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Posts Tagged ‘free fiction’

dore2“The fuck is this?”

 

“That’s him. That’s our guy.”

 

“You kidding? You’re taking the piss, right?”

 

“Look, I’ve been up all night, you wanted to see what I got, this is it.”

 

“But what is it?”

 
“It’s a, waddaya call it, a screen capture.”

 

“A what?”

 

“Like they take a picture, a still frame. Enhanced all to fuck but that’s what they came up with. There’s your perp.”

 

“I still don’t get it. You’re saying that’s taken from the hallway camera—”

 

“Yeah. What you’re looking at is, like, a single fucking frame. That new guy, Panda or Pandra, whatever the fuck, he spotted it. And, man, how he managed it, I’ll never know.”

 

“So he’s zipping through the footage and something clicks and he goes back and slows everything down—”

 

“Right, exactly. And this thing is there for a flash, right outside the fucking door, and then it’s gone.”

 

“Time frame?”

 

“Fits.”

 

“Fuck that. Nothing fits. This is a locked door mystery and the two of us are hanging out to dry here. In less than an hour I gotta go upstairs, smile ever so nice and show them…what exactly? This? This fucking—”

 

“It’s all we got.”

 

“Nine of our best standing around with their thumbs up their arses while the guy we were supposed to be babysitting—“

 

“No one got in or out. You said so yourself.”

 

“No one but this guy. That’s what you’re telling me, right?”

 

”The question is, what are you going to tell them.”

 

“I’m not going to tell them anything. I’m just going to show them this. The best evidence we have.”

 

“And then?”

 

“Then? Then it doesn’t matter. Because it won’t be my problem any more…”

 

 

© Copyright, 2014  Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)

 

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Photo: Sam Burns

Photo: Sam Burns

My chum Yury Sabinin has been very busy of late.

If you recall, he’s the chap who has taken it upon himself to translate some of my best stories into Russian. Originally, he set himself the task because he had a acquaintance back in Russia (Yury currently resides in B.C.) who he thought might appreciate my work. But she spoke no English so he very magnanimously decided to do the translations himself—he got in touch with me to secure my permission for the endeavor and I was genuinely touched by his devotion to his friend.

Here are his translations of two of my most well-known short stories, “The Hibakusha” and “Cattletruck”. Both are post-apocalypse tales from my very first collection, Sex & Other Acts of the Imagination (1990)…but they couldn’t be more different. You’ll find the original English versions on my Novels & Stories page. Meanwhile, for those of you fluent in Russian, check out Yury’s translations. Click on the PDFs below and away you go:

 

CliffBurnsСкотовоз

CliffBurnsХибакуся

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Can’t tell you how many people have written or approached me, asking: “When are you going to write another Zinnea & Nightstalk book?”.

And each time I’ve tried to explain that I after I finished So Dark the Night, I fully expected to write more accounts of my partners in crime…but it just didn’t happen. I could no longer hear Nightstalk’s voice and, after awhile, moved on (with regret) to other things.

But a few weeks ago, my old friend Evgeny Nightstalk dropped in for a visit. Not an extended stay, I could only pry a short story out of him, a case from their first months together, an affair (wouldn’t you know it), set around Christmas time. Maybe Nightstalk was cutting me some slack for his long absence.

Here’s the first part of “Finding Charlotte”…if you’d like to read the rest, click on the link and you’ll find the complete PDF. Free reading, I should add: read it, download it, share it with friends. And if “Finding Charlotte” strikes your fancy, have a look at So Dark the Night. It’s a grand adventure, my two supernatural detectives involved with all manner of Lovecraftian monstrosities and occult-oriented schemes. A fast-paced yarn, I think you’ll love it.

And now:

* * * * * * * *

Finding Charlotte (A Zinnea & Nightstalk Mystery)

 

Cassandra Zinnea called them “C.O.N.C.s”.  Cases of no consequence. She could be snooty like that sometimes. I told her once, hey, even Sherlock Holmes realized they can’t all be Studies in Scarlet or whatever. When you get handed a lemon, y’know, make lemonade.

She didn’t buy it. She got bored pretty easily. Very Holmes-like that way. Only she had different diversions than a seven per cent solution of cocaine. It’s debatable if they were any healthier in the long run but, well, that’s a discussion for another time.

The affair involving the disappearance of Charlotte Bednarski didn’t have a promising beginning and you’ll have to decide for yourself if everything worked out for the best in the end. I’m not what you would call big on analysis. That’s my partner’s domain. Smart and gorgeous, the complete package. Miss Marple and a Victoria’s Secrets model all rolled into one. As kind and decent a human being as you’re likely to encounter this side of Heaven. And that’s why it was nearly killing her giving the Turnbulls the bad news.

