Drew Hayes

Aliens Wrecked Our Kegger - Author Commentary Edition: Chapter 6

It took roughly ten minutes for Smasher to get back on his feet, and Clyde used that time to put everything in order. Tall Tony, the most trustworthy Tony in the bunch, was officially handed over party coordination duties in Clyde’s absence. It was a huge honor, and one not done without trade. In return for the trust Clyde was showing, Tall Tony agreed to lend them his SUV. Since Clyde had a two-seater and Smasher rode a motorcycle, securing a vehicle with enough room to bring Dougie back was a primary concern.

Based on the GPS reading from Dougie’s phone, which Clyde was checking frequently, the trio had clearly gotten into some kind of automobile and were making great time through the nearby highways. They’d passed right by the other frats, so this wasn’t simply a matter of competitive sabotage, a fact Clyde had started suspecting the moment high-tech gadgets came into play. Since he had no idea of the kidnapper’s ultimate destination, for now all he could do was pursue and hope Dougie’s kidnappers came to a stop soon.

With the party in good hands and transport secured, Clyde led a still semi-dazed Smasher out to Tall Tony’s SUV. Thankfully, since it belonged to a man nicknamed Tall Tony there was ample leg room, enough for Smasher to fit nicely on the passenger side. Sticking his phone into a holder on the air vent, Clyde flipped on voice navigation and instructed it to follow Dougie’s coordinates. It lacked the same panache of jumping in a cab and screaming “follow that car” but such was the price of progress.

They rode in silence, save for the robotic voice barking directions, until Smasher finally stopped rubbing his temples and looked around. “Where are we?”

“South part of town, heading farther that direction,” Clyde replied. “We never come out here because there’s nothing but shitty stores and farm lands. I’ve got no idea what could be out here worth bringing a stolen keg to.”

“Field party is my guess. Bunch of people circle up their trucks, it’s always trucks, and unload beer while turning up their stereos. Good alternative for the folks who don’t have clubs or bars worth a damn.”

Clyde allowed his eyes to leave the road briefly, giving Smasher a look of incredulity that surpassed the best he’d thought himself capable of. It was so intense that Smasher even noticed, which only made the expression deepen.

“What? I had a life before college, and that’s how my high school football team liked to party.”

“Just never heard you say that much in one go. Ever.”

Smasher’s own eyes widened in surprise as the realization hit him. “Huh. Yeah. Well, it’s not every night I get zapped in the head; maybe I’m still out of sorts.”

For once, it was Clyde who was left silent. This was an odd development, but they were dealing with bizarre tech and an unexpected kidnapping. Smasher was right — being shaken was only natural. The stranger part of it was that he’d never imagined Smasher stayed silent out of intent; everyone had always just assumed he was a man of few words given the effort of stringing thoughts together. Had they all been misreading their friend for years? It was concerning, yet, in the hierarchy of shit to deal with, Smasher’s increased dialogue was well below a missing brother. Clyde kept his attention on the GPS and the road, determined not to fall farther behind than they already were.

After another twenty minutes of driving, Clyde noticed that the directions were stabilizing. Before, they’d jumped around a bit as Dougie’s location shifted, but now the coordinates were holding steady. A quick check of the phone confirmed that yes, Dougie had indeed stopped moving. Clyde’s foot inadvertently pushed the gas harder as he realized they were now closing the gap. Soon, they’d catch up, and this time no tuning fork was going to stop them from bringing Dougie, and the stolen kegs, back with them.

They left the highway not long after, moving to dark roads that gradually became more dirt and less pavement, making them both glad they’d borrowed Tall Tony’s vehicle for the trip. Streetlights became a distant memory, as did road signs and stop lights. Even with the brights on, it was so hard to make out anything through the trees that Clyde nearly drove right past the turn they were looking for. Smasher was the one who saw it, grabbing the wheel and giving it a quick turn that Clyde could no more have prevented than he could have talked a thunderstorm into stopping. The jerking movement was enough to swing them around, thankfully, although not for long. Only a few feet down this new road found their headlights shining on a large wire gate that connected to a wooden fence spanning the entire property. As if the fencing itself wasn’t message enough, a large “No Trespassing” sign hung on the front of the gate.

“I guess we ram it.” Clyde tried to sound resigned, rather than excited, but come on, how often did one have a justifiably righteous reason to ram a gate?

“Tall Tony might be pissed about that,” Smasher pointed out. Shit, he was making a lot of good points tonight. “Besides, there’s a hole in the gate on the end. That’s probably how they slipped past here. Although I have no idea where their car is.”

That was the question Clyde was about to raise, but as he squinted at the gate and double-checked his phone it became irrelevant. Dougie was farther in, and they had a path forward. That was what mattered for now. They could sort out the smaller questions later.

Wasting no time, they both hopped out of the SUV and rushed over to the gate. While the hole was large enough for Clyde to slip through, there was no way Smasher would fit. For a moment, Clyde wondered if he was going to have to press on alone, but that was his own fault. He’d momentarily forgotten what made Smasher… Smasher. With one hand, the big guy gripped the torn part of the wire and pulled, ripping the hole open until it was large enough for him, or an errant cow, to pass through.

Dougie was close, and they had finally arrived. Time to start the real part of their rescue mission.

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In the first version of this chapter, Smasher didn’t spell out what field parties were quite so overtly. It wasn’t until I let a friend read it that I released my rural upbringing might have pulled up an experience a tad less universal than I’d initially thought.

Aside from seeing more Smasher’s development, this chapter gets our characters out into a proper scary setting. Away from the comforts of suburbia and their entourage of friends, the duo must even abandon their last vestige of protection in the form of the SUV to venture forth alone. The idea was to thread the comedy/horror needle by shifting the setting, as things will lighten up again once we return to the frat house.

I’m not sure if Clyde’s sentiment goes for all of us, but personally speaking, I am definitely waiting for the day when I have appropriate cause/permission to blast a big vehicle through a flimsily secured gate. Or even better, of those wooden parking lot arms that lower and raise. Whether it’s due to a glut of daytime TV or too many action movies in my youth, that just seems like it would be absolutely awesome.

Deep Water: Chapter 6

“It’s a good day to whip some ass!” Skiddie banged on Douglas’s helmet as he shouted the declaration, earning the usual glare from Coach Dugglemin.

Standing shorter than most of the students he oversaw, with a pronounced belly that appeared in constant danger of tipping him forward, Coach Dugglemin had no patience for what he dubbed “cut-ups and screw-offs” of which Skiddie was the prime example.

Two toots on his whistle yanked everyone’s attention over in time to see the sadistic smirk as Coach Dugglemin let the whistle fall from his lips. “Since Kincaid had so much energy, let’s start practice off with some extra laps. Four around the track, move out!”

More than a few of their fellow players bumped into Skiddie as they jostled past, though he only called after them. “You’re welcome! Maybe next week some of you can go fast enough to catch a fucking pass.” Shaking his head, he patted Douglas on the back. “Thank god your back, Curt’s throws are going to waste out here.”

Curt said nothing, merely jogging ahead to the front of the group. While they were childhood friends off the field, Skiddie’s natural nature as a cut-up was a sharp contrast to Curt’s all-business approach. Not only was Curt the quarterback, carrying the weight of team leadership, his family was in a much worse financial situation than Skiddie’s. These games were literally a fight for his future, and the two might have come to blows over Skiddie’s bullshit long ago, if not for one key factor.

Skiddie could run his legs even better than his mouth.

Once he had hold of the ball, Skiddie was hell to halt. Not only could he accelerate at a thought, he was nimble as a coked-up-cat, slipping out of what would should have been sure-fire tackles. The nickname Skiddie had come from his talent for cutting and dashing, in fact, a childhood play on the skids he’d often tear in the turf.

With Curt calling the plays, Skiddie running the ball, and Douglas as a receiver, the three made a potent combination. They were hardly unbeatable, but there was something to be said for the chemistry developed between players who’d shared a field for over a decade.

Of the three, however, Douglas had always considered himself to be the weak link. He had nothing like Skiddie’s natural talents, or Curt’s steady arm and cool head. Really, Douglas’s best skill was that he knew Curt so well that sometime he could read the quaterback from just a look. The drift of his eyes or the shift of his foot meant a change in the throw, and Douglas was able to rapidly respond to those cues.

Knowing that he had to give a real effort for Shanice’s experiment, Douglas took a deep breath and started to run. Usually during these laps he hung to the middle, conserving stamina for the practice still to come. Resigning himself to being gassed for the next several hours, Douglas pushing himself harder, butting up to the edge of a sprint, and then crossing over.

Bodies whipped by as Douglas shot ahead, his teammates wearing surprised expressions. It wasn’t that none of them could match the speed, more that none could imagine why he was going all-out so early on. Only Curt bothered trying enough to stay at the front of the line, and even then it was plainly out of obligation.

But soon Douglas was closing in on his friend, who looked back with visible uncertainty. Hesitating for only a moment, Douglas barreled on past, taking the lead. He’d promised Shanice a sincere effort, and more than that, he was curious too.

For the first time in his entire time playing football, Douglas was outperforming of both Curt and Skiddie. It was, of course, meant to be a temporary condition; he couldn’t keep going full-tilt indefinitely.

