Here it is. No, not the serial story post I hoped to publish today. This isn’t exactly a filler post because I’ve been planning it for some time, but it is in place of Rue From Ruin.
You will have to wait a bit longer for the next installation.
I’m not entirely happy with Rue From Ruin – Part 3 yet, so today I’m sharing some of the inspiration for the story with you instead.
The picture above was taken several years back during my first trip to Europe. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been infatuated with the old world. I love the sense of permanence and history that permeates that part of this tiny blue planet (even if imagined).
So when my friend and writing support group member, J. Rushing shared the photo below with our little group, I immediately loved it. The image is so wonderful and so full of character. Therefore, I felt inspired to write something about it. Anything really.
Also, I recently binge-watched Supernatural. Yes, this had a considerable impact on my writing timeline for The Galaxy and All Her Charms. In my opinion, totally worth it. I probably would never have even considered writing anything in the paranormal vein before I watched those crazy Winchester brothers. #SPN can be cheesy at times, but I’m so not above cheesy.
Finally, I wanted to write more on the themes of addiction and loss. My current work in progress deals with loss, but in Rue From Ruin the loss is far more personal. It’s tied directly to the addiction as well (no spoilers) which is something I feel very strongly about writing.
So there you have it. Hopefully, the next part of Rue From Ruin is complete as soon, but I’m not going to rush out something that doesn’t feel ready. I’m excited about what I’ve written so far, and I think my three readers are going to love it. At least, I hope you do. It certainly is a blast writing it!
Well hi there! I hope you, my three readers, enjoy this next part of my Serial Story. You may have heard it has a title now: Rue From Ruin.
Special thanks to K. M. Alexander and J. Rushing for helping me nail down a name I really like. If you want to know more about the title, shoot me a comment here or a question on Twitter. Extra special thanks to Drew Gerken and my wife Meri for all the proofing/editing help on short notice. I owe you all!
Writers: if you don’t have a writing support group as delightful as these fine people, then your writing will probably be worse than mine. Did I write that? Obviously no one proofed this intro.
If you are wondering: WHAT IS THIS SERIAL STORY THING? GAAAAHH! Please refer to Part 1. There, you will find a beginning. You may also wish to note: Part 2 is not the end. If you only enjoy stories if they end as soon as you read them, come back when Rue From Ruin is done. Without further ado…
Rue From Ruin – Part 2
6:30 AM
I scrunch up my face. It’s a futile attempt to keep a single, dust-filled ray of sunlight from playing directly across my eyes. The air must be filled with pollen and particles. I can smell the hay. Out of reflex, I brace myself to stifle a non-existent sneeze, even though allergies no longer plague me as they once did. I open my eyes a crack to glare at the offending gap in the wall of whatever building I’m in.
Apparently a huge mistake. The sun is low on the horizon. It is waiting there to greet me, and I regret my decision instantly. I flop over, clamping my eyelids down again and feel the sharp poke of what can only be more miserable hay digging into my bare skin. Something gives way beneath me, and I fall a short distance with a thump. Dull pain begins to pulse through my shoulder and hip.
“Ow!” I say. I hear a nearby horse snort and immediately regret the noise I’ve made. If I know anything, I know being discovered naked on someone else’s property won’t win friends or influence people no matter what country you are in. Unless you are trying to influence them to bring out a pitchfork or a shotgun. I lie very still listening for anything and notice only the thumping of my own heart and the sound of birdsong somewhere outside. My ears are much keener than they once were, and they aren’t picking up much until an abrupt electrical buzz like a cattle prod startles me.
Time spent on Grandad’s farm quickly informs me that this is only the sound of a controller for a wired electrical fence. The device is cycling its pulses of power. I remember my older cousins taunting me into touching a live wire. The event spawned a deep appreciation for the way the device cycles so that grabbing hold didn’t cause my muscles to convulse, unable to let go as I slowly electrocuted.
I focus on breathing, forcing myself to relax, and open my eyes.
Immediately, I remember to check my neck, and I am relieved to find the leather strap and pouch containing the ingredients for my tincture are still there. Looking down at my unclothed form, I feel a pang of sadness and regret. There is blood covering my fingers and hands. It speckles my forearms, abdomen, and chest. No doubt my face is covered as well; as I focus, I feel it cracked and dry around my mouth and inhale the strong metallic scent. I grab some hay, trying without success to wipe the blood from my mouth. My senses reach out, frantic, searching for a trail of trauma and find it with ease. The body must be close.
Don’t lead to a farmer or a kid, or some other person, I thought. Let it be HIS blood. Just this once, let luck be on my side.
Cautiously, I follow the trail down the steps from the hayloft where I had been sleeping. I note the horse I heard a moment before in one of the stalls is a black Mérens stud. He rolls his eyes at me and shuffles in his stall but is otherwise quiet. I don’t smell death coming from the stalls and say a silent prayer that it isn’t coming from the house. I silently pad across the dirt floor to the building’s only exit. The few tiny pebbles on the ground don’t bother my feet as much as the clinging layer of filth sticking to their sweaty, calloused bottoms.
