Story Generating Part 4

Previous posts showed various ways to generate story ideas, but here's one that can, on the surface, appear difficult, yet can render some surprising results.  You can treat it as a game and also as a writing exercise, but occasionally things fall together using the following method whereby the genesis of a very good story is generated.

Take out your kitchen timer.  Here's mine.

Or, you can use the stopwatch timer on your phone.

Set it for twenty minutes.

Then, pick any book off the bookshelf and open that book to the beginning of any chapter or to the very beginning of the book itself (the first line of the story). 

Type out the first line from the book or the first line from any of that book's chapters.

Here's an example of what I mean.  I chose from my bookshelf, "Don Quixote" by Cervantes.

I open the book to the first chapter and here's the following first line:

In a village of La Mancha the name of which I have no desire to recall, there lived not so long ago one of those gentlemen who always have a lance in the rack, an ancient buckler, a skinny nag, and a greyhound for the chase.

Once I have typed out the first line, I now have twenty minutes on the old kitchen timer (or flashy new phone stopwatch app) to begin writing something that comes after that first line.  And by the way, you can't copy Cervantes' words as that would defeat the purpose.  Make your own story up from there.  Work extemporaneously and don't stop.  Even if it starts to come out as complete nonsense, keep going for twenty minutes until the time expires or you fall into "the zone" (as I like to put it whenever my creative mind starts flowing). 

For example here is the beginning of mine.  I've set the timer, and I typed out the first line ... ready, set, and go!

     In a village of La Mancha the name of which I have no desire to recall, there lived not so long ago one of those gentlemen who always have a lance in the rack, an ancient buckler, a skinny nag, and a greyhound for the chase. 

    I set the book down.  How could I concentrate on Don Quixote at a time like this?

    I sighed and shook my head while I continued to sit upon my leather couch.    

    Time?  What time?  I am out of time.  My deadline was this morning and it's almost noon, and I have yet to finish this article for the blog.  Heck, I haven't even figured out a good topic for the post, much less written it.  But this is what I get for having spent too much time over the weekend celebrating my fifty-first birthday rather than focusing on the situation at hand.  You would think at my age I would behave a little more responsibly and have my act together.  Apparently, not!  

    But it was quite a party on Saturday, that's for certain.  My head hurt all day on Sunday as a result of the tequila shots John and Tracie and Martin insisted upon at that ... What was the name of the place we ended up?

    Then there was a knock at the front door.  I went to answer it and looked through the peep hole.  There was a uniformed police officer standing on my front porch ...

As you can see, the first line I chose led into the beginnings of a story, one that is completely my own.  I'm not sure where this particular story might lead, but at least it's under way.  And you can do the same thing, too.  Play around with this idea and see where it leads you.

Again, this is just one of many devices you can use to jumpstart your writing and get you moving.  If you have any of your own, share them as I would love to hear about some other great ideas to spur creativity.

Idea Generating Part 3

Now in previous posts we discussed digital apps and also an example of an actual story generating book that works like those digital apps to provide you with prompts for new plots or interesting characters that could lead to new story ideas.  Also, we touched upon some other ways to generate ideas, such as looking at photographs or paintings.

Using photographs or paintings is a frequent method I use to generate ideas.  In fact, my novel "One Second Before Awakening" was created using this method by taking several paintings, all rendered by Salvador Dali, and creating an entire story line.  I initially started with a single painting.  I viewed the painting without researching anything about what the artist claimed they were trying to express.  I purposely did not research what art critics or scholars had to say about what the painting meant.  I simply looked at the image and then imagined what might be going on within the image Dali had painted.  You see, by ignoring what Dali stated the image was representing, and what the critics and scholars thought it represented, it left my mind open to develop whatever scenario I felt plausible.

The painting I chose was "The Flight of Bee Around A Pomegranate, One Second Before Awakening", which is classic Dali.  Check out this image and you will see that this painting presented a bit of a challenge to write something that could suspend disbelief, yet provided for the much needed immediate action often required when beginning a story.

 



 

 

What I came up with was a detailed description of the painting with all the action derived from this very active rendering.  The opening scene of the story came from there wherein I composed an ordinary man finding himself thrust into the dimension of the painting as if it were no longer a painting, but a very real place.  He is instantly confronted by the two leaping tigers, which he manages to fight off by using the rifle shown in the painting, and he rescues the naked woman by hitching a ride on the elephant with the elongated legs that is in the background of the painting.  This sets up everything else that occurs in the novel.

I used this approach with each chapter of the novel, picking several Dali paintings from which I derived different scenes.  To this day I do not understand how exactly it happened.  I just picked some very interesting paintings, and then over time arranged those paintings into a particular order to create a complex plot.  Characters, settings, themes, symbolism, and the message behind the novel all developed rather extemporaneously when my creative mind worked at the subconscious level upon the images I had picked.  The end result was a richly detailed, deeply symbolic allegorical tale where the following underlying philosophical question was discussed:  Is our lives based upon pre-destiny or free-will?  Not a bad start for something that started with a painting of two tigers leaping from the mouth of a giant fish and appearing as if they are about to pounce upon a helpless woman lying upon a rocky island in the middle of the ocean.

I suggest you try this approach of using photos or paintings to generate story ideas.  Play around with it to see what happens.  It doesn't have to be something like a surreal Dali painting.  It could be something as simple as a photograph of a bicycle.  Describe what is in the photo, and just start writing.  All that might come of it could be a narrative about a bicycle just sitting there, but then something altogether different could emerge from your subconscious.  You will never know until you at least give a try.