And sure enough, Douglas did eventually slow down. But it wasn’t the dramatic drop-off he’d been anticipating. Shifting down from a sprint to a steady jog was enough to let him catch his breath, until Douglas was eventually able to dash off again. Each sprint was shorter, and the recovery period longer, yet never once did Douglas slow below a job.

As he kept running, the rest of the team began to push themselves as well, not enjoying being shown up. In spite of that, by the time their laps were finished, Douglas had lapped everyone save for Curt and Skiddie. The latter had actually stolen second place; rising to the challenge and passing an less motivated Curt, who’d already long lost his lead.

The team staggered over the finish line of the final lap, much to Coach Dugglemin’s consternation, as they’d gone and worn themselves down before the actual practice. Douglas has a hunch their instructor would be slower to hand out laps as punishment, or at least think to save them until after practice.

Skiddie was one of the few people standing steady, striding over to Douglas and peering down, emphasizing the height disparity between them. “What. The Fuck. Was that?”

“Guess a few weeks of rest did me good.”

“Good? Did you good? Do you know what kind of pace you were setting? Me either, but god damn it was definitely fast. You’ve always been able to catch, but now… now you can get deep out there before you do.” Skidding scooped Douglas up in a hug, squeezing him tight as the pair twirled. “We’ve got a real receiver! No offense to all your efforts before, just, well, you know.”

Unfortunately, Douglas did know. His most useful skill was being able to intuit Curt’s throws, not one that came paired with exceptional speed. If he could outrun Skiddie though, even in limited bursts…

Douglas turned his eyes to the patchy, brown and green turf of Middlelake High School’s field. For a fleeting moment, he was no longer on the largely forsaken hunk of grass, but an emerald field of endless possibilities.

He’d thought the water was a curse, but this… this was incredible! Douglas could be more than mediocre, he could leave this town behind, he could be a world-renowned star!

…so long as there weren’t any games in the rain, of course.

That thought brought Douglas’s dreams to an end, just in time for Skiddie to set him down. Nice a perk as the sudden surge of stamina was, it didn’t fix all of his problems. Or many of them, for that matter. It was a pleasant surprise, however he still needed to get the root of whatever was happening.

The fact that doing so required him to play like hell and potentially impress everyone on the team was nothing but a fortunate happenstance.

Aliens Wrecked Our Kegger - Author Commentary Edition: Chapter 5

In the short term, Zip Zip and Bloog had made a smart tactical decision. Dougie was neither prepared for their charge nor strong enough to stop them. Two-versus-one would have been a tough fight for Clyde as well, but at least he was ready for it. Dougie barely managed a squeal as they bumped him aside, Zip Zip looking back over his shoulder and yelling, “Much sorry!” before they vanished around a corner. Luckily, the long-term consequences of their decision meant they were going deeper into the frat house, rather than toward an exit. That gave Clyde the chance to cut them off.

Bolting back down the hall, Clyde nearly bounced off Smasher, who was lumbering around a corner. A near-injury, but also a stroke of luck. Maybe they could finish this quietly before it turned into an issue. Clyde pointed across the room, to the exact spot where Zip Zip and Bloog suddenly popped out from their escape attempt.

“We’ve got thieves, Smasher. Stop them.”

Smasher’s eyes narrowed as he took in the pair, still holding the half-sized keg between them. Slow as he was in everyday life, that was an intentional choice Smasher made. Someone his size would be breaking things all the time if he was careless, so Smasher made a point of taking care and being deliberate with his actions. He didn’t move quickly, but that wasn’t the same as saying that he couldn’t when the occasion demanded.

There was no hesitation. Once he got his orders, Smasher charged through the room, shattering a coffee table under his boots rather than waste seconds going around. Zip Zip and Bloog checked their surroundings, instantly realizing there was nowhere to take cover. Bloog, who was rapidly proving to be the brains of their operation, reacted with surprising speed. Dropping his part of the keg, Bloog reached around to his back and produced something that looked a lot like a glowing tuning fork. When Smasher drew near, seconds from impact, Bloog whipped the fork around and tapped it gently against Smasher’s temple. Without so much as a shudder or a gasp, Smasher went crashing to the ground in a crumpled heap.

What the living fuck was that thing? It was like no Taser Clyde had ever seen — those created twitching and spasms when they hit. Smasher had dropped like a switch was flipped off; if not for that massive chest rising and falling, Clyde might have been concerned the big guy was dead.

He was still seeing red, though. Stealing from his party was one thing, but assaulting one of the brothers, his friend at that, was a whole other issue. Clyde didn’t have Smasher’s speed or strength, but he’d gotten his ass-kicked enough in childhood to learn the basics of fighting back. Grabbing the nearest item he could, a lamp that just so happened to be hideous but was one of Fashion Tony’s favorite features, Clyde ran forward intending to knock them upside the head.

Unfortunately, that was the moment Dougie popped up behind Zip Zip and Bloog. “Guys, what happened, why is Smasher on the grou— Clyde, what the hell are you doing?”

Clyde slowed slightly, not wanting to catch Dougie up in a brawl. Bloog realized the situation quickly, too damn quickly, and grabbed Dougie by the shoulder. “Stop now. We leave. You remain. Dougie stay safe until we’re gone.”

“He’s been knocked out before, he’ll survive,” Clyde shot back, lifting his lamp higher.

“Last time was stun. Device has other settings.” With a twitch of Bloog’s thumb, the glow on the tuning fork turned an ominous shade of red. It felt like a bluff, there was a tad too much showmanship, but Clyde couldn’t risk it. They’d shrunk a keg and dropped the biggest dude in the house with a touch; whatever was going on here was clearly some weird shit.

The most infuriating part was that Clyde wasn’t even sure Dougie realized he was in danger; there was zero concern in his younger brother’s face as he followed Zip Zip’s hurriedly whispered instructions to help haul the keg. Bloog stayed over his shoulder, tuning fork in hand, ready to strike the moment Clyde started moving again.

“I get it. This is one of your events, isn’t it, Clyde?” Dougie asked, marveling at the glowing instrument of death inches from him. “You even put a sci-fi spin on it for me. I have to admit, you really went the extra mile tonight. This is a lot more fun than I expected.”

“Dougie, play it cool. Don’t say or do anything too stupid until they let you go.” Clyde watched as the trio slowly made their way around him, back to the hallway that led to the front door. “As for you two assholes, you better keep him safe. This isn’t over, and if you hurt him then it never will be. I’m not known for my capacity to get over things or let them go.”

Somehow unaware of the danger, Dougie laughed. “Dial it back a little; you were never cut out for theater. Props on the commitment, though.”

“He will stay safe,” Zip Zip assured Clyde. “Dougie is friend.”

“Safe, yes. Safe unless you make him not safe.” Bloog didn’t echo the sentiments of friendship, which only went to show he was the more aware of the two. Friend and hostage weren’t two titles that one could honestly put on the same person at once.

Moving fast, now that they had someone else to help haul the keg, they tore out of the room, racing down the hallway until the door shut. Once they were gone, Clyde closed his eyes and began to think. Tracking Dougie would be simple — their mother had given Clyde access to Dougie’s phone’s GPS the day he came to college, just in case. A delay would be smart, to ensure that the keg-thieves didn’t know he was following. Calling the cops was a temptation; however, he was pretty sure they weren’t going to believe two guys with weird names and sci-fi tech had kidnapped his brother to make off with a stolen keg. No, that was a route that ended with him in a cell, if not a psych ward. This was going to be a personal endeavor.

Luckily, Clyde was quite good at planning.

First things first, Clyde bent down to check on Smasher. Breathing was still steady, but he’d been out for a couple of minutes already. It might be time to call an ambulance and hope they had some way to deal with whatever those weirdos had done. Just as Clyde was pulling out his phone, Smasher’s eyes popped open and he sat straight up, looking around the room in confusion.

“Huh? Where… what happened?”

“The exchange students hit you with some weird stun-device, then ran off with the keg and Dougie,” Clyde explained. “Take a minute and make sure you’re feeling okay. If anything is wrong, we’ll run you by the hospital. Otherwise, I could really use your help. We have to go get my brother back and make sure those dicks know what happens to people who fuck with Omicron Phi.”

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One of my rules for action is that it should, as much as possible, serve to further the story along with being spectacle. I think that’s because I have a bad habit of skimming the purely action scenes in books if I feel they’re superfluous, so I work to be cognizant of it in my own work.

Here we get to see some character development from all involved based on the actions they each take. Smasher demonstrates his trust in Clyde, along with his physical competency. Dougie shows off how disconnected from reality he is. With the aliens, we see that Bloog is the more aggressive of the two, whereas Zip Zip is more ready to show loyalty and compassion.

As for Clyde, he has the uncanny ability to accept the truth before him and roll with it, rather than grapple with an existential breakdown over the sci-fi shit occurring before his eyes. A talent that will definitely come in handy with the night he still has ahead.

I wouldn’t say I always manage to add character development into a scene’s action, and I’ve certainly written a few that were spectacle for the fun of it, but this one where the choices each character made helped reflect who they were.

Deep Water: Chapter 5

It turned out, Douglas wasn’t nearly so special as he’d thought himself. Through the history of Middlelake, before it even held the current name, there were instances of people seeking the supposedly body-boosting minerals within the lake, and making themselves sick in the process.

