Flash Fiction: THE SUMMONING

The short below was written as a test doc for a freelance project that I got involved in.  I wrote it a few weeks ago and it’s been gathering dust on my hard drive since then.  I decided to share it now with anyone who cares to read it, just to see what folks’ reactions are.

It’s something set in the far future, long after the world has come to an end, and at the moment stands on its own.  It was actually pretty fun for me to write, so I hope you enjoy it.

Story below the break.

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Snippet Sunday – UNSETIC Files fragments

This week’s snippet Sunday is a little different.  You see, there are characters and ideas that gnaw at the back of my brain and won’t go away until I get them down on paper. This is the case with the characters you’re going to meet in this week’s snippet–a pair that don’t have a solid place in the UNSETIC universe beyond knowing that they’re there and doing things.

Two vaguely connected scenes in chronological order below the break.


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When projects attack…

Anyone who follows me in any social media venue knows that I’ve got a new project chewing on my synapses lately.  I’m one of those unfortunates who can’t shove ideas away because they just keep coming back again.  They become relentless and won’t let me work on anything else, regardless of how much I may need to.  This was the case a few weeks ago, when I started working on an UNSETIC short.

At least, it was supposed to be a a short.  It was also supposed to be freewriting, something to just get the tale out of my system so I could get back to work on Redeemer, When All’s Said and Done, and other various projects.  Instead, it’s become all-consuming.

It all began with this:

            “There are places in the world, Doctor, that we leave off maps because no one can get inside in the first place,” the Canadian G-man shouted over the sound of the wind.  “You try to drive into them and suddenly pop out on the other side.  We don’t understand how it works, we just know it happens.”

            “I’m aware of the phenomenon,” El Stone yelled back over the sound of the rotors.  The former crime scene investigator held on to one of the oh-shit bars as she peered out the helicopter’s window at the trees below.  “But that doesn’t tell me why I’m here.”  Here was the ass-end of Alberta, somewhere up in forests so damned thick that no one would’ve noticed if they’d missed a twenty-mile stretch even if they’d been looking for the gap.  The sort of places they were discussing were rarely that large–mostly, the places omitted from the maps were two to five square mile areas, tops.  In the business, they called them Brigadoons when they reappeared, for the musical.  She knew that because she’d read the files on the flight up to Edmonton from the States.  There had been little else to do on the flight.

            The G-man pointed to a clearing that hosted a small village and a narrow roadway that spiraled out of the forest.  It hadn’t been on the maps she’d seen before they’d left the RCAF base.  Her heart began to beat a little faster.

            “One of them just opened up.”

Now, let’s be honest, I’ve tweaked it a touch since I wrote that first bit, but that’s literally how it began.  The dialogue and the images caught me in the side of the head, much like the idea for What Angels Fear did a couple years ago.  Unlike What Angels Fear, however, I knew fairly quickly who the story was actually about.  It took me until this past weekend to come up with a title, however, and the title is Girl from a Brigadoon.

The story, of course, is about the titular girl–a woman, actually–who’s been missing for fifteen years.  It’s a paranormal yarn, a mix of mystery, fantasy, and suspense.  In other words, it’s something that I’m a bit out of my depth trying to write, since mysteries have never been my bag.  I don’t tend to read them and I’m feeling a bit beyond my ken trying to write one.  But the idea has been persistent and it won’t let me not write it.

I keep having to revise my word count goal upward as the ideas trickle in, because there’s no way it’s going to be anything under 40k words at this point.  I’m already nearing 14k words, and it’s only chapter three.  It’s going to be some hard work, but it feels right.

For people who have known me for a long time–as a writer and as a gamer both–there will be some familiar faces in the text.  Brigid O’Connell figures prominently in the story as one of the investigators and AJ McConaway is playing quirky, perky sidekick every so often, thanks to an (annoying) absence of her twin brother Tim.  Then of course, there’s Rebecca Reid, who the story really belongs to.

She is, after all, the girl from the Brigadoon.

