in an unhurried pace. Any sound of raised voices was easily explained as necessary to the task at hand. When the commercial buildings faded into houses, he crossed the street and headed back.

Gordon reached the edge of town and stood quietly looking at the east Texas pines jutting above horizon on the far side of the cleared acreage. A few wagons and mounted riders were visible, but not the wagon they sought. “You lost mister?” The boy looked to be seven or eight. Sun-bleached hair, nut-brown skin, and dirty bare feet looked up at Gordon.

“No sir, I’m not lost,” Gordon’s smile spread his moustache like eagle wings. “Just wonderin’ if a friend of mine had come through town. You hear tell of a revival or medicine show comin’ through recently?”

“Naw. Nothin’ like that,” the boy pinched his chin in the manner of an old man thinking. “If there was a Revival Meetin’ around, Ma would have made me wash and put on my Sundays.”

“Thank ye kindly,” Gordon turned and started back into town.

“If I see ‘em should I tell ‘em you’re looking fer ‘em?”

Gordon looked back over his shoulder, “No need. Just stay away from those medicine shows. What they sell is poison.” He left the boy standing in the road as his attention turned back to the town.

 

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A Chance to Succeed

“I want to, but…” is a recurring theme I hear from people I talk to. The “what” of their stated desire is irrelevant to their more important message that says, “I’m afraid to fail.” I hear this same theme expressed by the amazon that lives at my house regarding her schoolwork, and it vexes me regardless of who the speaker is.

To combat these expressions of negative thinking, I have stopped using the phrase “Take a chance”, replacing it with “Give yourself the opportunity to succeed.”

To my mind, this is a far more useful and affirmative way of looking at the things we might like to try.

If you “Give yourself an opportunity”, you are granting yourself permission to attempt to do something new that might be uncomfortable at first. More importantly, you are removing the negative connotations of failure if things do not work out. After all, you had permission.

By focusing on the positive outcome of successfully accomplishing an objective, the fear of failure whether self-condemnation or even public embarrassment is removed.

When I started writing, I had several choices. I could keep a private journal, make my work public online, and hope someone noticed, or I could give myself the opportunity to succeed by taking the big step of trying to make money from my work. I held my breath and began approaching publishers. Eventually, I made friends with fellow author Eric Bradley who writes awesome collector’s guides to a wide range of amazing things. He was kind enough to offer some advice that helped me connect with a publisher, and The Handbook of Modern Percussion Revolvers was published.

Has my book been a huge success and financial windfall?

• The book sold out the original printing.
• It is still available as an e-book on Amazon.com and other places.
• Readers in several countries have given the book good reviews.

 

Since I still get up and drive to work every day, I cannot say the financial rewards have been great, but this little success has encouraged me to continue writing. As announced in previous posts, I have won several awards in regional writing contests, and I have completed my latest novel Ladies, Fish, & Gentlemen.  Every little success build my confident to take the next step. Now I just have to find an agent.

 

When feeling uncertain, try giving yourself the opportunity to succeed. You might surprise you.

Ladies, Fish, & Gentlemen 11/21/2018

I”m feeling a bit odd today.

I just put the last period on the last line of my manuscript for my novel Ladies, Fish, & Gentlemen.

Sixteen year old Ana Carina Lezama de Urinza steps ashore in what will become South Carolina with her older brother Pedro who has come to claim his patrimony after the death of their father Don Pablo Lezama.

The novel is set in an alternative history where many things and events will be familiar, and yet many are not. The port where the siblings land is located where Charleston would be today. Instead of the confluence of mighty rivers as we know them, an ancient city constructed by unknown architects sits atop a high bluff above the harbor.

Ana’s Journal November 16^th 1560

Sighted the “Lighthouse” at Los Cristobal just before dawn today. Pedro came and woke me from a dead sleep. The volcano was beautiful and terrifying as it threw a fountain of sparks and steam into the sky. Capitan Gutierrez told me that the rising tide fills holes in the island and the steam cloud is caused by the seawater meeting the lava in the caldera. Ships used the fountain at night or the plume during the day to find the harbor.