Only The Havis Bottling company had ever managed any manner of consistency, and their secrets had been lost when the marshland gave way; the factory and staff all sucked into the newly formed inner lake. In their history class last year, the teacher had speculated that it was the Bottling Company’s delving that destabilized the land and caused the sinkhole, though officially there was no explanation.

Since then, there had been no less than three new companies who purchased bottling rights and dozens of explorations to investigate the lake’s curious patterns and unique springs, none of which had ended in anything but failure. And with multiple people suffering symptoms just like Douglas, apparently.

Unfortunately, what the bite-sized articles didn’t include was any information on what happened to those people, or even names he might use to look up their individual histories. The symptom was just mentioned in the general pile of problems everyone who drank mystery water went through.

“How is the water this toxic?” Douglas said, looking up from the book at last. “We’ve been swimming in it since we were kids, setting up slides and swings, trailering in small boats to tube around with. Nobody chugs the stuff, but someone should have gotten a few mouthfuls.”

Shanice was reading another book, something about an old empire, but her head popped up with a ready answer. “We only play in the upper levels of the water. The various pools and currents are deeper down, it’s why Havis Bottling had to drill back when it was marshland. Remember, Anthony got dragged down deep by the sinkhole, and that’s where he found the helpful water. From the historical surveys I’ve read, you don’t start seeing the currents until around twenty feet below the surface.”

While the information did answer Douglas’s question, it also left him with an even larger curiosity to address. “Historical surveys? Why do you know so much about all this?”

“I’d say the better question is why you all ignore it.” Shanice snapped her book shut with a slam that echoed through the otherwise empty room. “Our town has an actual historical mystery with no known answer. More than one, really. What was in the water that Anthony Havis found, and did the bottling company really manage to rediscover it, or was that all just marketing? What caused the Havis Bottling Company to sink, and why has no one ever been able to salvage a single remain?”

Shanice’s eyes were sparkling, an interest he’d never seen her display in classes, despite the way she easily aced them. “And at the center of it all: what is really in the Middlelake water that causes such odd effects on some people? How can you not wonder about it, when we see a reminder of the mystery every day?”

Hearing her lay it all out like that, Douglas wasn’t sure himself. “I guess I just always kind of dismissed it as local legend stuff. Every town has a haunted forest or a creepy lake they tell tall tales about.”

He wished it was still as easy to write-off, but the memory of his morning’s panic was far too fresh.

“This one is starting to seem at least cursorily real,” Shanice replied, echoing his own thoughts a bit too well.

“And if it is, what do we do?” Douglas has been so relieved at the idea of the issue not being entirely mental, he hadn’t considered what the broader implication would be. There were treatments and therapies for brain issue, he wasn’t so sure the medical field was as adept at dealing with weird-water-poisoning.

“Step one is making a full catalog of your symptoms. We know you’re having the hallucinations, is there anything else? Have you been experiencing any sleep-walking or excessive night sweats? What about bowel movements, how’s everything moving? Blocked up, or too well, if you catch my drift.”

Douglas scooted slightly away from Shanice on instinct. He was starting to realize why she didn’t talk to other people much. Once Shanice got on a topic, she went full-steam without any consideration toward conversational norms, or baseline propriety.

“Everything else is fine,” he assured her. “Well, okay, I’m not sleeping great, but that’s tied in with the hallucinations. I keep having nightmares about the tubing incident. Nothing excessive, just me sinking in the water, deeper and deeper, until I finally see the boat’s spotlight.”

Shanice’s pen was clicked open, scribbling away in a small notebook she’d produced from a pocket. “Nightmares are their own symptom, though yes, they do usually go hand-in-hand with the hallucinations. You’ve got practice today?”

“Sure do. Coach is probably going to run me ragged after weeks away.”

Clicking the pen a dozen times in the span of seconds, Shanice finally stopped her frantic fidgeting, adding another line to her notebook. “That’s actually perfect. Running is the sort of exercise with easily quantifiable outcomes, one where it would be simply to mark a sudden increase in capabilities.”

“I mean, we do run a lot, but there’s no guarantee. Why does my time matter anyway?”

Shanice cocked her head at him, the light of the library glinting off her glasses. “Anthony Havis displayed enhanced physical prowess after his exposure to the lake’s deeper waters. We’re trying to understand your condition, so the more symptoms we can confirm or rule out, the more data we have to work with. So whatever workouts you have today, give it your all. Aim to beat your own personal best. Even if there’s no change, it allows us to cross one more potential symptom off the list.”

She was already writing again, humming softly like everything was sorted out. Douglas, on the other hand, wasn’t feeling nearly so reassured. “What does this matter anyway? Who cares what symptoms I have for a weird infection that no one knows how to treat?”

The way she stared at him and blinked made him think of an owl. An unexpectedly pretty owl. “How would we know there’s no treatment? This is one set of books, in one high school library. Based on the historical accounts, I’d assume there have to be more extensive records of the infections somewhere. And none of the articles mentioned any deaths, so I’d say there’s a solid chance someone figured out a treatment. I’m going to dig into all that while you have practice, narrowing the symptoms gives us more diagnostic information to draw from.”

Douglas found himself nodding along halfway through the rebuking rebuttal. Shanice was absolutely right. Why had he taken such a dour outlook from the start? Nothing he’d seen indicated the symptoms were long-term or incurable. It was ridiculous to get discouraged because one old history book didn’t delve into medical specifics.

“Thanks. I guess I needed a little outside perspective.”

“If you want to thank me, give your workouts all you’ve got today. Compromised data is no good to us.”

Again, Douglas nodded, smiling a bit at the word “us.” Even if Shanice was the last person he’d expected to share this secret with, it just felt good to not be carrying it alone.

Aliens Wrecked Our Kegger - Author Commentary Edition: Chapter 4

Although he was on guard after the missing keg, Clyde slowly began to relax as events flowed smoothly. The next round of specialty shots came and went without any more supplies vanishing, Dougie was officially off the couch as Zip Zip and Bloog unwittingly dragged him into socialization attempts, and the overall crowd had settled into a familiar hum of revelry that Clyde considered to be the music of a job well done. With everything running flawlessly, he found his anxiety mercifully eased, enough to treat himself to a quick round at the bar, fixing a hurried cocktail. Truth be told, Clyde avoided beer on nights like this; it was the sort of drink that left a stench behind when spilled, and for him that would have necessitated an entire outfit change. Besides, he liked to keep a clear head. There were plenty of times for him to cut loose through the year, but these events were equivalent to concerts with him as the conductor, an effort that required a keen mind in case of troubleshooting.

No sooner had Clyde finished stirring his drink than a loud, sharp, shrill noise rang through the frat house. It was instantly familiar, since Clyde insisted on monthly fire drills. The fire alarm had gone off, and that was an all-hands-on-deck situation. If the fire department came out, they would, of course, have cops along with them, and while the college might turn a blind eye to controlled revelry, there were limits. Once the cops arrived, this party was done, and Clyde would be damned if he let that happen without a fight.

Charging into the living room, Clyde easily located and ran to Smasher, who wordlessly lifted Clyde up onto his shoulders so that everyone could see him. “Attention revelers! Please keep enjoying yourselves. The situation is well in hand. Sexy Tony knows that an alarm means it’s time for the Hotball shots, and he’ll be wheeling those out in the backyard right now. File on out and go grab a couple — we’ve prepared plenty. Other brothers, you know what to do, we drill for this monthly. Find the source of the alarm while Smooth Tony phones the fire department to let them know we’ve got the issue well in hand, just in case someone else calls it in by mistake.”

The “by mistake” was pure pageantry. As soon as the other frats saw this chance, they’d pounce. If three calls hadn’t already gone out, Clyde would be flabbergasted. This was why they drilled, though, and for as much flack as Clyde had taken on the policy, he noted that the brothers still moved like clockwork. Everyone ran to their designated areas, scanning for anything that could account for a sudden fire alarm going off. Meanwhile, Smooth Tony was already on his phone, twirling his hideous ponytail as he spoke. Smooth Tony could talk nearly anyone into anything; he proved that every day by functioning with his hideous hair choice. It was the equivalent of a berserker wearing the scalps of fallen enemies, a physical cue to let all who saw it know how capable that person was at what they did.

With the brothers on their tasks, Clyde motioned for Smasher to hoist him down. They could deal with a fire; the bigger issue to consider was whether or not this was cover for a larger move. Sowing chaos was only a worthwhile endeavor if one planned to harvest the crops, and with one keg already missing Clyde could take a fair guess at what the end goal of this would be. Mentally recalling the party layout, Clyde assessed which kegs would be most vulnerable. Everyone was pouring into the backyard, so even if someone grabbed a keg from there they wouldn’t make it more than a few steps, and he’d put enough fear into the brothers by the gate that they’d die rather than move. It was amazing the length people would go to if it meant avoiding being on cleaning duty with Clyde.

Since the backyard was good and sealed, that made their most vulnerable targets the keg in the dining room/beer pong tournament hall and the one in the closet under the stairs. “Smasher, you check the Potter-hole; I’ll make sure the dining room is safe. Don’t let anyone make off with more of our supplies.”

“Got it.” Smasher was already moving as his words rumbled, slow and steady as always. What Clyde wouldn’t trade for three more Smashers in his life. With five, he could probably take over the world. The one would have to suffice for now. Clyde raced toward the dining room, determined not to let their saboteurs sneak away in the confusion.