Keep an eye on Twitter and such for ranting, whining, and occasional progress updates.


You can find Erin on GoodReads these days @ http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5211226.Erin_Klitzke And on Smashwords @ http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/EMBKlitzke

And Amazon @ http://www.amazon.com/author/erin-klitzke

She offers two free fiction serials @ http://www.embklitzke.com/e557 and http://awakenings.embklitzke.com.  Stop on by and check it out.

Some Halloween treats (UNSETIC Files excerpts)

In the spirit of Halloween and the veil between worlds being a bit thinner in the autumn, I’m celebrating by throwing up some brief segments of work in the UNSETIC Files universe (still under development as a collection).  Then UNSETIC Files are a series of paranormal and supernatural stories set in a present and future much like our own world, but darker, with deeper secrets and an unseen world that some realize is very, very real.

Excerpt #1 is a freewritten background sketch for a college professor in 2030s Manhattan who runs a little esoteric shop and bookstore.  Back in her (much) younger years, she found herself in Alberta, Canada…

The tribe was singing a mourning song, beautiful and haunting.  It sent shivers down her spine, though not because of its beauty.

“Who died?”  She whispered.  No one had been out hunting today, she’d thought.

His arms tightened around her waist, breath warm against her ear.  She could feel his heartbeat as she leaned against his chest, heard him take a deep, almost ragged breath before he spoke softly.  “No one yet,” he said.  “But they’re playing it for us.  For the pack.”

Rebecca stiffened, staring up at him.  Ioan was staring back at the fire, at the circle of singers clustered in its flickering light.  His jaw was set, but it quivered a little, betraying him.  It was weakness he’d never show to anyone else.

But they belonged to each other, and she’d have seen it where no one else would have.

“Ioan, why would they do that?”

“I have to ask you something,” he whispered, ignoring the question.  “To do something, but you’re not going to say no this time.”

Her brows knit as she stared at him.  “What is it?”

He hesitated, closing his eyes for a moment before he looked at her square.  “You need to stay behind this time.”

What?”  Why would he–  “I’m the best shot the pack has, Ioan, and you’ve said yourself that without my cover fire, half of what you’ve accomplished wouldn’t have been possible.  I’m not letting you guys go into that place without me.”

“I’m not risking you,” he growled, letting go of her waist.  He took her face in his hands instead, scarred, calloused thumbs stroking her jaw.  “You’re staying here.  So I have a reason to make that music into a lie.”  He nodded toward the fire, to the singers and their mourning song.  “They don’t expect us to live through this.  It’s a suicide mission.”

“And you volunteered for it anyway,” she said softly, eyes widening.  “Ioan, why?”

His expression softened and he rested his forehead against hers.  “Because someone taught me that there are things that need doing, no matter how dangerous, for the good of the whole.”

She slumped.  “My father.”

He shook his head slightly.  “No.  You.”

Excerpt #2 is from something I featured in an earlier post–about a certain vampire.

 She drummed a pencil against the blotter, brooding out the window in front of her, at the coastal view.  The city glittered like a jewel in the night, vibrant and lovely.  It was almost easy to forget how dangerous her streets were, especially by night.

Almost.

The phone at her elbow started to ring.  She would have ignored it, but it was Rebecca calling, and she was the only person she trusted implicitly—and still had as eyes and ears inside of the city.

So she answered it on the third ring.  “Becca?”

“Cameron.  Are you all right?  Is he staying?”

Her pencil fell still against the blotter.  “Yes,” she said quietly as she got up to make sure the door to her study was closed.  “Yes, he’s staying, though I don’t know for how long.  He chose to live, though, instead of following him to his grave.  I’m not sure if it was cowardice or hope that did it…but who wants to die?”  I didn’t want to die.  I chose existence over lack thereof, when I was offered the choice.  Maybe it wasn’t the right one to make, but I picked the bed and now I have to lay in it.

“None of us, I suppose,” Becca said.  “I’m sure he’ll come around, Cam.  He’s just upset, that’s all.  Andras’s death is a lot to take.  You told me how long they’d been together.”