Many people from the Old World have made their home in this city on the hill. As two teenagers prepare themselves for life in the New World, old loyalties are not easily forgotten, and the city is rife with Renaissance intrigue.

“Great literature is not written, it is rewritten”

I don’t know who said it (wrote it?), but it is the great truth in this craft. Now that the draft novel has been written, it is time for the age-old process of editing, rewriting, and preparing the manuscript for presentation to prospective literary agents.

(If anyone knows an agent…hint, hint)

Fortunately, I have a group of enthusiastic Beta Readers to help me get this book into shape. These brave souls have been amazing and I can never thank them enough.

I have to get this done because the sequel is already gnawing at me.

 

 

2018 On My Own Time Literary Winner Book Online

The book of winners in the 2018 North Texas Business Council for the Arts “On My Own Time” Literary contest is now available online.

Please take a moment to enjoy the works presented.

What is this all about?

“On My Own Time (OMOT), a trademarked program organized and produced by Business Council for the Arts, is a regional art competition that showcases the talent and creativity of North Texas business professionals. Since the program’s inception in 1993, OMOT has promoted the work of thousands of creative employees from companies across North Texas.

Through OMOT companies publicly recognize and encourage the creativity of their employees while engaging staff across departments and through hierarchies. By sparking conversation and engaging their workforce in a shared collaboration, participating companies express their values in a tangible way.

OMOT includes two components, one for visual artists and another for writers.

Each year, area businesses submit literary works created outside of working hours by their employees. Expert jurors from the literary community select the winning pieces in the following categories: Corporate Collaboration, 10-Word Story, Fictional Shorty Story, Creative Non-Fiction, and Open Verse Poetry. Winning entries are published within the BCA program, and those authors are invited to read their works aloud at Literary Night.

This year Business Council for the Arts received a record number of literary entries. Outstanding congratulations is due to all of the winners. Recognition and thanks is also owed to each ambassador for his or her dedication to organizing and managing their OMOT program internally within their company. Lastly, we offer deep gratitude to our jurors, Michael Clay, James Dolan, Sanderia Faye, Blake Kimzey, Amy Schaffner, and David Eric Tomlinson, who without their volunteered time the program would not be possible.”

Tropical Paradox

by Michael Morgan

Copyright 2018 All Rights Reserved

 

“Lester called in sick again?” Bobby swiveled his chair to look at the room. “He’s never sick.”

“Just hope he keeps it to himself,” Abbey said over the rim of her coffee cup. “I don’t need my kids down with anything.”

“Did Amber say anything about him?” Bobby asked.

Abbey’s cup returned to its coaster, “Nah. They’re estranged and fighting over the kids. She wouldn’t be bothered to give a damn if he died.”

“Except for the money,” Sam added. “If the kids aren’t in the will, she’ll be fit to be tied.”

“Last I heard that was how she got him interested in the first place,” chortled Bobby.

“Jeez, Bobby!” Abbey was smiling. “Talk about a straight path to HR!”

Bobby grinned back, “Read it on the socials, so it must be true!”

 

“Excuse me nurse…”

Margie held up her index finger as she finished reading the chart in front of her. She looked up at the boyish face of the man standing next to the nurse’ station, “How can I help you?”

The white smile against the dark mahogany skin made her smile in return. “Is this the place where you have the paramedics from this morning’s hazmat incident?”

“You are…?” Margie asked.

A slim manicured hand pulled back the suit coat exposing a deep muscular chest beneath the starched shirt, and a gold shield clipped to the man’s belt, “Detective Jeremiah Pitts.”

Margie smiled and put her left hand in her pocket unsure why she felt a compelling urge to flirt, “Rooms one sixty-three and five.”

 

“Some kind of poison,” Demarcus read from the Medical Examiner’s report. “So far this shi…” Demarcus caught Jeremiah’s look and stopped himself. “STUFF is unidentified.” Demarcus closed the folder, “What’d you learn at the hospital?”

 

“Not much,” Jeremiah sighed. “Six uniforms, two paramedics, and four fire, all down within hours of leaving the scene. Hazmat turned up nothing useful, but the lab reports are not back yet.”

“What about our victim, Lester Ambrose?” Demarcus dropped the file on the desk.