Upon arrival, he thought everything was good. Zip Zip and Bloog were standing over the keg, but that wasn’t inherently suspicious. After all, it was a room filled with beer pong tables, standing around the keg to fill up pitchers was part of the festivities. It was only after a few seconds of staring that Clyde noticed the strange green glow coming from their location, right where the keg was supposed to be.

“Hey! What the fuck is that?”

Clyde’s voice startled them so much that Bloog dropped something from his hand, an object that clattered to the ground. As soon as it did, the green glow died away. Both of the exchange students turned to look at Clyde with shocked expressions, and as they did their bodies parted. Through the gap, Clyde could make out the keg, or rather, what remained of it. It wasn’t destroyed; it actually looked still perfectly intact. It was just… smaller. Nearly the size of pony-keg, except that it was too thick around to be mistaken for one. After cycling through a half-dozen explanations that didn’t hold water, Clyde was forced to settle on the only one that made any sort of sense.

“Did you… were you… shrinking our keg?”

“Hey guys, I brought the shots like you wanted.” It was at that point that Dougie wandered in through the dining room’s other entrance, several Hotball shots in his hands. Zip Zip and Bloog looked from Dougie, to Clyde, to the keg, and back to Clyde.

“Discovery!” Zip Zip yelled. “Discovery! We are unmade.”

Bloog nodded, although he didn’t seem as panicked. Instead, he scooped up the device from the ground, then took a good grip on the reduced-size keg and nodded in Dougie’s direction. “Escape. Escape!” Zip Zip took the cue, and together the pair of them hauled up the keg and began racing right toward Dougie.

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And now the action begins! At the time, four chapters getting to where the plot really kicked off felt like a speed-run, but this is now probably the slowest starting of my Shingles series.

The pacing difference between novellas and novels was one I’d need more practice to really grasp, though at least I went into this one knowing there was a limited time for setup.

Aside from introducing the genuine sci-fi aspects of the story, I find this chapter important because it reinforces Clyde’s odd role within the frat, and sheds a little light on his perception of Smasher.

The idea of brotherhood, bother literal and figurative, is not-so-subtly layered throughout this story, and so it felt essentially to underline that Clyde genuinely valued his friend and his contributions to their particular dynamic. I also found the image of Smasher hefting Clyde to yell at everyone as a makeshift speaker system to be as especially fun image, but that might just be an old appreciation for Freak the Mighty rearing it’s head.

Deep Water Chapter 4

It was several hours later, when the rest of the school was cramming down the mishmash of nutrition optimistically called lunch, that Douglas learned what Shanice was talking about. She’d promised more if he met her in the library, refused to elaborate in the janitor’s closet, and quickly hurried out not long after the revelation. Douglas followed a few minutes later, relieved to find the storm had passed.

But Shanice’s words wouldn’t leave his mind. Ever since the incidents had started, Douglas essentially accepted he was having a mental breakdown. Not that he’d been willing to admit it openly, however one could only see so much phantom water before the truth became undeniable. His plan had been to grit his teeth and knuckle through until the visions stopped, or true insanity took hold.

The idea that other people had experienced the same things as him… it offered a potential way forward. What if he wasn’t having a breakdown, and it was all some weird infection from the inner lake’s microbes? That whole body of water was supposed to have a unique biome, it was what the Havis Bottling Company had built their branding on.

By the time lunch arrived, Douglas all but bolted through the halls. Luckily, as one of many teen athletes in the school, he wasn’t alone in the rush, though most others were heading toward the cafeteria, urged on by aching stomachs rather than fracturing minds.

Middlelake High School’s library was functional, in that it indeed stocked books that students could check out, however the majority were old and obscure enough that few bothered. The only semi-new tomes to be found were all related to the town itself, as fresh copies were constantly donated by the town council and other supposedly civic-minded organizations. And it was, surprisingly enough, in a pile of those books that Douglas found Shanice.

She’d clearly forgotten about expecting company, utterly absorbed in the book she was holding. Her eyes darted fervently across the page, and Douglas noticed she mouthed the words ever-so-slightly as she read them. Which was how he realized that Shanice wasn’t so much reading the book as catapulting through it.

Unsure of what else to do, Douglas finally spoke up, careful to keep his tone soft. “Hey.”

From the way Shanice reacted, one would have thought he leaned down and screamed in her ear. Letting out an unrestrained shriek, she threw her current book up into the air while tumbling backwards, knocking her nearest pile of tomes over as she tried to hurriedly scramble away. It took several seconds, long enough for her airborne book to come crashing down, before Shanice slowed her retreat.

Panting, and visibly embarrassed, she started climbing to her feet, and Douglas hurried forward to offer a hand. Not meeting his eyes, she accepted, leaning right back down to start gathering the scattered books. “Soooo, how’s your day going? Learn anything fun?”

“Couldn’t tell you. I haven’t been able to think about anything other than this morning,” Douglas admitted.

Shanice’s head snapped up sharply, and Douglas realized his wording might benefit from some additional clarification. “You said I wasn’t the first person this has happened to. What does that mean? And how do you know about all this?”

“Ah, right.” Pointing her warm cheeks toward the ground while she scoured about, Shanice eventually plucked a hefty book from the fallen pile. “Anthony T. Havis. He was walking the marshland that used to be where the inner lake is now, when a wrong step put him down a sinkhole. His brothers raced over, and after several minutes feared the worst. But just when they were about to give up hope, Anthony’s head broke the surface and they dragged him onto land.”

As she spoke, Shanice flipped through the pages, reproductions of old weathered photos showing a swampy chunk of land that no longer existed. Moreover, Douglas realized he’d heard some form of this tale before.

“Hang on, isn’t this the story from the old Havis Mineral Water labels?” Douglas have seen countless iterations of those labels growing up in Middlelake, hell there was a framed one in the principal’s office. “Anthony emerged stronger than ever, and you too can taste the vitality in Havis Mineral Water.”

“Before it was a promotional slogan, it was local history.” Shanice was undaunted by his evident doubt, continuing to flip through her tome’s pages, tapping on a particular line of text. “When doctors performed a physical on him after the incident, the formerly feeble Anthony proved exceedingly hale and hearty.”

Douglas waited for more, but when Shanice looked at him clearly expecting a response, he found himself at a loss. “How does that relate to me seeing water that isn’t there?”

“So no notable physical changes then?” She kept pressing the issue, watching him furtively.

“I wouldn’t really know. Haven’t been allowed to go to practice since the incident, today’s my first chance to get on the field.”

Bobbing her head, knocking her glasses mildly askew, Shanice finally flipped over to the next page. “Eager to reproduce the results of Anthony’s alteration, many of the locals began drinking water out of the sinkholes. That was when they discovered the unique structure of the watertable, with dozens-to-hundreds of unique, isolated pools lining the cave system, accessible through an ever-shifting array of currents. Which is to say, a lot of people got sick guzzling down the mostly tainted water.”

Flipping the book around, she pushed it toward Douglas, thumb pressed against a paragraph along the page’s top.

Without intending too, he read it aloud. “Symptoms of those who drank from contaminated sources included vomiting, loss of bowel control, fever, and several strange mental conditions, including a lingering series of hallucinations centered… around… water.”

Here it was, in black-and-white print. Proof that there was an external explanation for his strange visions. So why didn’t he feel relieved? Maybe it was the revelation that he’d ingested some sort of pseudo-toxin during his time submerged, or the part of him wondering about all the aspects to the story that hadn’t been printed.

Or perhaps it was Shanice’s face as she slowly, deliberately, turned the page once again.

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Aliens Wrecked Our Kegger - Author Commentary Edition: Chapter 3

The crowd was a mix of the upbeat, ambitious, drunk, really drunk, and sullen, with a few outliers who occupied their own category filling things out for good measure. After years of these events, it was about what Clyde had expected, although he did wish Dougie wasn’t in the “sullen” category. Despite being dressed well enough to look like he belonged, the hangdog expression and general aura of standoffishness was making sure that no one wasted time chatting with Clyde’s younger brother. Occasionally, he would swing by to check on Dougie, but as the party kicked off and things grew hectic, it was an obligation that Clyde couldn’t keep up with. Not when so many other tasks demanded his attention.

Hipster Tony had, thankfully, remembered to pre-heat the ovens. Not to the right temperature, but at this point Clyde would take any amount of competence from that one as a sign of hope. Of course, Clyde had still needed to receive the delivery, get it all set up, then coordinate with the keg and shot stations spread through the house, make sure he had the big guys working as muscle properly dispersed in case of fights or disruption, lay down plastic sheeting on the carpet, and all of that was before the first guest arrived. Once things started, Clyde’s job only had only grown more daunting.

He had to ensure every station kept the booze flowing, that food never ran low, that no section of the house got too occupied and overwhelming. The latter was handled by having special shots rolled out in the backyard every hour or so, only available until they ran out, to flush people from the crevices they’d settled into. There would also be activities later in the night, but the core goal was to keep the party circulating. Make sure people were talking, meeting new friends, and generally having a good time that kept them constantly engaged. This party was the promise of what Omicron Phi offered to its brothers; it set the standard for what pledges should expect. Anyone could get drunk on campus whenever they liked, doing it here was supposed to be an experience. It was a role Clyde took deeply serious, which was why he felt such a surge of frustration two hours into the event when Smasher showed up with an unexpected report.