“He’s not just upset, he’s bloody well pissed with me, Becca.”  She sighed, slumping back into her chair.  “And he has every right to be.  I abandoned them.”

Becca snorted derisively.  “You did no such thing.  You left, yes, but it’s not like you didn’t tell Andras you were leaving.”

“In a note, Becca.  I left him a note that said I couldn’t stay, I had to go.”

“You called him after, and you wrote.  You stayed in touch.”

“It’s not the same.  Not enough.”  Her eyes focused distantly, staring at the city lights, at the chop on the water.  “Maybe I never should have left,” she whispered.  “Maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Cameron Beckett, don’t start that load of shit.  You wouldn’t let me wallow in what-ifs and I’m not about to let you do the same thing.  None of this was your fault and you had no control over what happened.”

Beckett growled low in her throat, glaring at her vague reflection the glass now.

Becca sighed at the other end of the line.  “Cam, I know they’re your demons and they’re your demons to fight, but I’m not going to sit still and let you beat yourself up for something that wasn’t your fault any more than Ioan going missing was mine.”

“What would you say if I told you I promised that I was going to avenge Andras?”

Silence answered her at first, long minutes ticking past before Becca answered.  “Is it something you need to do?”

“He made me, Becca.  In more ways than one.  I owe him at least that much, and I owe it to Elijah.  He can’t avenge him and someone’s got to.”  She paused.  “Besides, there’s the distinct possibility that the primarch of New York and his innermost circle know the truth about me.”

“You mean about your age?”

“Yes,” she whispered.  “I think they’ve figured out that Andras and I were closer than just friends or acquaintances.  Perhaps they only suspect we were blood-bound.  That would be the best case scenario.  Perhaps they think I made him, but I suspect they know it’s the other way around.”  It was a rare thing for her to admit a fear that deep, that close to her core, that mortal.

But if she couldn’t say it to Becca, who could she ever say it to?

Elijah, once upon a time…

She smothered a wince, even though there was no one there to see it.

“That…is a very valid concern,” Becca said slowly.  “So is that part of the reason you’re going to do something more stupidly dangerous than any stunt I’ve ever pulled?”

“Part, yes.”  She leaned back in her chair, the old wood and springs creaking.  “But it’s more than that.  It’s about making sure others are safe—you, Elijah, my sisters and everyone else that they might call down a hunt on.  They’ve already called one on Elijah.  It’s only a matter of time before they decide its safe to reach further.”

“How much time do you think we’ve got before that happens?”  Becca asked softly.

She rocked upright in the chair.  “No, Becca.  This isn’t your fight, it’s mine.  You need to stay out of it.  Vampiric power plays are not something you need to get involved in.  All I need for you to do is to make sure Elijah’s okay if something happens to me—hell, even if nothing happens to me.  I just need you to take care of him.  He won’t talk to me right now.  I shouldn’t talk to him right now.”

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid of what I’d say,” Beckett sighed.  “Something tells me he knows a lot of the truths I realized a long time ago, the truths that the elders want you to think are just figments of our imagination.”

“Like what?  Like love, you mean?”

“Mm-hmm.  That thing we’re not supposed to be able to do, to really feel.  We’re dead, after all.  The dead can’t love.”

“Except when they can.  Are they really trying to sell you on that bullshit?”

“A lot of us are buying, Becca.  There’s something twistedly reassuring about it.”  She shook her head, staring at herself in the glass.  “Can you imagine knowing that you’d have to live with all of your pain for the rest of your relative immortality?  Every mistake you’ve made, every minor or major wrong you’ve done?  It would drive about half of my kindred insane before they made it six months.”

“So how do you live with it?”

“I cope,” Beckett said.  “I hang onto what’s good, learn from the bad and try to right the worst of the wrongs I’ve done.  I find balance between woman and monster.”

“Mmm,” Becca said.  “We’ll have to continue this discussion later.  I’ll call you tomorrow night.”