“On life support pending notification of kin,” Jeremiah picked up his phone. “I sent a squad to pick up his estranged wife an hour ago. She was not answering her phone.”

 

“My soon-to-be ex-husband is dead. So what?” Amber leaned back in the chair and glared at Jeremiah. “I’m supposed to care after he kicked me and his kids out with nothing but the clothes on our backs?”

“I thought you might be a bit concerned, yes.” Jeremiah.

“You could have just sent me a text instead of having a police car pull up in front of my workplace and giving me a perp walk out in front of everybody.” Amber picked up her purse and started fishing.

“No smoking in the building,” Jeremiah opened the folder. “I needed to ask you some question in person.”

“I know.” Amber dropped the purse to the floor. “I watch Dateline for Christ’s sake.” She picked up the bag again. “The spouse done it. Or the Ex. Or the secret lover. Old news!” She pulled out a green wrapper, “Is gum OK?”

“Perfectly,” Jeremiah never looked up from the file.

“I mean, we work together. We had a drunken one-nighter after an office party, except it had an unanticipated complication. We tried to make it work. For three years, we put on the happy couple face in public, and fought the rest of the time.”

Jeremiah looked at her, “Did your fights ever get physical?”

“Only if you count the make-ups afterward,” Amber chewed gum with her mouth open.

“That would explain three kids together,” Jeremiah made some notes.

“No. The oldest was from my first marriage,” Amber looked around the room. “This gum is stale.”

Jeremiah reached into the corner and passed over the trashcan, “So where have you been for the past three days?”

 

Demarcus stepped between the strands of yellow tape crisscrossing the front door, “J! Hey J! Where you hidin’?”

“Back here in the office,” came the muffled reply. “Put a mask on before you come back!”

Demarcus found him standing in the middle of the home office wearing a complicated breathing mask. Just standing, and looking at the massive aquarium that took up and entire wall of the room. “Should I get you a fishing pole?”

Jeremiah glanced at his friend, “D, go outside and look in the trunk of my car and get the extra respirator. That little paper mask is garbage.”

“What are you worried about?” Demarcus backed out of the room. “Hazmat’s been all over this place, and found nothing.”

Jeremiah turned to look at Demarcus, “When I went through the Academy, half of the class were firefighters going for Fire Marshall. One of them told me that the best way to knew if you need a Hazmat suit is if a cop is standing in the road directing traffic. Ever heard of a Blue Canary? That’s us bro’.”

“I’ll be right back,” Demarcus hurried out.

 

“Zen-ee-ya ee-lon…” Jeremiah hesitated.

“Elongata,” Amber finished for him.

Jeremiah looked up from his notes, “You know what that is?”

“Sure. It’s a purple colored soft coral,” Amber leaned on the table. The scoop neck of her angora sweater proving the garment was not worn for warmth. “The common name is Blooming Xenia.”

“How do you know about it?” Jeremiah enjoyed the annoyed look on Amber’s face when he looked her steadily in the eyes.

Amber sat back, “Noobs get the saltwater kick, and usually kill off most of their fish and corals right away. Xenias are hard to kill, so a lot of people start off with them.”

Jeremiah looked back down at the file, “Is it common for the shops that sell them to warn the customers they are dangerous?”

“I dunno. I never bought one,” Amber crossed her arms, and looked bored. “Why the sudden interest?”

Jeremiah lifted a colored brochure with tropical fish, and a register receipt from the file.

Dallas Business Council for the Arts Contest OMOT 2018

The Dallas Business Council for the Arts “On My Own Time” (OMOT) contest season is upon us again.

“On My Own Time” is an opportunity for amateur and professional artists to showcase the creative things they do off the clock, and Heritage Auctions sponsored their employees’ participation for the third year.

As a writer, I enjoy participating in the Literary portion of the contest, and I have been fortunate enough to place in the past few contests. This has been a great encouragement to work on my writing, and to attempt different types of writing.

Over the next few weeks I will be posting the material I submitted to the 2018 contest, and I would appreciate hearing your feedback.