“What do you mean, gone?” It was a waste of anger; Smasher could no more detect the vitriol in Clyde’s words than he could see the atoms that composed his beer.

“Gone. Just gone. I was doing keg checks to make sure none had been floated yet, and the one near the backyard gate fence is gone,” Smasher replied.

“And the brothers who were supposed to be watching it?” Clyde already had a hunch what the explanation would be, but he still wanted to hear it nonetheless.

Sure enough, Smasher confirmed his suspicions. “They went to get some of those fancy shots last time you had Sexy Tony roll them out. By the time they came back, the keg was gone.”

Of course they had. Taking a deep breath, Clyde shoved his anxiety down, using the control technique his many therapists had imparted. It was okay. He always assumed there would be some degree of error or failure during these events, and so Clyde padded the resources to account for such issues. It was early in the night to already be down a whole keg, but that was why redundancies existed.

“Smasher, go grab a new keg from the basement — there should be a few on ice. Bring it back to the gate and tell whoever is supposed to be manning it that if they lose another, they’ll be on kitchen cleaning duty with me as a supervisor for the next month.”

Someone stealing a keg wasn’t entirely unheard of; Omicron Phi had built up a stellar party reputation over the past few years thanks to Clyde’s management. The other frats couldn’t compete directly, so the occasional act of sabotage was used in a vain attempt to even the playing field. There would be hell to pay for whoever did this, eventually, but for right now Clyde had an event to oversee. And an actual sibling to check in on, for that matter.

With a quick scan, Clyde located Dougie. It wasn’t especially hard; he’d barely budged from the living room all night long. This time, thankfully, there was an unexpected surprise. Dougie was talking to two other guys. They both appeared a tad… off, when Clyde looked closer. Clothes that were a step out of fashion and didn’t fit quite right, posture that seemed a tad too enthusiastic for a simple conversation, big shining grins slapped across their faces. Given all those clues, it was easy to figure the new pair out: they were obviously exchange students. A few showed up to the pledge drive every year, and though only Sexy Tony had actually joined Omicron Phi, Clyde still tried to make an effort to welcome these folks. He just hoped Dougie hadn’t scared them off yet.

Strolling over casually, Clyde set himself down on the arm of the couch where all three were seated, putting on his best “Welcome!” expression. “Good evening, how’s everyone enjoying themselves?”

“Much!” The first of the student hopped up from his seat, eagerly reaching out and shaking Clyde’s hand. “Much enjoyment. Such refreshments, such energy!”

If that didn’t confirm Clyde’s exchange student diagnosis, then he wasn’t sure what would. Taking the stranger’s hand, he gave it a firm shake that had been practiced countless times. “Glad to hear it. I’m Clyde, the Omicron Phi social chair.”

“This is Zip Zip and Bloog,” Dougie informed him, still seated. Zip Zip was apparently the one Clyde was shaking hands with, while the slightly taller one with dark hair must have been Bloog. “They’re cool guys. We were discussing some of the new probes NASA is putting out this year and whether or not we think they’ll find any signs of life.”

“They will not. Too close.” It was the first time Bloog had spoken, and despite the cheery expression he seemed a little worried. Clyde didn’t pay it much mind — too long talking to Dougie would do that to anyone.

“Sounds like a lot of fun.” Clyde pulled his hand back from Zip Zip, who was still shaking it, and got off the couch. “You three enjoy yourselves, and maybe walk around the party a little. I think they’re going to be bringing out another specialty shot in a few minutes.”

Zip Zip and Bloog both grew visibly excited at that news, and although Dougie seemed to not care at first, he feigned enthusiasm when he noticed the other two brightening. Weird nicknames and speaking style aside, if these two could drag Dougie off the couch then Clyde would personally invite them to join. Anything that got his brother socializing meant less heat for Clyde to deal with.

Across the room, Clyde spotted Smasher hauling a keg through with one hand, coming dearly close to slamming into people several times. Clyde was off like a shot to clear the path. The last thing he needed was Smasher accidentally giving someone a concussion. That kind of event could kill a party’s vibe instantly, and he was not going to let anything go wrong tonight.

That resolve, as it turned out, wouldn’t even last through the next hour.

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Despite what many people may have thought, and the level of drunken fun that often permeates my books, I’ve never actually been part of a fraternity. Coming into college with my main passions being books and theatre, I didn’t expect it would be my scene.

However, I have attended a fair few elaborate parties in my days, and it was from those events that I drew inspiration for the Omicron Phi kegger. The specialty shot idea came from a party I attended called a Shot Scavenger Hunt where there were stations set up with people serving different shots, some good and some bad. The goal was to try them all and claim a prize… which was a shot glass.

I kind of wanted to work an event like that into this story, but one lesson I learned quickly in novellas was that pacing has to flow a lot differently. If my normal books are seasons of TV shows, then my novellas are movies, so they have to hit the ground running pretty fast.

Deep Water: Chapter 3

After a night of rough sleep, Douglas dragged himself out of bed to face the Wednesday. Tired as he felt, at least there was practice to look forward to after classes ended. The idea that he’d be eager to run around in heavy pads while the sun blazed overhead was one he’d have found laughable before, but now any sense of normalcy would be well-worth the soreness.

Breakfast consisted of a few hurried bites of peanut butter toast while he ran out the door, leaping onto his bike and riding swiftly toward school. It wasn’t that Douglas was that amped about learning, but yesterday’s clear sky had been replaced by heavy clouds. Knowing how he’d reacted to that slender puddle on Dipping Lane, Douglas didn’t want to imagine what his brain would do with a downpour.

Thankfully, the road remained dry as Douglas pedaled down the softly curving streets down to Middlelake High School, a name that was certainly accurate, if not creative. At least the middle school was named after the town’s founder, Olibram Havis. But the high school had come later, and the name was already in use, so it got the more obvious title.

Douglas crested to a halt by the bike rack, craning his neck to scan the parking lot for Skiddie’s truck. Skiddie always parked his massive vehicle diagonally across two spaces, which made it easy to spot. There was no sign of it yet though, which wasn’t shocking. Douglas usually arrived around the same time as his friends, except today he’d hauled ass.

Locking up his bike, Douglas noticed he actually felt surprisingly good for having just biked so hard. Usually, his cardio showed its weakness before his muscles, but maybe a near-month of rest had helped more than just his mind.

Douglas finished clicking the lock into place just as the sound of thunder exploded overhead. Seconds later, he felt the first drops start to hit his hands, the telltale splats from the pavement confirming that the clouds were at last unleashing their payloads.

The next thing Douglas knew, he was running. There was no conscious memory of leaping to his feet or picking a direction, like his body had omitted the brain from any input on those decisions. Not that he had an idea of where he was headed, only that there was a set of open doors in sight. A place to take shelter from the rain pelting his body, soaking into his clothes, trying to drag him-

Blasting past the doors, Douglas didn’t slow down. He bolted deeper into the building, further from the sound of the falling rain. There was no thought guiding him, it was all instinct. At the sound of rain, he’d simply turn away.

Finally, Douglas found somewhere silent. Even better, there were no windows! Douglas hurried inside and slammed the door shut, collapsing onto the ground. It wasn’t physical exhaustion, but mentally he felt squeezed dry.

He wasn’t sure if it was more fitting to break down crying or fall into mad laughter. A few drops of rain. That was all it took to send him racing for safety. All that bluster about getting things back to normal, and he couldn’t even stand outside in a light drizzle.

Why couldn’t his stupid brain just move on! It had been terrifying, yes, but the moment was over. Douglas was safe, on dry land, and in no danger from drowning unless he stared upward and opened his mouth like a goose. So why? Why was his brain constantly screaming that he was still in mortal peril?

“Hey so, there’s not really a non-awkward way to bring this up, but I was already having a panic attack in here.”

Douglas leapt at the sound of a voice, his already stretched nerves threatening to burst. Twisting about, he got a good look at his surroundings for the first time. Mop bucket, bottles with sprayers attached, gigantic rolls of rough paper towels. In his mad dash away from the sound of rain, he’s apparently ended up inside some janitorial closet. One that had been occupied.

Because as Douglas looked away from the mop bucket, he found a pair of glasses reflecting the faded-yellow light of the room’s single bulb. Large spectacles, hair in braids, the last detail was her over-stuffed backpack. Douglas finally recognized his unexpected roommate: Shanice, one of the heavy-studying kids who did extra clubs and honor roll and shit.

Seeing someone like her skipping class was so jarring, it momentarily distracted Douglas from the waves of panic that had been striking at his psyche since the first raindrop fell. “Sorry. First time, still new to things.”

“Ah, well you’ve got good instincts.” Shanice rapped on the wall, which produced a very muted thud. “One of the few places in the school with no windows and exceptional insulation. Used to be part of our music department, before our fine arts budget was gutted and the large space repurposed.”

“We still have a music club. They meet in a room near the gym,” Douglas pointed out. Slowly, the lack of storm sounds was allowing him to regain a mental balance, and having someone to talk with apparently helped.

“We have a club. We used to have a department that competed in national programs.” Shanice shook her head, giving him a longer look. “Not that I think such a valued member of our football team has had much experience with seeing programs be under-funded.”