“—so terribly sorry,” Cassandra said, standing in front of our shared desk, her voice quaking with emotion. “It’s official policy and I’m afraid there are no exceptions. We don’t handle missing persons cases or divorces. We’ve found they both involve too many…complications. You say you’ve already been to the police—”

Dennis Turnbull snorted. “Fat lot of good they were. Wouldn’t give us the time of day, would they, hon? What’s this world coming to?” He was chubby, forty-ish, some kind of nerd. Baby fat and large, soft features. Likely cried during sappy movies and was good about helping with the washing up. A “girly man”, as my buddy Arnold would say.

I was hearing warning bells. The cops in Ilium may not have been top drawer in many respects but they tended to ramp up their game when there were children  involved. “How long did you say your kid’s been missing? Two days?” They nodded, tired and discouraged, leaning into each other. The wife seemed older, utilizing a full palette of makeup to disguise her true age. Offhand, I’d say she applied it with a trowel. But they were nice people, just addled, desperate. “You gave us the impression she was quite young…”

“Around nine, I would say,” Cheryl Turnbull confirmed, “but small for her age.”

That sounded funny but at that point Cassandra jumped in. “So this isn’t any ordinary runaway. She’s under-aged, alone out there…” She choked up. Mrs. Turnbull nodded, the two of them close to blubbering.

“That’s what we tried to tell the police,” she croaked, “but they wouldn’t listen.”

I could see my partner wavering and decided enough was enough. “Yeah, that’s, uh, definitely strange and if I were you I’d, uh, definitely go back there and get them to put out an A.P.B. on your daughter and—”

Dennis Turnbull was shaking his head. He tapped his wife’s leg and they rose together. “We’ve been humiliated enough, thank you very much. That Detective-Sergeant or whatever he said he was. Snowden…” I glanced at my partner. “You must know the man. He’s the one who told us to come down here. ‘The court of last resort’, he called you.”

“He’s an idiot,” Cassandra said.

“What she says,” I added.

The Turnbulls helped each other on with their coats. We could only stand there and watch.

“I have to correct you on one point, Mr. Nightstalk.” Dennis Turnbull tugged brown leather gloves over his thick fingers; it was a cold night, a week ’til Christmas, the wind off Lake Erie downright lethal. “Charlotte wasn’t our daughter. My wife and I are childless by choice.” She offered us a thin smile. Not entirely by choice, it seemed to say.

Now I was really confused. “So…she was a niece? A neighbor–”

“Oh, no, she lived with us.”

Cassandra and I exchanged befuddled looks. “Adopted?” she ventured.

“A lodger?”

“No, she was there when we moved in.” She saw our bafflement. “She came with the house.”

Ah

Nope, still didn’t get it. But Cassandra did, I could tell from her spreading smile. Suddenly the case had become much more interesting.

I blundered on. “She was living there? Like…squatting?”

“No, Nightstalk,” my partner corrected me. “She’s always lived there.”

The Turnbulls smiled at each other. “She’s the reason we bought the place,” Cheryl Turnbull confided. “The location is nice but the backyard is far too small for our tastes.”

“We both like to garden,” Dennis chimed in.

“But once Charlotte made herself known to us…we knew we couldn’t let it go.” They were standing by the door. “It’s been ten years now and we’ve never regretted it a moment.” They clasped hands. Forming a common front.

Cassandra’s demeanor had undergone a radical transformation; all at once she was in full hunt mode. “Now that we’re more fully apprised of the situation,” checking with me for confirmation, “I think we might be of service to you after all.”

“Just don’t call her a ghost,” Cheryl Turnbull pleaded, crossing toward us, holding out her hands, a big purse looped over her wrist. “That awful Snowden man kept saying that. I hate it. Ghosts are feeble and sad and pathetic. Charlotte is none of those things. She has a personality, a—a—”

“Easy now, dear,” her husband coaxed her, “we’re among friends here.” He regarded us hopefully as he patted her shoulder. “It’s nice to be with folks who don’t make you feel like you’re, y’know, coo coo.”

“We’ve lost friends, even our families won’t come to visit.” Cheryl Turnbull managed to look hurt and defiant. “Just because we set an extra place at the table or put on her favorite show when it’s time. What’s that to any of them?”

I could only manage a sickly grin so they focused their attention on my lovely colleague. She, in contrast, gave off waves of understanding and empathy.