Thanks

 

10-word Story Category

This category is for stories told in 10 words or less (Duh!), and creating a complete story line in this limited format is an interesting challenge. The following are my entries for this year.

The Thespian by Michael Morgan ~ 3rd Place Winner 2018

“No late seating, sir.”

“Pity.”

“Wait! That’s the president’s box!”

 

The Disappearance by Michael Morgan

Hood, clutch, choke, throttle, trunk.

Maybe the chauffeur did it.

 

The Joy of Rail Travel by Michael Morgan

“Curve ahead.”

“What will we see Daddy?”

“Always something interesting.”

 

Free Book! – Limited Time Offer

February 10 – 11 you can download a FREE Kindle edition of the award winning story Three Righteous Souls on Amazon.com.

Please enjoy the story, and leave a review.

The Kirbybrook Siege

by Michael Morgan

All rights reserved

Authors Note: The Kirbybrook Siege is part of the “Yojimbo” series of short stories and novels. I will be posting future installments as time permits and based on reader feedback, so please leave some comments.

 

—  1 —

            “Still watching those guys making out in the park?” Bill’s sudden words jerked Adam out of his reverie. He turned away from the window, feeling guilty, but not sure why.

“Huh?! No, I… just lost in thought,” Adam finished lamely in the face of Bill’s grin.

“Not like I can blame you,” Bill said. His grin vanished, “They’re about to take the phone’s offline, so they are letting everyone go home.”

Adam glanced at his dark monitors, and shrugged, “Curse of the modern age. No power, no work.”

“Now the bad news,” Bill scratched his nose. “The generators are running out of fuel, so they’re shutting down everything. A/C, elevators, all of it. The last elevator rides are reserved for those on the ADA list. You get to walk down. Sorry, man.”

“Seventeen floors of stairs,” Adam thought. “At least it’s not a damned fire drill.” He stood up, and grabbed his hat. The cowboy hat had appeared after his hair finally committed suicide. Now it was like a part of him. “Come in tomorrow, or wait for someone to call after power is back on?”

Bill shrugged, “Wish I knew. Cell service is out. My phone is working, but I can’t get any service. Just be ready to get back to work when you get the word. Take care going home.”

“You too,” Adam watched Bill lurch down the hall. His arthritic knees bought him a ride down the elevator today, but watching him tough his way through the pain every day, did not make Adam envious. “Just have to hope the car starts,” he thought as he tapped his pocket to make sure his keys were there. Walking back up seventeen floors would be a bitch.

— 2 —

            “Crap!” The garage door refused to open when Adam clicked the remote. Twenty-four miles between the office and home, and it had taken three and a half hours. Every traffic light was blinking red. Between boiling road-ragers, and people too stupid to handle a blinking red light, it was a miracle he had made it home at all. The radio was nothing but static from one end of the dial to the other. People on the streets alternated looking at their phones, and asking each other for news.

Adam pulled into the driveway of the house he had lived in for the past seventeen years. Nothing luxurious, but it was paid for, and large enough to cover his collection of “stuff” as George Carlin would have called it. The mailbox was empty when he checked. “I guess it probably would be, considering the power at the office had stopped around 8:30,” he thought as he locked the little door again.

The door opened, and the inside air was a little cooler than the Texas summer outside. He quickly closed the door to keep it that way. The normal drone of electronics was deafening in its absence. “Hello,” he called to the strangely silent interior. No answer.

He glanced at the table where his wife normally left her purse. No purse. He went through the utility room and opened the interior door to the garage. No car. Nobody home.

Notes were normally left on the kitchen table. No note. His daughter’s book bag was nowhere to be seen. Pick up should have been at 4:00, so unless the school had gotten word out,

they are probably stuck in traffic. Give them another hour, and then…what? You really think you can find them yourself? He shook his head to clear the dark thoughts, and pulled the jug of bleach off the shelf of laundry products.

An hour later both tubs were as clean as he could get them and the water was barely trickling from the faucet. Both tubs were a bit over half-full. Enough water for a couple of days if they were careful. After that? It was not a comforting thought.