Douglas didn’t have much of a rebuttal to that, so he instead shifted the subject. “Are you afraid of the water too?”

Again, she looked at him, but the glance this time was far more pointed than before. “Lightning, actually. I had occasion to see its effects up close once, and the sight left a… powerful impression.”

Despite the chill in her words, Douglas couldn’t help noticing that Shanice edged slightly closer before speaking again. “This fear of yours is a new one, it would have to be. There were three rain games last year that you played in. So what exactly do you mean, afraid of the water?”

A war within himself raged, as part of Douglas was irresistibly drawn to the idea of finally letting the truth out, telling someone what he was really going through. But despite how cut-off this closet felt, they were still connected to the real world. Once outside, his secrets could be spilled, and they hardly knew one another. There was no allegiance there, no trust built up.

Douglas opened his mouth to lie, and found his tongue unwilling to cooperate. Whatever else she might be, Shanice was someone driven to cower next to a mop bucket at the faintest hints of a storm.

She was as close to a kindred soul as he could hope for.

“I’ve been having these weird… visual anomalies,” Douglas admitted. “I keep thinking I see water that’s deeper and darker than it is, sometimes hear the flow of a stream that isn’t really there. It all started-”

“-after you fell into the inner lake at night, right?” Shanice wasn’t hiding her interest anymore, leaning eagerly forward, her glasses shining under the bulb’s direct light.

Every part of him had expected to be direct toward therapy, or assured with platitudes that things would be fine. That Shanice not only believe him, but seemed to know more… what exactly was going on?

“How do you know that?”

The smile upon hearing his implied confirmation left Douglas feeling a bit unsettled, even if it couldn’t compare the rain. “Because you’re not the first person this has happened to.”

Aliens Wrecked Our Kegger - Author Commentary Edition: Chapter 2

The Omicron Phi Fraternity house was buzzing with activity, all manner of dudes and bros scurrying about to deal with menial tasks. Few frats were this organized or well-managed, but then again, none of the other frats had Clyde’s ruthless scheduling enforced by Smasher’s friendly muscle. Although Clyde wasn’t exactly beloved for his dedication to efficiency, the results he consistently delivered made it an annoyance that the brothers put up with. Sure, he might drive them like a mad foreman at times; however, those memories always faded in light of the extraordinary events his pragmatism was able to cobble together. For last year’s beer relay, most of the other frats just had empty keg shells to spin around and card tables to play flip-cup on. Omicron Phi, on the other hand, had an entire inflatable obstacle course complete with unique drinking stations spaced out intermittently through the gauntlet. When the sororities arrived, there was never a question as to where they would spend their day. Clyde was a miracle worker, even if the secret to his magic was the sweat, and occasional blood, of his fraternity brothers.

On this particular day, Clyde was more worried about dealing with his actual brother than the ones he shared a house with. Dougie had, begrudgingly, put on a half-decent pair of jeans, but no shirt he owned could be found without stains, wrinkles, or the sort of funk that not even pre-soaking could fix. With no other choice, it was obvious Dougie would have to borrow a shirt from Clyde. A shirt he was going to be very careful with, or so he’d promised.

Giving Denim Tony a nod as they passed, Clyde ushered Smasher and Dougie into his room. Not many people had their own accommodations here, but being head of the social committee had its advantages. Well, that, and no one had ever managed to spend more than a week living with Clyde. His standards for cleanliness weren’t something most college-aged men could live up to. The closet itself proved that point well, since the entire space was organized by style, color, and general fit in a system so complex anyone besides Clyde would have needed an index to keep it all straight.

“Let’s see, something dark, since I’m sure you’ll spill at least a little on it, and maybe we’ll go with long sleeves to hide those spindly little arms.” Grabbing a shirt that had grown a tad too small for him, Clyde tossed it over to Dougie, who looked at it like a completely foreign object.

“Is this really necessary? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Smasher and Clyde both stared at Dougie, who was clad in a tattered shirt barely hidden under a threadbare zip-up hoodie. Finally, after realizing Dougie was actually waiting for an answer, Clyde responded. “That’s a shitty joke, right? Dude, you’re wearing a Spells, Swords, & Stealth t-shirt with at least three different colors of stains of it. This is a nice occasion; that shit isn’t going to fly.”

“Heaven forbid I don’t fit in with the frat guys.” Despite the lip, Dougie was slowly shrugging off his hoodie. “Then they might not like me enough to hold me down, beat me up, or call me names like pole-smoker, pillow-biter—”

The thunk of Clyde’s hand smacking the back of Dougie’s head was subdued, but still knocked the younger brother’s face a few inches forward.

“Jesus Christ, Dougie, what the fuck? You don’t say that kind of shit around here; this isn’t a some Call of Shootey game. Five of the brothers are gay, Tall Tony is ace, and Smasher here was adopted by two very nice women who help set up for every parent’s weekend.”

“My moms are the best.” It was hard to tell if Smasher was agreeing with Clyde’s point or just making a statement apropos of nothing. Not that it mattered; this wasn’t a topic anyone was brave or stupid enough to try debating with him over.

Rubbing the back of his head, Dougie at least had the good sense to look slightly ashamed. “Sorry, I thought that’s how these places worked.”

“Not this place. Damn Dougie, get it together. Next thing I know you’re going to walk one room over and drop a slur around Tiny Tony.”

“I thought Tony was tall?” Dougie asked.

“Tall Tony is tall.” Clyde started to rub his temples, a stress headache already starting to form. This part, at least, wasn’t Dougie’s fault. “We’ve got over a dozen guys named Tony here, so we had to start coming up with descriptors to keep them sorted. Big Tony, Denim Tony, Tall Tony, Tiny Tony, Hot Tony—”

“Hang on. You all collectively call a guy hot?” Dougie was at least putting the shirt on as he talked, smart enough to not quite push Clyde over the breaking point.

Clyde nodded. “Yeah, but it’s not what you think. Mother fucker is just always sweating, no matter how cold we turn it. Hot Tony is literal — dude can’t stop being warm. Sexy Tony is the good looking one.”

That didn’t especially answer the implied question, but Dougie had other things to focus on as he finally got the shirt buttoned up and turned around so Clyde and Smasher could inspect him. It wasn’t a perfect fit, given that Dougie had smaller shoulders and a slight hunch in his posture, but it managed to give the appearance of effort, so it would have to suffice. Clyde’s goal was to push Dougie through this well enough that their mom couldn’t say he’d half-assed it. Getting Dougie to join the frat was a minimal concern. Even if they offered, Clyde had a hunch his brother would refuse. That was a fight with Mom Dougie would have to pick though. He was on his own there.

“I’m presentable, so now what?” Dougie demanded.

“Now, you take the shirt back off and put on some work-out shorts,” Clyde informed him. “We’ve still got a few hours left, and it’s all hands on deck. All my other brothers are working. I can’t see why you should be different.”

“Hang on, I didn’t—”

“Smasher, stay here and make sure Dougie gets changed, fast, then bring him down. I’m off to check that the catering is on schedule and the kitchen is prepared to receive it. So help me god, if Hipster Tony forgot to preheat the oven again, I will tear his antique unicycle earring out.”

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So, let’s talk about the Tonys.

This ended up being a more distinctive part of the story than I expected, and an aspect that translated really well to filling out the cast for the movie version.

There are lot of fun aspects to the bit of all the other frat brothers being named Tony. It’s an easy to incorporate recurring annoyance to needle Clyde with for one thing, and he’s always more entertaining when agitated.

It also works as a nifty shorthand in a novella, where space it at a premium. We might only see a little of each Tony, but we do know something about them immediately. Tall Tony is tall, Sexy Tony is good looking, and Hipster Tony has a distinctive earring.

But I feel like the purpose of these commentary sections is to give you all an honest look behind the curtain of my writing process. So there is one additional facet to consider, and in full transparency, it’s the original reason I created the Tony’s to begin with.

Naming every side character Tony saved me from having to find actual names for all of them.

Deep Water: Chapter 2

Middlelake was a modest town, small enough for Douglas to bike home rather than wait for his parents to swing by with a ride. At sixteen, he technically could have been driving around like his bud Skiddie, except his parents were refusing to budge on the car front. Their opinion was that if he wanted one, he could buy it himself.

So Douglas rode his bike through the afternoon sunshine, grateful that the phantom rain seemed to have vanished. Doctor Padderon’s office was in what passed for the downtown of Middlelake, a few blocks of scattered businesses and assorted services like the doc. Supposedly, the downtown had once been a thriving hub of community and commerce, but there were so many legends of Middlelake’s heyday, Douglas was never sure how much was true.

The way people told it, before the Havis Bottling Tragedy, symphonies played on every corner and the streetlights were made from precious gems. Not that most of the town had been around to see those days anyway. That had been in the time of Douglas’s great-grandparents, long before the family transferred to Middlelake for one of his dad’s jobs.

From the downtown, Douglas wove out past the ravine, and soon the town’s eponymous lake was glittering on his left. While the large body of water sat near the center of town, it was actually several miles east of the true middle. The name came from a modest island in Stermon Lake’s center with another lake sitting in its middle, turning the whole thing into a land donut.

Of course, that bit on the island hadn’t always been a second lake, as the town’s annual heritage festival insisted he learn.