Idea Generating Part Two

To add to the previous post, here are some other ideas for generating ideas.  Now there are tons of books out there, and also apps that you can download to help generate story ideas.  But there are also processes you can use.

For example, there is the notion of free flowing story generation.  This process requires that one dismiss the inner critic and the editor within your brain, and simply begin with a blank piece of paper (or screen) and just start writing anything.  Whatever is the first word that pops into your brain write it down, even if it is just a random thought about something that is going on in your life.  To increase the flowing of story during this process, set an egg timer for twenty minutes and have yourself simply write anything, even if it is gibberish.  Don't stop flowing across the paper with words for twenty minutes straight.  Sometimes you end up with something that could lead to a story, sometimes not.  But imagine if you did this every day.  Within a year you would have 365 sessions of writing, and somewhere in that is bound to be a few good ideas for stories that you could then flesh out into something interesting and engaging.  I've done experiments in this area of free flowing story generation, and much to my amazement it has led to some decent ideas.

If you're not into using apps, and prefer generating story ideas using something more tangible, I can suggest the following book.  "The Amazing Story Generator" is a flip book that allows for you to randomly set up ideas where the story generator gives you a setting, a type of character, and a situation.  I've actually used it, and come up with some very interesting stories.  For example, I generated the following story idea:  the setting was a zombie apocalypse, the main character was an extraterrestrial with amnesia, and the situation was that the extraterrestrial had discovered that it was pregnant.  This story idea, as strange as it sounds, actually led to a great rough draft for a short story that is currently going through the editing process.

Here's the Amazon link for the "The Amazing Story Generator" -  http://www.amazon.com/Amazing-Story-Generator-Creates-Thousands/dp/1452111006/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1445176568&sr=1-1&keywords=story+generator

In the meantime, keep writing.

Idea Generating

I'm occasionally asked where I get some of my story ideas.  As a writer of speculative fiction (read:  science fiction, fantasy, suspense, horror), I have to work my imagination muscle a tad bit more than would be necessary if writing in other genre's.  I know, I know, I am going to hear from the mainstream writers that romance stories or mystery/detective stories require just as much imagination muscle as speculative fiction, and they may be true to a point, but in speculative fiction a writer has to really take something that is clearly not real or clearly could not exist in the real universe, and make it appear real enough to suspend the disbelief of the reader.  Trust me, it takes a bit of creative elbow grease to make that happen.

Case in point:  I was once accused by a fellow writer (in a joking fashion, mind you) that I was apparently inhaling or otherwise ingesting illicit and/or psychedelic substances upon their reading the initial chapter of my latest novel, "One Second Before Awakening".  That first chapter described a scene where the main character was sucked into a painting rendered by Salvador Dali, and the character was immediately confronted by two ferocious tigers that had jumped out of the mouth of a giant goldfish and were about to attack a naked woman lying upon a rocky ocean islet.  It's not everyday that sort of thing really happens, and your typical "whodunit" mystery novel does not have this sort of scene.  As for where I came up with the idea, it was quite simple.

I had started with a premise:  What would happen to a person if they suddenly found themselves trapped within the world of a painted image.  I took this premise one step further by adding, "what if the painted image had a fantastic or surreal theme to it?"  From there the story took off when I decided I would choose an image rendered by the famous 20th Century master, Salvador Dali.  I found a book with several of his paintings in it, and from there let my imagination take over.

This is one of many ways to jump start your creativity.  Find an image, whether it is a photograph or a painting, and begin writing a draft of what is occurring in that image.  You may be surprised at what could come of it.  In the above case it led to a full length novel.

Another way to generate story ideas is to find an idea generator application.  These are apps that you can find (for free in most cases) where random plot and character elements are generated providing one with the initial spark for a possible story line.  One such idea generator is called "Writing Prompts", which can be found through the Google Play Store.

Here's a link to take you straight to it  https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.andromo.dev17163.app255216


It's a simple program, it's free, and it is a small example of the numerous idea generator apps that are currently available to writers.

In upcoming posts, I will share some other app links as well as some other methods for jump starting your creativity.  In the meantime, share any methods you use to come up with ideas for stories.  And don't forget -- write, write, write.

Keep it Tight

It's been said that writers write.

So you would think that its perfectly fine to jump in, and just go and go, letting your creativity take you wherever for as long as like, right?

That may be true ... especially when writing a first draft.  Yes, you should go with the muse and just write extemporaneously until the creative energy has completely dissipated (that or you pass out from lack of sleep and complete exhaustion)

But I challenge you to do something fairly radical -- write less.  Make it tight.  More is not always better.  Sometimes the best stories are ones that are vivid but short.  Use precision.  Use precise words.  Cut adjectives, adverbs ... become minimalistic in your approach and see what happens.

Being short and precise is more critical than ever these days as most people have little time to read novels or very long short stories.  So why not say more with less?  Which requires a mastery of vocabulary and grammar to an extent that you can say something which once required twenty words to illustrate, but you do it in three words...or less.

Keeping the writing tight, especially in the editorial process is critical.  It is important even if you are writing a novel.  But it is even more so when writing short pieces.  The importance, and the level of precision becomes even greater if you are writing flash fiction (stories under a thousand words).  If you make the writing tight, you will find that this minimalist approach makes for superb stories where so much is said by saying so very little (in terms of volume).  So cut, cut, cut!  Hone the story down to its basic essentials, and you will see just how strong your writing abilities will become.

Keep it tight!