Best go put the car in the garage, he thought opening the utility room door, and flipping the switch for the lights out of habit. Ten minutes, and a fresh set of batteries for the flashlight later, the car was in the garage. Should find the keys to the garage door since the opener won’t work. Adam walked back into the house through the utility room checking his phone along the way. Still no signal and no WIFI. Phone back in the pocket, and Adam looked around his living room wondering what to do next. The clock on the mantle showed 7:42, Starting to get dark. Better find candles or something.

A Journey of a Thousand Words

By Michael Morgan

All Rights Reserved

 

One of my coworkers (Yes, most authors write as a side hustle.) asked me how my novel is progressing. After I shared my news, he said, “I’ve always wanted to write a book. Maybe one day when I have the time…” I stopped him right there because the “Maybe one day…” sentiment is the omnipresent excuse for people who like to fantasize about becoming a writer. My advice to him was to start small.

You have a story you want to tell, so tell it. Just do not think you have to tell it in 300+ pages. Pick your character, and think about this like a Kung Fu movie.

1. Something happens to your character that forces them to take action.
2. Along the way the character meets “The Master” that teaches them the skills necessary to deal with their problem, or some boon companion who helps them along the way.
3. Something happens to remove “The Master” sending the character off with renewed determination to resolve the problem.

Next, tell the story in small bites. I’ve chosen 1,000 words as a reasonable “bite” because that is the number of words I can easily write on a daily basis. This bite gives me space to have some character interaction, describe some action, and set up the next bite. The end of one bite sets up the beginning of the next bite, and gradually, the story comes out. If I get on a hot streak and the energy is really flowing, Great! Groovy! Yeehaw! I don’t stop working until I can write the set up for the next bite. If I write 3,000 words in a sitting, fine with me. If I feel like I am writing crap, I put it aside and think about the story for a while. The characters will wait.

The person who is going to be most critical of your work, and do their best to talk you out of writing your story will be yourself. Nobody can judge the value of your material until you have written it and taken the emotional plunge of sharing it with others.

Give yourself the chance to be great! If writing is not your thing, you will find out pretty quick, and cross it off your bucket list knowing you gave it your best shot.

Some odds and ends to think about:

• “Write the types of things you enjoy reading.” ~ Stephen King
• Write what you know about, but feel free to change the setting. The movie “Outland” with Sean Connery was the story “High Noon” set in outer space.
• Stories can be set almost anywhere because the interaction of the characters is independent of the location. The location just adds flavor. Star Trek has the same story structure as the old TV show Wagon Train. Deep Space 9 was Gunsmoke.
• What happens before the story starts is important even if those events never appear in the story. Those events shaped the character making them who they are. Sometimes these formative events can help you resolve a problem when you write yourself into a corner, and need a clean escape. This deserves serious thought.
• Set the hook early by giving the reader a reason to care about the character. If nobody cares about the character, nobody will care about the story. Read the stories that are most popular and try to figure out why you care about every character. Then pay attention to what happens to each one. Nobody cares when the generic Imperial Stormtrooper gets blasted, but when Gold Leader crashes into the Death Star, a character the audience has known for all of 90 seconds of screen time triggers an emotional reaction. Why?
• Let other people read your work and provide feedback. Listen to them. Think about it like market research. You do not have to make changes based on everything your readers say, but the input is invaluable, and can spark new ideas.
• The world is awash in people who will “teach” you how to write the next best seller. Some of the information is OK. Most of it is garbage. Very expensive garbage. Be critical of “the Master” you choose. Many aspiring authors get so bogged down in “learning to write”, they never actually write their story, and that is a guaranteed loss.

Only one thing can make you a writer. You have to WRITE. Famous writers would not be famous if they had not written something down and given it to someone else to read.

Start with a 1,000 word bite, and write something. When you are done, let it rest overnight, and then go take out every word that does not help the story move forward. This may require you to rewrite some bits. That is good exercise for trimming out useless words as you write. Hand your work to a friend who is interested in the type of story you have written, and listen to their input. Wash, rinse, repeat.

This link goes to a story I wrote for a short story contest:

Three Righteous Souls – A short story (The beginning)

After I posted it to my blog, the feedback I received lead to 14 more installments, each about 1,000 words. The first installment came in at 1,022 words.