Working his way around, Douglas soon passed the high school. He’d been hoping to make practice, but the lack of shrieking whistles told him long before arriving that it was too late. Biking onward, he turned for home, making his way along the winding roads of his quiet town.

The ride was going so well, until he turned onto Dipping Lane. As the name implied, there was a sizable drop in the middle of the road, causing an almost constant buildup of water. When Skiddie had first gotten his truck, he’d raced down Dipping Lane so often to make water-wings the Sheriff had planted a deputy on the road just to start writing him tickets.

What was usually between a few inches to a foot of clear water looked to be muchdeeper than normal. Douglas estimated it would cover his whole bike and possibly even his torso. Yet the amount of water without a recent rain was only one of the concerning elements.

More worrisome was that the water was dark. Black, like the currents which had dragged at Douglas, pulling him into the depths as he struggled to rise. Endless night seemed to be closing in, when he finally spotted the bright light flickering in the distance. He swam for it, churning the water as he fought to get close-

The unexpected honk from behind nearly sent Douglas toppling off his bike. Spinning around, he found Skiddie and Curt grinning at him from within Skiddie’s fancy, over-sized pickup. Heart hammering, Douglas looked back down Dipping Lane, only to find a few inches of clear water sitting in the center. Exactly what he would expect for this time of year.

Skiddie hit the horn again before leaning out the window. “You getting in or what?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Douglas tossed his bike into the back of Skiddie’s truck and jumped in on the passenger’s side, after Curt graciously hopped the center console and slid into the back. “How you doing?” he asked as Douglas clicked his seatbelt on.

“He’s doing better than us. Somebody didn’t have to run laps this afternoon,” Skiddie pointed out.

“We had to run laps because you told Coach you’d pissed in his coffee,” Curt reminded him. “You spun a whole elaborate story about all the ways you could have done it before lying and saying you’d actually done one.”

“He called me unambitious. Well, I had the ambition to make sure he never enjoys a cup of coffee with a full surety there’s not piss in it.”

The stupid conversation was a balm for Douglas, who’d been a bit too in his head as of late. He watched carefully as Skiddie blasted through the ever-present puddle, sending bits of perfectly normal water spraying out. Because that’s all it was, all it ever had been. Just water. His brain had experienced a near-drowning, and was having flashbacks associated with the horrific event, and terrible as it was Douglas reminded himself that it was perfectly normal.

Everything was normal and fine.

That was the mantra he repeated to himself as Skiddie drove out to Sawburg’s Diner, where the trio often pissed about buying only coffee and holding a table for hours. Today they were just in for a quick bite, as Skiddie was ravenous after practice and Curt put down a fair bit of food too. Douglas ate with them, though not nearly as much, knowing his parents would be expecting him for dinner. Hanging out with his friends while grounded was already asking for trouble, though he did have the doc’s note demanding her get some time outside as a handy excuse.

Eventually, the afternoon veered toward evening, and Skiddie drove Douglas home. He waved to Skiddie and Curt as the pair headed off to Curt’s place, which was much closer to Skiddie’s. Luckily, he beat both of his own parents home, sparing himself a lecture on what “punishment” was supposed to mean. At dinner, he passed on Dr. Padderon’s assessment, and while his folks still appeared concerned, neither was inclined to argue with the opinion of a professional.

Seeing them not object was a large relief for Douglas, who feared some sudden obstacle would arise. Football was the last step to getting things truly back to normal, and a piece of Douglas knew the hallucinations would stop as soon as he got back on the field. It had to work, there was no other option.

Satisfied with the day, and actively putting Dipping Lane out of his mind, Douglas grabbed an incredibly fast shower, never letting the thin streams of water pool into something with depth, before settling in for bed that night. He’d just closed his eyes when the sound reached him.

Drip

Grunting, Douglas threw the covers off and went to check the shower. Nothing. He moved on to look over his bathroom faucet, finding no leak there, and eventually went on to the kitchen. All of them were dry, yet he heard the sound everywhere he went.

Drip

Drip

Ultimately, Douglas settled on using a pair of earplugs from his mom’s box in the kitchen, the orange one’s she used at the shooting range. With them blocking his ear-canals, Douglas laid back down into bed, determined to get a good night’s rest.

Drip

Flipping over, Douglas screamed into his pillow so the noise wouldn’t wake his parents.

Aliens Wrecked Out Kegger - Author Commentary Edition: Chapter 1

Clyde’s hand slapped against the wooden door, probably the only chunk of the entire dorm room that wasn’t a cheap piece of shit. That part, at least, the college was required spend some money on. Safety and security, the pretenses every university had to pretend to care about, regardless of how much they actually did. It was a fine policy overall, although Clyde was less fond of it as his palm began to grow sore from hitting the door so much.

“Dougie! Open the fuck up, Dougie. I swear to god, I’ll knock this shit down.”

“Good luck.” The muffled voice from the other side only made Clyde more annoyed, an impressive effect given how much frustration the day had already heaped on his shoulders. “It’s locked and solid wood; all you’ll do is hurt yourself.”

Taking a step back, Clyde noticed a few curious looks coming from the cracked-open slivers of other doors. He stared the nearest one down until it shut, some of the others following suit. It was bad enough that Dougie had ended up in Franklin Hall, the nerdiest of dorms on campus, but Clyde would be damned if he was wasting any of his time explaining the situation to these dorks. Time was short, there was shitload left to do before tonight, and this was noton the schedule. Clyde liked his schedule; it helped keep his anxiety at bay by letting him plan the day ahead of time. Dougie was throwing that off, and so far as Clyde was concerned, he’d officially run out of time.

“You’ve got me there, Dougie. I won’t break the door down. Smasher, on the other hand, will.”

Hearing his name, Smasher crunched forward, the ground under his feet appearing as though it dearly wished it had chosen another vocation. Smasher looked like someone had wished for a cinderblock to become a real person, but whatever fairy cast the spell had really half-assed it. He was strong as an ox, but not exactly fit, just huge in nearly every capacity. He was the most beloved lineman on the football team, both for his ability to stop pretty much anyone who tried to get through him, and for the fact that no one really wanted to be surly to a walking boulder. It probably also didn’t hurt that Smasher was unexpectedly gentle and kindhearted off the field, even if his overall intelligence did rival that of his supposed cinderblock origins.

“Smasher, don’t you dare. This is school property.” Dougie was getting louder now, his desperation peeking through.

“Not going to work. Smasher breaks two doors a day by accident when he opens them; you think anyone will give a shit about this one?” The school might actually give quite a large shit about breaking and entering someone else’s dorm room, so Clyde crossed his fingers that it wouldn’t come to that. It still beat the other option, though.

There were a few moments of silence, then Dougie spoke again, this time from obviously closer to the door. “Why won’t you just let this go? I’ve got cereal, a new video game, and a weekend with no homework. It’s Saturday. Just leave me alone and let me spend it how I want.”

“Look, Dougie, no one would rather leave you alone more than me. You think I want to babysit you this evening? Spend one of the biggest nights of my year making sure my dopey younger brother isn’t trying to bore people with talk about space shows? Fuck no, I hate this, too. But I’ve got my orders, and they were explicitly clear. You are coming with us tonight, you are going to socialize, and I will be watching over to make sure you at least try to have a good time.”

“We could say that’s what we did,” Dougie suggested.

“Uh huh. And when has she ever bought one of our lies? Like it or not, the Omicron Phi pledge drive is tonight, and as social chair, I have a heap of stuff still left to do for it. Smasher is supposed to be helping me haul kegs right this very moment, in fact. So either open the damn door and come with us, or you can call Mom and convince her not to make me drag you out. I don’t give a shit either way, but I’m not spending all of tomorrow on the phone getting guilted for ignoring her orders. Me, Smasher, and a kegger full of strangers, or Mom. Which scares you more?”

The click from the other side betrayed Dougie’s surrender before the door slung open. Behind it was a shorter version of Clyde, one who didn’t dress as well or suffer from the near-crippling desire to keep his living space tidy. Empty boxes and bowls of leftover milk littered the shelves, and a fine covering of presumably dirty clothes formed a carpet on the floor. Dougie himself looked like he was wearing camouflage for this specific room, clad in a stained t-shirt and wrinkled shorts that had almost certainly come directly off the floor. Clyde gulped as soon as he saw it, flashing back to the brief, hellish time when he and Dougie shared a room.

“Okay, let’s just go.” Dougie started to step forward, but Clyde motioned for Smasher to stop him. A thick hand instantly rested carefully against Dougie’s chest, not shoving him back while also not letting him advance a single step forward.

“You look like someone coming from an amazing party, not a person heading toward one. This is our pledge drive; people come dressed to impress. If I let you attend in those clothes, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb that smells like ass. Go put on the nicest, cleanest thing you have. Probably hand-me-downs from yours truly that you never bothered to wear.”

Dougie grumbled, half under his breath, “I have my own nice clothes.”

“Really? Prove it. You’ve got five minutes to change.” Clyde, never one to make idle threats about time or his schedule, checked the second hand on his watch to ensure a perfect count.

“And if I take longer, what are you going to do, break my door down?”

Stepping nearer, Clyde placed himself in the way of the former wooden obstacle, making sure it wouldn’t close. “No. We’re not letting you lock us out again. And if you take longer than the four minutes and change you have left, I’m going to ask Smasher to carry you with across campus in whatever state of dress you’re in. So start with pants, if you want to preserve your modesty.”