Check out an interview of the author! https://www.smashwords.com/interview/RobertHill

Also, check out the latest work by Robert Hill!  http://www.amazon.com/Second-Before-Awakening-Robert-Hill/dp/1500151483/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1442173438&sr=8-2&keywords=%22one+second+before+awakening%22

Getting Into Character

Let me just say one thing:  It doesn't matter what sort of character you choose to write about.  Write about any character you wish.  Write about the millionaire who lost it all.  Write about the woman jilted by her lover.  Write about the little girl who dreamed she visited the land of faeries.  Because for the sake of expression, one must go with the energy of the muse at the time.

Now, the mantra for writers, whether it be fiction or non-fiction, is to write what you know about.  For example, my background is in law enforcement, private investigations, and martial arts.  That's my professional background.  I am a forty-something white male who grew up in the country, but has lived most of his life in the big city.  I have a military background.  My hobbies and interests vary from the cerebral to the highly active.  I can easily create a character similar to myself -- a karate-chopping, quasi-linguistic, pseudo-intellectual, private investigator (Hey, that's not such a bad set up for an interesting character -- I should keep that in mind).

But let's talk about something here that we also know all too well.  Not only should we write about what we know, but we should develop characters of which readers can identify.

You see, a reader can be invested in your story much easier, no matter what the plot or the genre, if the reader can identify with the main character (or one of the main characters).  The reader must find the character to have certain redeeming qualities that are similar in "character" with who they are.  Even if the main character is a genderless, one-eyed, purple alien from the planet Xir.

Now, from strictly a marketing perspective, I present food for thought.  The single largest reader demographic are adult females.  Sure, men read, children read, and purple aliens probably read, as well.  But the biggest reader base are adult females.  So I posit to you, then, develop a strong female main character.  She can be the protagonist, she can be the antagonist, or she can share the spotlight with a strong main character of any gender, culture, race, or species.  Strong female characters drive readership.

Yes, but what about the genderless, one-eyed, purple alien?  Can I still write about that character as the main character?  Certainly!  Just have a strong female character in the storyline.  Or, one better, present the personality of the genderless, one-eyed, purple alien as having the sensibilities of a strong female regardless of its gender.  If the character is genderless then it won't matter if aspects of its personality appear feminine while other aspects of its personality might appear more masculine.  It really doesn't matter as long as you present certain qualities by which an adult female reader can identify with the character.  In other words, they see themselves as the main character.

Last objection (from the would-be writer) -- How do I write about a female character when I don't have a clue how women think or behave because I'm not a woman.  I sympathize with you.  I'm not a woman, either.  But I do have females friends.  I have been married to females.  My mother was a female.  So, go talk to them.  Ask them questions.  Pick their brains apart so you can get an inkling of how they are wired.  You will be amazed at what you might learn, and therein find some interesting material by which to base your strong female character.  Write and then bounce the character off your female friends to see if you're hitting the mark.  If you're not, they will be certain to point it out to you.

Check out the first part of the Wonderland Series, "A Mirror Darkly", by the author for an example of a female main character.  Available through Smashwords, Amazon, B&N.com, and other major book etailers.  Or click the link https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/424032

Check out "One Second Before Awakening", the author's first full-length novel, also available through Amazon, B&N.Com, and all major book etailers.  Or click the link https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/442792

Never Judge?

The saying goes, never judge a book by its cover.

Really? Seriously? Who has ever listened to that bit of sage advice? Who has ever picked a book from the shelf or online, thinking the front jacket looks boring, but I'm sure the story is fantastic.

No one ever does that? In fact, I am wondering who ever coined this phrase because no one heeds the advice. More likely, it was phrased by someone who was lacking enough imagination to design a captivating book cover, hence quite possibly a captivating story.

If you are an aspiring author and you decide to go independent, meaning you self-publish (which is becoming more and more the trend these days with writers, thank you gods of technology!), then heed the antithesis of this advice. Be certain that first you write the most awesome story you can, and edit it with dispassionate brutality. Polish the chunk of rock you pulled out of your creative mind until it is a shining jewel. Then, spend a great deal of creative energy creating a book cover that not only exemplifies what the story is about, but also catches the reader's eye. After all, how is anyone going to know that you wrote a fantastic story when you the first thing the reader sees is your boring, plain book cover.

Oh, yes, it will be judged in this fashion no matter how excellent a story you have crafted.

Humans read with their eyes, therefore they "see" with their eyes. Being visual creatures, more so than any of our other senses, we are drawn to bright colors and shiny objects. We are drawn towards things that fascinate and titillate. So don't spend weeks, months or even years writing that great story and then banish it to obscurity by going easy on the book cover.

Anecdotal case in point: I read on Smashwords about an author who wrote a steamy romance. Then the author put a very plain book cover on it; practically just a drab, blank jacket with the title on it. The book sold on average one copy a day. Then the author designed another book cover and republished the novel. This book cover had a very sexy scene of lovers, partially nude (but not terribly scandalous in the context of romance novels), embracing passionately. The book started selling to the point that the online "etailers" (Barnesandnoble.com, Apple, Amazon) took notice of the sudden uptick in the numbers, and actually contacted the CEO of Smashwords (the publishing platform for that novel) wanting to know who this author was and where did this author come from? That particular novel went on to sell so many copies that it was listed as a New York Times ebook bestseller.

Huh, imagine that? All because of a book cover.

My next post I will discuss more of the details behind designing a good book cover. I'm not an expert at it, and sure wish I had someone at Random House to handle this sort of thing. But my business background has been most helpful in this area, and I will share my tips on making an excellent book cover that grabs the reader's attention without you having to spend an ungodly amount of time or money on the project.