She must have just looked at the clock.  “You have a class to teach in the morning?”

“Linguistics 101.  McConaway’s on sabbatical.”  Becca paused, quiet for a moment.  “Look, Cam, I’ve got my next sabbatical coming up in the winter semester.  If I asked you to come with me to Alberta—”

“I would come, but do you really want me to?”

Her friend let out a frustrated sigh.  “I don’t know.”

“When you decide, tell me,” Beckett said, starting to get up.  “Go get some sleep.”

“G’night, Cam.  What’re you going to do?”

“Plan my vengeance.  It’s going to be a process, I think.”

There was another silence on the other end of the line, then, “Good luck.”

Becca hung up, leaving her alone in silence.

At some point, perhaps both of these projects will amount to more than just scribblings and half-written plots. Whether or not that’s the case certainly remains to be seen.  Both of these characters–Rebecca Reid and Beckett–are figures in the shadows of New York, supernatural players in the world known to be real by only a few.

The men and women of UNSETIC are among the ones who know the truth.

Excerpts copyright 2011 Erin M. Klitzke.


You can find Erin on GoodReads these days @ http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5211226.Erin_Klitzke
And on Smashwords @ http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/EMBKlitzke 

Sometimes a scene just won’t let go…

This scene came to me late last night after I got back from the hockey game (Red Wings topped the Canucks 2-0; we had seats behind the visitor’s goal at Joe Louis, so all in all, pretty awesome stuff), but I didn’t write it down until this morning.  I figured I’d post it, just in case it never actually develops into anything more (or much more), though I suspect it might.

She grabbed his sleeve, wouldn’t let him leave as her fingers tangled in the fabric.  She jerked him back, spinning him toward her chest.  “Just because I left doesn’t mean I didn’t care about him, because I did.”

He jerked his arm away and stepped back.  “You could have fooled the rest of us.  You abandoned us when we could have used your help, Beck, and you show up now?  It’s way past the eleventh hour.  It’s over—too damn late and too damn bad.”

He went to the window and stared out at the city across the water, the dim glow of faraway New York.  His fingers curled tightly around the sill, jaw set into a line.  He looked older now, but it had been almost fifteen years since she’d seen him last—of course he looked older.

More than that, though, he looked tired and broken, and that was enough to make her cold, still heart crack in half.

“Elijah.”

He shook his head, not looking at her.  “It’s too late, Beck.  He’s gone and I’m soon to follow and there is no one left to avenge him.”

“Wrong.”  She came up behind him, unbuttoning one sleeve at the wrist.

“What do you mean, wrong?”  Elijah turned, then, dark eyes angry and accusing as he met her gaze.

“Yes, he’s gone, but you don’t have to follow him to the grave,” she said softly.  She didn’t touch him, not yet, even though she wanted to.  “And there’s someone left who cares enough to avenge him.”

His angry stare hardened into a glare.  “I can’t avenge him, Beck.  They’d destroy me inside of fifteen seconds.”

“They won’t destroy me,” she said softly.  “They’ll never see me coming.”

He went rigid, staring at her as if he’d just seen her for the first time.

She smiled briefly and cupped his jaw with one hand before she brought her wrist to her mouth, biting down hard enough to expose the vein.  She offered it to him, nodding to the blood.  “Go on.  Once isn’t going to hurt and it’ll buy you another six months to decide what you want to do.”

Elijah just kept staring at her for a few long moments.  His jaw quivered and then he looked away.  When he took her arm and lifted her wrist to his mouth, he cradled it like something fragile, precious.

She’d been neither for twenty years.

Beckett smiled sadly and watched him, forcing her free hand to be still at her side.  She wanted to touch him again, to feel how soft his hair was, to know what the muscles of his back felt like under her hands.

He wasn’t ready for that, though, and she knew it.

It was a few minutes before he finished, fingers tightening on her hand briefly before he let go, straightening and turning away.  She swallowed and took an unnecessary breath, willing the healing to start.