“Come over here and have a seat. We’ll start again.” Signaling me. “My associate, Mr. Nightstalk, will take down the particulars. Give us a bit of background and talk about the day she went missing. All the details you can think of, no matter how inconsequential they might seem.” I found my steno pad and a pen. “Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this…”

To read the complete story, click here:  Finding Charlotte

 

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You’ve seen the gorgeous cover, now it’s time to sample the first twenty pages or so of my new western novel, The Last Hunt.

We’ve sent off the text and cover files to Lightning Source and don’t expect any problems with the setup.  Expect to have the proof of The Last Hunt in around ten days and once it passes muster, the book will be on sale and officially available to readers in whatever format they choose. You can get signed copies from me (sorry, the shipping rates are getting rather dear) or order one from your favorite bookseller.

Once I was resigned to writing a western of all things, I made it my goal to concoct a good one, a tale worthy of a genre that has spawned superb authors like Allan LeMay, Richard S. Wheeler, Larry McMurtry, Elmer Kelton and Elmore Leonard and presented us with cinema classics like “Ride the High Country”, “Hombre” and “The Wild Bunch”.  I don’t have the required background or understanding of the period and history and had to rely on people like my father-in-law, Ken Harman, and historian Lee Whittlesey to help me better envision 1880’s America.  I pronounce myself absolutely chuffed with the end result of a year of research and writing (sometimes simultaneously)—The Last Hunt should satisfy western fans but I’m also hoping it will draw in folks who like a tall tale that’s well told, regardless of where or when it’s set.

Okay, I’ll quit yapping.  There are other things I should be doing, including some initial promo stuff, preparing for the official launch, spreading the word…

You’ll help, won’t you?  Facebook about The Last Hunt, tell your friends about this loopy Canuck writer who veers from supernatural thrillers to Old West gunfighter stories. Send them a link to this site.  Warn them some of my stuff might blow their mind.  Call me an “indie writer”.  Tell them it’s not as scary as it sounds…

To read an excerpt from Cliff Burns’ latest novel, The Last Hunt, click here:

LastHunt-excerpt

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Here’s an excerpt of my science fiction novelette, “Eyes in the Sky”.

What can I tell you?  This one’s a stunner.  I love it to pieces.  A marriage of two great loves, history and sky fy.

10,000 words and guaranteed to be one of the best SF tales you read this year.  How do I know that?  Well, if you’re like me, you read damn few SF stories so, honestly, I don’t think the competition is all that fierce.

Here’s the pitch:

“Eyes in the Sky” features an intriguing “What if…” scenario, a captivating vision of a possible past:

What if the atom bomb hadn’t worked and the Space Age was a bust?

What if Cold War adversaries employed less traditional tactics in their efforts to keep tabs on their intractable enemies?

What if history’s dark, turbulent course had veered off in a different direction?

“Eyes in the Sky” is accompanied by original cover art by John Enright.  John is a talented artist I found through the “Epilogue” site but the link I’ve provided will take you directly to his gallery.

The excerpt (about fifteen pages), will give you an excellent preview of the novelette and if you’d like to read more, it will shortly be posted, in its entirety, on Amazon (along with an Afterword I’ve written on the story’s origins and influences).  I’ll add a link as soon as it’s available.  Or, if you’re willing to wait awhile, “Eyes in the Sky” will be included in my upcoming short story collection, Exceptions & Deceptions (due out December, 2012).

I’m hoping the folks at Amazon will allow me to list the novelette at 99 cents—a bargain price for a terrific read.  Cheaper than a lot of dumb, useless apps.

Meanwhile, click on the link below for the excerpt.

Hope you enjoy this sample from “Eyes in the Sky”.

“Eyes in the Sky” excerpt

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Couldn’t get into serious writing yesterday–still catching up on research on my western novel, The Last Hunt, and I’m not yet at the point where I can begin to tackle necessary revisions.

My science fiction story needs one final polish/run through before I send it off.  I’ll likely get that done today.

And so…yesterday.

Decided to create a little something with Garageband.  The first effort wasn’t very good but the second tune had promise (as soundtrack music for the creepiest film ever made maybe) and then came the third number…

Well.  I didn’t really set out to create a spoken word bit, but that’s how it came out.  I was poking around my notebook and came across a series of phrases that, if you put them together, would almost make a kind of narrative…

I plugged in the microphone and gave it a shot.  The very first vocal track was perfect and then I started building and shaping music around it.

The end result is “The Midnight Detective”, a 2 1/2 minute effort that plays around with noirish conceits and comes together for a rather tasty finale.