If you want a glimpse of what I am talking about, check out the cover design for my latest novel, "One Second Before Awakening", available through Amazon and all the other online book etailers. http://www.amazon.com/One-Second-Before-Awakening-Hill-ebook/dp/B00L7XW3MC/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1407246759&sr=1-2&keywords=one+second+before+awakening

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/one-second-before-awakening-robert-hill/1119645366?ean=9781500151485

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/442792

Publishing Is Not The End

As a writer who started out publishing stories and poetry via the traditional route, I had once thought that once the story was in print, that was the end of it. Time to move on to the next story. Time to start the process of creation, then editing, then seeking out a publisher.

That was a bit naïve on my part, I suppose.

Now, many years later as I decided to move over to the "indie" side of things, I have learned that there is considerable work after the story is written and published. Magazines and publishing houses carry out an incredible amount of tasks following the publication of a novel -- and I am not just talking about distribution/shipping. That's just logistics, and you can leave that up to UPS.

No, what I am referring to is the marketing. And this applies to whether a major house published the work or it was published independently (read: by the author). Writing a novel or a short story, and then having it published is not the end. Ha! Silly me for thinking so. No, it is just the beginning!

Now comes the book tour, the endless campaign, the promotional marketing. Those of you who are aspiring authors, better not think for one second that it makes a difference whether a major house or "yours truly" published your piece,either. You will still do the vast amount of the marketing. You will be doing most of the peddling of the product. In one respect, YOU are the product. And no one sells YOU better than YOU (not even Random House).

So if you think you're through with that story once it is published, guess again. Now the real work starts. Drink plenty of coffee, and buy a good pair of shoes because once your novel is released, it is not the end of the story ... it is only just the beginning.


My new novel "One Second Before Awakening" is available now through all the major book e-tailers, or you can click this link here:   https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/442792

Happy Indie-pendence Day!

There's much to be said about this day in America.  It was a moment in history that has not only shaped our nation, but the modern world.  And it is something that has shaped the culture and quite possibly modified the DNA of most Americans.  We are a sturdy, freedom-loving, independent, and entrepreneurial-minded stock and this had its genesis in part from what occurred on this day more than two centuries ago.  There are many great turning points in the history of the world.  The signing of America's Declaration of Independence would be one of those as it defined who we are.

As this day applies to writing, there are a great many things to consider.  From a civil liberties standpoint, writers in this country are free to write whatever they want, no matter how scandalous or sensitive it might be, without fear of reprisal from an oppressive government.  That alone is a powerful right, and I urge all of you that write, to stretch yourself and feel completely free to express yourself so that the best story you could possibly write lands on the page unfettered.  Dig deep, don't censor yourself, and don't let anyone else censor you, either.

Additionally, consider how this day has generated a culture of independence that has quite literally been embraced by the writing community now that the technology is available to us.  Not only can the government not keep you from expressing yourself through your stories, but neither can the traditional publishing industry.  Writing a story is only half the battle for your indie-pendence.  Getting it published is the other.  After all, what good are your written words if no one reads them.  With the advent and continued maturation of digital publishing and print on demand technology, you are literally free to write and publish your work without anyone stopping you.  So, you have no excuses now not to express yourself.  Take advantage of it.  Don't let anyone tell you "no".  Don't let rejection stop you.  Write!  And then publish. 

It's a tremendous gift we have been given -- tremendous power, this freedom of expression, this independence.  But with tremendous power comes responsibility.  Use the power wisely by writing the best story you possibly can, edit it mercilessly so that it speaks to the reader, and then write yet another best story you possibly can.

Be well.  And God bless America.


For those interested my new novel "One Second Before Awakening" is due to be released on July 11, 2014, and is available in ebook format through all the major book etailers and in traditional paperback through Amazon and Barnesandnoble.com.

Shameless Self-Promotion

So, it may not seem like I am in the habit of shameless self-promotion, but lets face it ... we all do it, and I've been doing it for the longest time.  How else would our work get noticed, get read, appreciated, etc., if we did not self-promote.  The key is to do it, though. 

My last post suggested five things you could do to promote your stories and get them read, bought, downloaded ... whatever.  Here is another way to do it, and I will confess it also is shameless self-promotion.  But if I did not do it then how would a reader know to read my stories?  So, here's another suggestion for when marketing your stories.  Share a sample of it on your blog (You don't have a blog?  Sheesh, start one up!  What's the matter with you, you slacker?).

On July 2, 2014 my first full-length novel, ONE SECOND BEFORE AWAKENING, will be available for purchase through all the major book retailers.  Currently, it is available for pre-ordering on certain select sites, such as Smashwords.com and Barnesandnoble.com.  You can check out a sample using this link if you would like (shameless self-promotion):  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/442792

Of course you do this sort of thing because then readers can look at a sample of your story to determine if they like it and want to keep on reading, and also so that readers can see the quality of your writing without taking a risk.  Remember, I talked about risk with the reader last blog post when I mentioned making some of your stories available for free.  Well, a sample is free, too!

But also, you can run the sample on your blog or your website (www.roberthillauthor.com - more shameless self-promotion).  In fact, I did that last week.  I put up the first chapter for readers who might stumble across the website to get a sneak peak at what I've put together. 

And now, I will do it here on the blog as an example of what you should do with your stories (and also, did I mention, for the purposes of shameless self-promotion).

Here it goes -


One Second Before Awakening - Chapter One

Suddenly, he was in the painting; not just staring at it from the museum bench, but actually standing in it, looming over a naked woman just as two tigers came spewing from the mouth of a gigantic goldfish.