“You can stay here as long as you’d like,” she said softly.

“Thank you,” he whispered, staring out the window.

She lifted her hand to touch his shoulder, thought better of it, and let her hand drop.  She left him standing there without another word, the click of a door closing marking the end to their conversation with too many things still left unsaid.

Copyright 2011, Erin M. Klitzke

In part, I can blame longtime friend and fellow gamer/GM Dave Kiser for this one.  One summer he ran this wonderful but short-lived Vampire: The Masquerade game because I asked him to teach me the system.  There were aspects of the story of Cassidy Beckett, the vampire I played, that never quite left me and have come up time and again (at ISRP and elsewhere).  Reading a little too much modern paranormal fiction and urban fantasy (The Cheshire Red Reports by Cherie Priest, Black London series by Caitlin Kittredge, The Graveyard Queen series by Amanda Stevens, and the Dresden Files by Jim Butcher, among others) and getting back to doing some World of Darkness roleplaying online has put me in the mood to write the same, now that I’ve got a little bit of a break from the Epsilon universe.

So when this little scene struck me, I had to get it down on digital paper.  Which of course meant I was further compelled to share it.

Comments and thoughts are deeply and fully appreciated!


You can find Erin on GoodReads these days @ http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5211226.Erin_Klitzke
And on Smashwords @ 
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/EMBKlitzke 

Ah, the joys of freewriting (or how it took me 14 pages to figure out who I was talking about)

So for the past week or so I’ve been feeling the need to put pen to paper (literally) and do some freewriting.  I don’t do it often and so when the mood strikes, it’s strange.  So between thesis and cleaning, I’ve been freewriting.  I’m up to fourteen handwritten pages (almost fourteen pages, there’s only a few lines left on page 14 to write).  Freewriting is a strange thing…you never know what’s going to happen.

So I started with a first person point of view and rambled.  My narrator told me pretty quickly that her name was Julia (Julia Rhiannon, no less) and that she’d been living in this creepy little midwestern town for a few months because she’d been taking care of a sick (now deceased) relative that she’d been visiting there since she was eight.  Most of the town, especially the good Reverend at the local evangelical chapel, give her the heebie-jeebies.

Then there was this boy–maybe about her age, maybe a little younger, a mysterious, broken thing that on the surface looked crazy, “special,” or drugged.  He kept popping up, kept looking for her.  She found out his name was Darien fairly early on.  He came to her in moments of almost-lucidity and asked for her help.

Now…I knew by this point (heck, I knew by a few lines into the first page) that this story is in the same universe as my first Nanowrimo project ever, When All’s Said and Done, which has been on my mind in between thinking about Edward I and III because it’s about time I finally gutted the thing, revised it, polished it, and started sending it to publishers.  It’s a strangely disturbing piece, probably because there’s elements of it that are just maybe a little too real to not be creepy.  The freewriting ramble I’ve been working on was very clearly very intimately connected to the story of the Insitute, given Darien’s whisperings about the end and the Institute and how he’s very clearly reluctant to tell Julia the whole truth for fear she’ll either think he’s crazy or get herself into trouble with the sprawling installation just outside of the village of Andover Commonwealth.

I’m writing page 13 and 14 today, where Darien is giving up some of the secrets he knows about the place…and it hits me.  Bam.  Right between the eyes.

Darien isn’t Darien at all.

Darien is Ridley.

Now that revelation isn’t going to mean anything to anyone except for me and maybe one or two other people who may happen to stumble across this.  And if Miss Jen reads it, she’s going to blink and ask me who Ridley is and I’ll tell her.  And her eyes will get big and wide and she’ll be all “Ooh.”

And then she’ll ask if she can read the ramble.  And I’ll let her, because she’s Reece, and maybe someday Reece’ll actually meet up with this broken soul who feels like he’s betrayed people he cared about, people who cared about him in return.

All depends on what the redrafting process brings.  Either way, this ramble…fantastic background and yet another layer added into what was originally a lot less complex than it’s going to become.