This piece should work on whatever audio player your computer employs (if it’s fairly new) and, of course, you’re free to download it and share it with pals and like-minded folks who might get a charge out of my whacked out, postmodern detective.

You’ll find more of my musical noodling and spoken word efforts on my Audio page.

Click here to listen to Midnight Detective

* This post is dedicated to Caroline Ames–Happy Birthday, kid.

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Every couple of months, Wendy at our local library organizes an “open mike” for any writers interested in sharing their work in a, gulp, public forum.

I’ve kind of lost my zest for performing my stuff live but I started going, hoping it would encourage my two sons, both talented writers, and their friends to contribute.  I love it when a visibly nervous teen author stands in front of us and, voice quaking, reads a poem or short story.  Takes me back to the days when I—

Well, never mind.

I always try to have new material for the “open mike” and this time premiered three pieces that even my wife hadn’t heard before.  Here are the four offerings I read last night, including “Accident”, which appeared on this blog a couple of years ago but, what the heck, thought I’d reprint it anyway (it read beautifully):

 

Accident


This is a car crash.  It’s happening right now.  A collision in progress.  Metal folding and bending, glass slow-motion bursting, bodies swaying in their seats.  And the thing is you see it with perfect clarity, high-def to the max.  You watch in fascination as the air bag blooms in front of you, a time-lapse explosion expanding toward your face as you lean forward to meet it.  Something else.  A heaviness.  In the region of your chest.  A tug in your neck that isn’t quite pain but soon will be.  A sound, a soft exhalation but really a scream in the midst of being born.  From the backseat.  Ten A.U.’s behind you.  Any moment now it will all come rushing in, a cacophony of distress, a wall of noise and sensations.  Someone, maybe even you, might be in the midst of dying.  On the threshold of an instant.  The law-defying lip of an event horizon. Falling…and forever suspended mere petaseconds away from nothing at all.

 

Reaper


November is bleeding,

leached of color, vitality,

the land losing its life’s blood

in dark, spreading gouts.

Anemic, cancerous, brittle,

tiny bones crackling underfoot:

this is the graveyard of summer.

Brightening it with festive lights,

disguising it with tinsel, false cheer

but unable to defeat the oppression,

looming like a storm front.

Hibernation is a state between life and death,

a sleep from which some animals never wake–

another hard winter descends from the mountains,

the sun creeping back to make way.

 

Bird

“When that love was done with, I was left like a bird on a branch.  I was no longer any use for anything.” Paul Eluard & Andre Breton, The Immaculate Conception (Translation by Jon Graham)

 

I am that bird/a useless, futile thing/purposeless and unblinking/stiffly clutched on my shivering perch

Denied foresight, stratagems/creature of instinct, heedless/as scattered petals or blown seed/no decisions, save alarm and flight

like the lilies of the field

like the trees and stones,

or a worm, turning in thick, black dirt

Free from striving and strife/charged only with existence/descended from dinosaurs/ small-brained and tuned to the stars

Waking you with piercing melodies/disdainful of the tardy dawn/spying with small, beady eyes/as you depart for work in a funk

Nestled against the weather/high up where the cats can’t reach/alert, yet lightly dozing/untroubled by what you call “dreams”

 

First Words

“My health was endangered.  Terror assailed me.”

Arthur Rimbaud, on the writing of Illuminations


Franz Kafka insisted we should only read books that “bite and sting us”.  Volumes, one presumes, capable of savaging unwary readers, leaving them spotted with blood.  Kafka, a gentle man, left strict instructions in his will that his writings be burned.  His executor, Max Brod, ignored his friend’s wishes and preserved his distinctive novels and stories; as a result, each year I risk serious injury plucking them from my shelves.

Words created us and words sustain us:

“The technical language of religion is

symbolism, with storytelling one of its

most important varieties.”

(so sayeth Huston Smith)

Ideas become words become action.  The correct conjunction of vowels and consonants will, according to some mythologies, lead to an unbinding.

A return to nullity.  From whence we came.

Be mindful and compassionate.  Practice right thought, right speech.  Do not call the worst into being.  Offer prayers to a Creator beyond faith.  Use the ancient words of praise.  The ones handed down through the ages.  Hallowed be thy name, o, God, thy will be done

 

*****************************************************************************

 

When I finished reading, Sherron was beaming.

Snuck in under the eight-minute time limit too.

Thanks to all the participants and audience members.  See you at my book launch on Wednesday!

 

(Photo by Zach Den Adel)

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