Drew turned, feeling dizzy, disoriented, and trying to locate the museum bench upon which he’d been sitting.  The bench was gone and so was the museum.  What had been a two dimensional canvas hanging on the wall was now a three dimensional world sweeping all around him as if he had stepped through a doorway leading out to the busy streets of Chicago.  But where he was now was not amongst the concrete and steel of the city, although it felt just as real.  No, Drew now stood at the jagged edge of a rocky islet surrounded by placid ocean water and illuminated by a blistering orange sun hovering low upon the horizon of a pastel sky.

How had this happened?  Bits of images were there in his head, like in that moment before waking when the last threads of a drifting-away dream were slashed by the blade of waking.  He had been sitting on the bench, thinking about the depressing state of his life, only half-staring at the Dali, when he had felt a breeze brush over him.  That breeze had swiftly grown into a gale so strong that it had buffeted him from the bench, pushing him toward the Dali, and then he found himself in a free fall, tumbling head over heels.  Then in an instant he stopped falling, stopped tumbling – and stood in the midst of the image upon which he had only just been gazing.

There was movement.  Drew stumbled about to see the woman from the painting – the painting he was now a part of – scooting away from him.  Her green eyes were startled awake, and her breast heaved like a blossoming lily.  In the glare of the sun with the dizzy sensation of disorientation blurring his vision, Drew still sensed, though, that there was something about her; familiar, intimate.

A ripe red pomegranate tumbled from the woman’s fingers and rolled against Drew’s tennis shoe as a bee buzzed past his ear.  He dodged it, grateful not to be stung as he was allergic to bees. 

What was happening?  How did he get here?

A million questions raced from the starting gate of his mind.  But he couldn’t speak, couldn’t grasp – couldn’t stop staring at the woman clothed only in her alabaster skin, who was in turn staring back at him.

A splash and the slap of cold water against Drew’s legs pulled his hazel eyes from the woman down to the water surrounding the islet.  The huge goldfish had just disappeared beneath the rippled, broken surface of the ocean, its massive body becoming shadowy as it slipped into the murky, azure depths.   But Drew had to redirect his attention away from the behemoth, drawn toward the pressing reality that two tigers, just yards away from him and the woman, had landed on the islet upon which he stood, their claws scraping against the igneous stone.

The rifle!  In the painting there had been a rifle with a bayonet affixed to it floating in the air above the woman’s chest. 

Wait, he thought.  That wasn’t exactly what he had seen in the painting.

Actually, the rifle, in the painting, had not been floating at all, but rather had been in the forefront of a succession of objects portrayed by Dali as being flung forth from the backdrop of the painting into the forefront.  Yes, in the background of the painting there had been a gigantic, exploding pomegranate that had been floating just above the water’s surface right where the burnished sun was now, and from that exploding fruit had sprung forth the goldfish, as big as a car, and from the mouth of the goldfish, one of the tigers had leapt, who in turn had vomited the second tiger, and from the second tiger’s maw must have come the rifle.  But in the reality of standing there with everything in motion … where now was the rifle?

Both predators coiled back preparing to lunge, roaring in concert.

There, next to where the woman had lain!  Drew dashed forward, picking the rifle up barrel first.

The tigers jumped.

The woman screamed.

Drew twisted about, instinct and adrenaline swinging the butt of the rifle for him.

The hard wood of the rifle stock slammed into the jaw of one of the tigers, deflecting its lethal strike.  The beast growled and a flailing claw just missed Drew’s narrow face as he stumbled back and tripped over the woman behind him.

The stricken tiger tumbled against the other and both went flailing off the edge of the island.  Huge bodies of striped fur sprayed foaming welts of water as the tigers fell into the ocean. 

Drew pushed his lean frame upward with the rifle butt as a crutch.

The tiger he had struck was clamoring for a purchase on the edge of the rock, trying to draw itself up.  The other was shaking its soaked head of the ocean water while paddling back toward the islet, having drifted several feet out into the no longer placid waters.

Drew yanked the rifle up into the crook of his arm.  He’d never used a rifle like this.  It was old, like the ones used in World War II – the bolt-action type with a bayonet affixed.  In the army he’d shot an M-16 more than a few times, especially in Afghanistan, but this thing – this antique – he wondered if it even worked.

It’s a rifle in a painting for crying out loud, his mind yelled at him. 

The first tiger was still struggling to get its massive body out of the water.

Drew lifted the rifle and aimed it, figuring if the tigers were real then the rifle might be just as real.

“Don’t!”  It was the woman behind him.  “There is to be only one bullet.”

Drew glanced at her through stray locks of sandy-colored hair.

“It’s to be for me!” she said.

His forehead wrinkled, wondering at what she was saying – ‘it’s to be for me’.  The statement, and by the way she spoke, were both peculiar and puzzling at the same time.

“One bullet, one less tiger,” he muttered, raising the rifle back up to his cheek.

Then the trumpeting call of an elephant blasted his ears from somewhere close behind him.  Startled, Drew lowered the rifle, flinching from the cacophony as he looked way up into the sky behind him. 

How stranger could things get?  What more had been flung into the midst?

His eyes saw it, but as with everything else his mind was experiencing in the expanse of mere seconds, there was a dislocation between reality and whimsy.  Yet, there it was, forty feet above him, the full body of an African elephant walking upon stilt-like legs, skinny like spaghetti and long like endless beanpoles.  It was as if someone had used a medieval rack to stretch the poor pachyderm’s legs to inhumane proportions.

Atop the elephant’s back was a tremendous saddle laden with an obelisk of ice, and a midget dressed in a clown suit that appeared to be directing or driving the spindly beast.  The midget’s face was done up to look like a clown, too, but he wore a Nazi-style storm trooper helmet.