Once, I braved the dangers of a Lego-strewn floors with those feet; I would give anything to trip, cursing at the plastic caltrops of parental doom again. A tear finds its way out of my eye and courses down among the dried blood on my face as I remember why I’ll never be swearing at building blocks again.
The electrical fence controller buzzes again, but I’m expecting it now.
Peering out of the slightly ajar barn entrance – I again rely on my heightened senses. There doesn’t seem to be anyone nearby, and people are easy to pick out by smell. A sickly sweet scent is coming from the right of the door, away from the small french-styled rock cottage. I ease the door open and sprint to the edge of the barn, looking over my shoulder as I go. Hoping no one takes notice of the pale, naked, and blood-drenched man running through the barnyard, I dodge around the side of the large outbuilding. The scent of copper is stronger here, mixed with the foulness of something disemboweled. There, farther down the side of the weather-worn barn is the remains of something black and hairy, but not quite so large as a man. I think it’s… a goat?
I breathe a huge sigh; relieved Bordeaux did not pay too dearly for my decision last night. There must have been a reason I came here instead of returning to my clothes.
Right. Clothes… and a bath. Probably not in that order.
Those problems need to be sorted out before picking up the trail. I can’t delay or risk being run-in to a French jail on indécence charges. My window of time is brief. Losing the trail of the Professeur again is not an option.
Finally able to focus, I can see a sign of his passage. The hunt is on.
You know that feeling? The when you done did somethin’ too stupid for the Twitterverse to forgive?
Yesterday I finished a whirlwind of revisions on part 2 of Rue From Ruin, the new title of my serial story project. I’ve been a little stressed from various work, family, and writing projects, so I was stoked to be mostly done.
I posted as much on Twitter and FB.
Then, realization hit and I remembered that this part 2 is scheduled for Friday. So I wrote a retraction, and my three readers were still understandably confused.
So I’ll say it once more… TOMORROW! I’M SO EXCITED! CANT WAIT FOR YOU TO READ! RUE FROM RUIN – PART 2!
Please accept this GIF of a robot attempting to open a door as compensation for my stupidity:
Without further baiting or delay, here is part one of my new serial story. No… It doesn’t end at the end. Like life, there will be more. See currently published parts and planned parts on the Rue From Ruin page.
Rue From Ruin – Part 1
Bordeaux Will Pay
Bordeaux.
I despise Bordeaux. It’s so… so warm. Warm and… beautiful. The sun mocks me with its cheerful rays making my customary black overcoat intolerable. Give me a chilly highland night or even an early summer evening in Seattle over this rubbish any time. Aside from that, Bordeaux is French, and I never fancied the French with their stinky cheeses and wines and their turned up noses. Still, here I am. Smack in the middle of the south of France searching for him.
He had been here; that much is obvious. I turn a corner, following my instincts and almost walk straight into it. A SIGN. Funny thing about signs is that, sometimes, they actually, really, and truly are signs, and not just portents of something mysterious or sinister. This one’s blue and white like all the street signs in the area. Of course, it doesn’t look out of the ordinary to anyone without the sight. Even to me it seems innocuous enough unless I read the pale words. The grit and grime of years clings to it and yet the painted metal is not old at all compared to the wall where it hangs. Being from the new world, it has taken some time to get used to how ancient everything is in Europe. After traveling here many times on my hunt, I’m now shocked by the appearance of something new and modern among the decay.
I turn my attention back to the sign and read the words inscribed though each one hits me like a left jab to the gut. Rue Professeur Demons. He has been here and left his mark.
I haven’t learned yet if it is intentional, the way his trail taunts me, or if he has no control over it himself. I only know the grief-stricken agony it causes me when I think of the way this monster took me in as an “apprentice” and then killed my family and tried to kill me. By tried, I mean nearly succeeded. I still have to drink a tincture of foul-smelling (and tasting) liquid each night, or I can’t even move the next day. It’s the only thing that protects my sanity.
To confirm my discovery, I pull aside a man passing on the adjoining street and point, asking him in my broken, Googlized French, “S’il vous plaît, ce qui est cette rue?” Roughly: what is the name of this street, please?
He looks at me in that disgusted way that French people reserve specifically for large, gruff outsiders who pull them aside and ask them silly questions. A sprig of something forgotten and green dances in his teeth as Mr. Stereotypical replies, pointing with a jabbing finger. Pointing to the plainly visible sign he says, “Rue du Professeur Demons.” He spits at my feet before wrenching free of my grasp and hurrying on his way leaving me dumbfounded.
No.
NO!
A dead end? How is this possible? There is an actual street in this city with this name? He must have known. He must be onto me. It’s too good, too well planned, to be otherwise. His trail brings me to Bordeaux and is going cold while he slips by on the merest technicality. Hell, maybe this is even where his curse originated.
Tomorrow is going to be a waste now. Tomorrow I’m going to be a wreck.
I’ll have to forgo the tincture and Bordeaux will likely pay for my choice, but it will be worth it when I pick up the trail.
Tonight, the moon will rise. Tonight, I will track by scent.
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