“Hey, you!  What do you think you’re doing?” said the midget-clown, a look of anger overriding the exaggerated clown grin plastered on his face.

The long-legged elephant had been in the painting, too!  When Drew was sitting in the museum looking at the painting, the elephant with its spidery legs had been trudging through the water like an innocent passerby as the two tigers were leaping from the mouth of the goldfish.

A tiger growled.  Drew cringed and looked forward again in the direction of the sound.  The tiger was still struggling to drag itself up onto the rocks.  The second one, the one that had been made to paddle its way back toward the islet, was now beside its companion, and was also trying to pull itself up.

Drew flashed his eyes up at the midget-clown.  “Help us!”

“Did you hear me?!” yelled the little man, his arms akimbo as he stood on the front of the saddle staring down at Drew.  “What are you doing?”

“Throw us a rope!” Drew yelled back.

“You’re not supposed to interfere.  Get out of there, you idiot!”

Drew’s jaw tightened, and he pivoted around, pointing the rifle up at the little man standing on his high saddle.  “Help us!”

“Bloody Hell!”   The midget-clown ducked away and Drew thought he would turn his elephant away and flee.

But then, instead, the towering pachyderm moved closer to the edge of the island and as it did so the little man hurled down a long rope ladder.  Drew jumped back a step to avoid being hit as the ladder clacked against the stone.

Then the midget-clown started cranking on a lever attached to the saddle.  Drew didn’t know why the little man was doing this or for what purpose, but he didn’t have time to worry about it.

“What are you to be doing?” yelled the woman still beneath him at his feet.  “Where have you been coming from?”

Drew turned toward her, his brow furrowing at the strange way she spoke.  He understood her, but the way she phrased things.  There was no time for this.  “Come on!”

“I cannot!” she replied, her voice shrill.

One of the tigers finally got its hind legs up onto the surface of the islet.  The other was still struggling, but it, too, was almost out of the water.

Drew lunged toward the woman.  “Come on!”  He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.

“I cannot!”

“The Hell you say!”  Drew began dragging her toward the ladder.  “Up you go!  Get going!”

“Who are you to be doing this?” she asked, resisting.

“We can discuss it later,” Drew said, pushing her to go up the ladder.

Then the first tiger, the one he had struck with the rifle, prowled forward with its dripping belly hanging low against the stone.  A growl escaped its snarled jaws.

Drew raised the rifle to his cheek, pointing it at the tiger.

“Get up there!” he said to the woman as his finger curled about the trigger.

The other tiger then pulled itself up, stopping to shake the ocean from its thick fur as the first one continued stalking toward Drew. 

The creak of the rope behind Drew messaged that the woman was climbing the ladder.  Drew kept the rifle pointed at the closest tiger.

Then he switched the rifle into his left hand and grabbed hold of the ladder, putting his foot into the lowest rung while still pointing the rifle.

“Let’s go!” he yelled upwards.

“Just a moment, will you!” the midget-clown replied.  “Look out below!”

Drew looked up and then saw falling from the other side of the long-legged elephant the enormous obelisk of ice that had been atop the elephant’s saddle, but was now tumbling toward the water.  It crashed into the ocean, and a great wave of foaming water rushed over Drew’s legs, nearly tearing him from the ladder.  The deluge spilled over the islet, forcing the closer tiger to slide backwards while the other tiger slipped its feet under the force of the wave and plummeted back into the ocean.

Drew felt a jerking motion, and he almost lost his hold as the ladder swung away from the little island, swaying free into the air above the open water.  He gripped the ladder harder, pointing the end of the rifle away from the remaining tiger in order to grab hold with both hands.

The tiger rebounded to its feet and leapt toward Drew, roaring as it soared through the air.

“Come on!”  Drew said as he fumbled with the rifle, trying to bring it up against his hip, but as his finger grasped for the trigger, the tiger reached the apex of its jump and then plummeted toward the water, flailing claws just missing Drew’s shoes in the midst of its descent.

The long-legged elephant kept moving away as Drew stared down at the tiger.  It was paddling in the water, still coming toward him, but the stilted elephant’s stride was too enormous for the beast to keep up.

Drew lowered the rifle, remembering what the woman had said.  There was only one bullet and Drew figured he might need it if he didn’t wake up soon from this dream – this twisted nightmare – he found himself in.

He began climbing the ladder, stopping once halfway to look back at the tigers.  Both had turned about by then and were clawing their way up onto the islet again, breaking off their attack.

When Drew finally reached the top of the ladder, the midget-clown was standing over him, glaring like a reproachful mother.

Drew stared back at the comical-looking little man. 

The midget-clown offered his stunted arm to help Drew up, but he waved the point of the bayonet at the little man.  “Get back, Shorty!  Move it!”

“Suit yourself,” said the little man, grimacing as he turned.  Then he clawed forward onto the neck of the elephant and turned about facing opposite the direction it was traveling, perhaps so he could scrutinize his sudden passengers.

“So who are you?” he asked.  “And where did you come from?  Do you realize what you’ve done?”

Drew ignored the man’s questions as he managed his way on to the top of the huge saddle that was straddling the girth of the elephant.  The woman he had just saved was cringing near the rear of the large golden platform atop the saddle where the obelisk of ice had previously been.

“Are you okay?” Drew asked her, stepping toward her.

There was a feral look in her eyes as she skittered to the side of the platform away from Drew.  He thought she might jump off the side as her shoulders twisted away from him.

“Wait, I won’t hurt you!  Somebody, tell me what is going on?”  Drew reached his free hand toward the woman to grab at her delicate, thin bicep.

She edged even closer to the side, her mouth half-opened but with no words coming forth.  Only a rapid breath blew past her lips and her eyes were wide with terror.

“Who are you?” he asked her.

She refused to speak. 

Drew turned his head to face the midget who was still glaring at him, studying him as if he were some sort of freak oddity of nature.  “You, what’s going on?  How did I get here?  Who are you people?”

“I should be asking you that,” replied the midget, brusquely.  “I just lost my commission because of you.  It’ll cost you, you know?  The Corporation ain’t taking it out of my pay, that’s for sure.”

“Commission?  The Corporation?”  Drew shook his head.  “What are you talking about?  Who are you?”

“I’m talking about my ice, you idiot!” snapped the midget.  “It took me three weeks travel from the north to get this far.  I had to dump it for room up here, you know.  This ain’t a passenger ‘phant, you know?  Only ice.  That’s what I do for the Corporation.  Bring the ice from the north, take it to the Heart, and make a hefty profit.  All gone now, thanks to your meddling in the Sacrifice.”

“Slow down, slow down.  I don’t understand what it is you’re talking about.”

“What are you, some kind of idiot?”  Then the midget rolled his eyes.  “Oh, what am I saying, of course you are!  Only an idiot would do what you just did.  That woman was the sacrifice to the Leviathan and you botched the job, you did.  Someone’s not gonna be happy about it, either.  I hope you got a lot of money to pay for the mess you’ve caused.  And even that might not get you out of the fix you’re in – the fix you put us all in.”

Drew glanced back at the shaking woman.  She was curled tight, her knees drawn against her naked chest.  “Sacrifice?” Drew said.  “Why was she being sacrificed?”

“Why else?” replied the midget.  “Gee, you really are an idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot.  I’m just not from here.  I’m not even sure I am here.”  Drew shook his head and looked about at the slowly darkening sky announcing the onset of twilight.  “I have to be dreaming,” he said to himself.  “This has to be a dream.  An intense, vivid dream.  That or I’m cracking up.”

“You’re not dreaming, but if you think you’re crazy, I would agree,” remarked the midget.  “And as for not being from around here, I would agree with that, too.  If you don’t know about the Sacrifice and you’re running around wearing those strange clothes, then you must be from someplace so far away not even the Corporation’s been there.”

Drew almost laughed.  Whether the giddiness that suddenly rose up in him was because he was indeed losing it, or he felt like laughing from the remark the midget had made, he wasn’t sure.  After all, a tiny man dressed in a clown suit with a clown face painted on his face and sporting a shiny Nazi helmet on his head should be the last person to comment on Drew’s attire.  Tennis shoes, blue jeans and a pullover V-neck was hardly outlandish in comparison.

“So’s maybe you oughta tell me who you are, eh?” the midget then asked.  “And how it is that you came to be out here?”

“Drew.  Drew Anthony.”

The little man grimaced, his smiling clown face screwing up like a wrinkled raisin.  “Drew Anthony.  Strange name for a strange man.  You certainly aren’t from around here.”

“I’m not.  That’s what I keep saying.  None of this can be real.  And I certainly don’t belong here.”

“Hah!  Well, suppose you tell me where you think you belong?”

“Not in a painting, that’s for sure!”

“A painting?  What do you mean?”

“I wish I knew myself,” Drew replied.  “I was in the museum one minute, looking at the painting, then the next thing I know I’m standing back there on that rock, which was in the painting, and those two tigers were jumping at me and her.”

“Painting?  What painting?  Now you’re making even less sense.”

Drew sighed, frustrated.  “This place!  This painting!  I was staring at it!  I was in the museum.  Ana and I – “

“Who?” asked the midget.

“Ana, my wife.  She was off in another room of the museum when I sat down at the bench and was staring at this painting.”

The midget laughed.  “So you think you’ve fallen into a painting, do you?”

Drew gritted his teeth.  “I’m not crazy!”

“Okay, okay, suit yourself,” said the little man, his suddenly cautious eyes drifting toward the rifle held loosely in Drew’s right hand.

Drew looked down at the rifle, then back at the midget.  “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I know,” he replied, but his tone and his gray eyes suggested otherwise.

“Look, I just need some answers.  None of this is making any sense.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing.  You’re not in a painting.  This is the real world, Mister.”

Drew laughed.  “Maybe to you, shorty – “

“Chunk,” he said, once again frowning at Drew.

“What?”

“My name is Chunk.”

Drew gave the midget named Chunk a weird look.  Then he continued.  “Sorry.  Anyway, maybe this is real to you, but from my perspective I feel like I’ve just been dropped right into the middle of one of Salvador Dali’s paintings.”

Chunk’s mouth fell open and Drew heard the woman behind him gasp.

“The name of the Creator!” Chunk said, his eyes darting from side to side.  “If you know His name, then you can’t be from too far away.”

Drew shook his head in confusion.  “Who, Dali?  You think Dali is your god?”

Chunk raised himself up, almost standing on the neck of his spindly-legged transport.  “Think?  Think!  Everyone knows he is the Creator.  He made this world, you know, or don’t you and the people from wherever you’re from believe in the Word.”

Drew laughed.  “Oh, we believe in the Word, as you put it, but Dali is hardly a god.”

Chunk leaned forward as if to conspire.  “You best watch yourself.  Don’t you blaspheme around here.  Saying such things is heresy.”

Drew laughed once more.  This twisted dream of his was getting nuttier by the moment.  If only he could wake up, he’d have quite a story to tell Ana.

Ana. 

Right about now she had to be going out of her mind wondering where he could have gone off to so suddenly.  He had only been just a few feet away from her in another room of the museum when he landed where he was now – wherever this place was that he had landed.  He had to get to her, find his way out of this delusion or nightmare he was in.  He had to wake up, snap out of it, or otherwise figure out how to get back to her if indeed he really and truly had disappeared from the museum.  None of these scenarios, of course, was he certain of at all.  Had he merely drifted into some vivid delusion and he was actually still sitting there in the museum or had he somehow through some fantastic twist in the fabric of the universe truly jumped through a portal connecting the real world with this other, seemingly real dimension.

Chunk sighed and started to turn about.  “I don’t know who you are or where you came from, or where you think you came from, but I can’t wait to get to the beach and be rid of you.”

Chunk then turned completely about, looking out toward the last glow from the already set sun.  Drew turned back around himself to look at the woman he had “rescued”.  She was still curled into a tight ball, her green eyes watching him like a timid squirrel, as she hid her chin behind arms that were wrapped about drawn knees.

“Do you have a name?” Drew asked her.

Still she wouldn’t speak, nor would the terror in her eyes be snuffed out.

What was going on with her that she could be so stricken with fear, Drew wondered.  If anything, he would have thought she’d be relieved to still be alive.  Moments ago she was about to be torn to pieces, and he had saved her from that.  So why was she looking at him as if he had been the one that was about to rip her body open?

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Drew said, his tone frustrated.  “I saved you from those tigers.  Why would I choose to hurt you after saving you?”

Half-muttering, half-whispering, she said, “Ca -- Calliope.”

His eyes widened with the fact that he was making some progress with her.  “Calliope?  That’s your name?  Calliope?”

She nodded, and then glanced about for an instant before returning her gaze to him.

“Calliope, I’m Drew.”  He tried to reach out to her again, but she shrank back.  “It’s okay, you know.  It’s over with.  Nothing’s going to hurt you now.  Those tigers are way back there.”

“No, it will not be,” she replied, her voice barely audible over the breeze that buffeted her shoulder-length auburn hair.

“But of course it is.”

Calliope looked over her shoulder, back at the rocky island now far off in the distance.  When she turned, Drew couldn’t help but notice the exposure of her right breast.  Small, yet pleasingly round and full.  Not unlike the familiar beauty of his Ana when she would lie upon their bed …

He turned his head away, feeling the sudden heat in his cheeks.  He glanced at the back of Chunk’s helmet.  “Hey, you got something she could put on?”

Chunk turned his head around and laughed.  “No, and if I did it wouldn’t be anything that would fit her.”

Drew started to pull his shirt up over his shoulders.  “Calliope, here – “

“I don’t have to be wanting your clothes!” she said back, the words spraying forth as if she had spat them.

Drew pulled his shirt back down, surprised by the sudden anger in her tone.  “What’s the matter?  It’s all right now.  And you can’t go walking around like that.”

Calliope eyes sharpened and her nostrils flared.  “Don’t you understand?  You have been ruining everything!  It’s not all right!  Nothing has been all right!  You have not been saving me from anything.  You have been only making things worse!  It is my destiny.  I was to be the one chosen!”

“What are you talking about,” Drew asked, annoyed. 

“She was the Sacrifice, fool,” Chunk interjected.  “And she’s right, you’ve made a mess of things now, that you did.”

“Sacrifice?  Sacrifice for what?  What are you, a bunch of barbarians?”

“Tell it to Him.  It’s His command,” replied Chunk as he pointed a finger straight up into the darkening sky.

“What, Dali?  Your Creator?  That’s crazy!”

“Hah!  The spoken words of a lunatic,” Chunk muttered as he again faced forward.

“This is all crazy,” Drew said to himself as he looked to Calliope.

When he turned she glanced over her shoulder again back in the direction of the islet, and then she looked back at Drew.  “I was supposed to have been dying.  And he knows it.”

“He?  Who’s ‘he’?  Dali?”

Calliope turned her frightened gaze back toward the islet and pointed.  “No, not the Creator – him.”

Drew peered back at the islet.  Even from far off, and illuminated only by a rising gibbous moon he could see the figure of a slender man on a large horse.  The man was just sitting there on the horse on the islet, unmoving.  At the hooves of the horse were two lumps that could only have been the tigers, slouched upon the stone as if relaxing after a heavy feast of antelope.

Then the man on the horse pointed what looked like a long staff in Drew’s direction, not to signal them, but rather poised as if it were an accusing finger.

Chunk had turned about when he had overheard Calliope’s declaration, and he scuttled to the back of the saddle platform.  He stopped next to where Drew squatted and shook his head.  “I told you, you shouldn’t have interfered with the Sacrifice.”

Drew didn’t like the tone of Chunk’s voice, even less so than previously.  He swallowed despite his dry throat, wondering if this dream of his was turning as dreams sometimes did … toward nightmare.

“Who is he?” Drew asked, noticing the man on the horse now lowering the staff and then urging the horse down from the islet and into the ocean.

The horse slipped slowly into the water, moving in their direction.

“The sooner I can get to the shore and be rid of you, the better,” Chunk replied, glancing upward at Drew.

Drew turned and yanked the midget close to his face.  “Who is he?”

“Don’t tell me where you’re from, you’ve never heard of the Horseman.”

END OF SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION SAMPLE.

And if you actually read this far, then at this point you might actually be hooked on the story, leading to your possible purchase of the novel.  You should do this, too, with your stories, so don't be afraid to be ... well ... uh ... shameless.