Dougie looked as though he were about to protest, so Clyde lifted his watch and tapped the face twice. “It’s your time. Is this really how you want to spend it?”

With a grunt, Dougie shoved to the door as closed as it would go, getting it down to a mere crack, before the sounds of hurried scavenging came from the room. For his sake, Clyde hoped Dougie managed to pull an outfit together in time. If they did drag him across campus, Clyde probably wouldn’t hear the end of it for the rest of the night.

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For my first run at a true novella, rather than a short story, I supposed it’s not shocking that I went back to college as the setting. Not only is a fun, dynamic environment, but it was a great place to hide the chaos of aliens arriving.

Clyde came about as my main character because I wanted someone who was driven to constant movement and would keep the story going, while also hopefully being a person readers would relate to. His near-constant anxiety and trying to keep so many plates spinning is an issue I feel like a lot of have grappled with, though ideally not to such extremes.

Dougie was a natural foil for his over-anxious brother, a more go-with-the-flow type that can be enviable at times, but also frustrating if you’re trying to get them out the door on time.

I’ll talk more about Smasher when we get to later chapters, but I thought it was worth mentioning that at this point in the novella writing, I wasn’t sure if this cast would be recurring or not. That’s why you hear about Clyde and Dougie’s mother, who is meant to sound like a character in her own right, without seeing more of her.

At least, not yet.

Deep Water: Chapter 1

“So, no lingering issues?” Dr. Padderon was a sweet-natured older man with a ring of fluffy white hair like a nest around the bald egg that was his skull. His office smelled like some kind of wood that Douglas couldn’t quite place. The walls were lined with degrees and pictures of pleasant scenery, a stark contrast to the torrential rain pelting the window outside.

“Should there be? I was barely under for two minutes. Didn’t even need CPR.”

Dr. Padderon nodded, his pad of scratch paper going unused. Very rarely did he make a note, and usually about details that seemed downright innocuous. “Physically, we wouldn’t expect much lingering trauma, however you did suffer a terrifying experience. It wouldn’t be uncommon for bouts of panic, anger, or terror to come upon you. These sorts of frights can leave wounds of their own. The school just wants to be extra careful before they clear you.”

Coach hadn’t seemed too thrilled by Douglas having to miss practice until he was cleared, but in the end he hadn’t fought school policy that hard, so maybe that counted as sign-off.

“I appreciate it, but I’m doing fine, really. It’s been three weeks since the incident, and I’m feeling fit as ever.”

Again Dr. Padderon nodded, smiling gently. “Ah yes, the incident. Perhaps you can walk me through it once more.”

By Douglas’s count, this made the third retelling of the tale in just this session alone. He knew what was going on, the doctor was having him recount the experience to see if it brought anything bubbling to the surface.

“My friends and I were out on my bud Skiddie’s boat, down at Stermon Lake. Did the usual beach stuff, then decided to do some sunset tubing. By the time my turn came, it was pretty dark, but I decided to go for it.”

The cans of beer Skiddie brought along had certainly played a part in the decision making, not that Douglas intended to share such details. He could still recall feeling the pleasant fog in his mind, the cool breeze on his skin, and the lake’s smooth waters calling to him. The fact that the stars were already overhead was a detail he’d chosen to ignore.

“I tubed for a while and everything was fine, but then I hit the wake at an odd angle, shooting myself up a good few feet. When I crashed down, I must have lost my grip and fallen off. The whole landing is fuzzy, the next thing I remember is waking in the water, unsure which direction was up.”

The black water all around him, wrapping over him like viscous shadows, promising endless torment. Douglas breathed deeply and steadily, fighting back the waves of terror that bubbled up at the memory. He’d been so sure it was over, certain he was going to die, trapped forever in that pit of liquid darkness.

“Thankfully, Curt was smart enough to use the boat’s spotlight on the water when they looked for me, and I was finally able to find the surface.” Of all his memories from the water, that moment was the clearest. That big, bright orb of light promising air, life, and salvation. Douglas had never swum harder in his life.

“At which point your friends took you to a medical facility, and your journey to me began,” Doctor Padderon surmised. “Have you been back to Stermon Lake yet?”

The bolt that raced through Douglas’s spine would have jerked him fully upright if he hadn’t been on guard for it. It was a favorite topic of the doctor’s, the idea of Douglas facing the thing that had scared him.

“Haven’t really had a chance. My parents have essentially had me on house-arrest since the incident.” His mother had been worried sick… right up until the hospital told her there was alcohol in his system. The sympathy had dried right up at that point, and Douglas’s father had the same reaction upon getting home later that night. Outside of school, the visits to Doctor Padderon were just about the only time he’d left the house for three weeks.

“Well, let them know I think it might be a helpful step in a full recovery. And if they’d like to call in, I’m happy to tell them so myself.” Doctor Padderon looked up at the clock, which was perfectly on the hour. “Sadly, it seems time for our final session is up.”

Douglas really wanted to know how he did that. The man never checked the clock except when the hour had elapsed. He had to be keeping a hidden watch or looking in some reflective surface, but it was a nice gesture toward making sure the patient never felt like he was counting the minutes.

Still, at that moment he had more pressing concerns. “And? What’s the verdict?”

Clicking his pen, Doctor Padderon finally did write something down, tearing off the sheet and handing it over to Douglas. “You are officially cleared to return to practice. On top of that, I added a note for your parents, recommending they allow some outside time per day. It might sound hokey, but sunshine has been proven as a mood elevator. And it looks like today is an excellent afternoon to get a healthy dose.”

Doctor Padderon looked out his office window, which was why he missed the stricken expression Douglas’s face. “Bright one, huh?” All Douglas could see was water pouring down the glass. It came so fast; it wasn’t even like rain anymore. More as if a river were rushing along the other side, pushing against the barrier, ready to break through and flood-

“That it is,” Douglas lied.

Doctor Padderon stood from his chair, turning back to his patient and offering a handshake. Douglas accepted, hoping he’d managed to tuck away the terror surging through him. “If you ever need to talk, don’t be a stranger. I’m always here, should you need help.”

It was a sweet sentiment that Douglas in no way trusted. Even assuming Doctor Padderon had his best interests in mind, once he started talking about the aquatic hallucinations, it would get elevated to a specialist. And from there… well, Douglas had done a deep internet dive on the sorts of treatment he could expect for those issues, and it didn’t paint a pretty picture.

So he was doing what his parents had done, and his grandparents before them: shoving all the worry down and ignoring it. What did it really matter if he sometimes saw water that wasn’t there? Douglas could still function, so that was exactly what he planned to do. And eventually, the hallucinations would fade on their own.

That was what he kept telling himself, at any rate.

2024 Update

The New Year is here, and oh goodness are there some changes arriving!

First and foremost: if you missed the post about all the new content coming (and the one feature departing) please make sure and read the post from a few days ago here.

You also might have noticed that our Q4 Sneak Peek for 2023 went up on Patreon directly, rather than my usual site. While I initially avoided doing any direct posting to Patreon, over the years they’ve managed to get their word process program to a basic functionality, enough that I feel like it’s worth a shot to omit the extra access step.

The old password from December will work for archived content; that may get migrated over or I might just do quarterly password updates, we’ll see how well Patreon handles the new serials.

My Yearly Lookahead blog will be posted on Friday, wowzers do we have a lot cooking in 2024!

And of course, the new serial starts tomorrow, with the first in our Author Commentary running on Thursday! I’m super excited to get back into weekly content, and to share some of these smaller stories I’ve been working on with you all.

Happy New Year; I hope it’s a great one for all of us!

Q4 Sneak Peek 2023: The Priestess and the Peril Part 2

1.

The familiar feeling of sweat soaking her through robes greeted Perle as she swung her uncle’s sword yet again. Perhaps one day, with enough effort and skill, the weapon would feel like her own. After four weeks of training, she was at least growing competent in holding the blade up long enough for Elya to smack it away.

Clad from head-to-toe in her dark armor, the knight they’d met along their travels never seemed to tire during their sessions, not that Perle imagined she was putting up enough of a fight to demand serious effort. Elya had yet to remove her helm, or any part of her armor, even to eat. She claimed it was unnecessary, though sometimes when Ivan’s latest catch was roasting over the fire, Perle could swear she caught Elya’s helm lingering upon the dripping meat.

Whatever her diet was, it worked well, as Elya easily disarmed Perle yet again, the blade clattering down into the grass.

“If her grip is failing, that’s my cue.” From a nearby tree, Auro dropped down, still human-shaped even if he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, suppress his serpentine habits. “Ready to move on to magic?”

Even knowing that soon, her brain would feel as battered as her body, Perle was still gripped by a powerful temptation to accept. For the first few minutes, it would be a blessed break from withstanding Elya’s strikes. Inviting as it sounded, Perle nevertheless shook her head, scooping up the fallen sword and wiping it on her hopelessly stained robes.

“My hands aren’t fully failing yet.”

Despite the rejection, Auro grinned at the response, leaving Perle feeling like she’d just played along with whatever scheme he was pondering. Elya, however, took it as a cue to attack, lunging in with her own battered blade. For handful of seconds, Perle danced backward, fending off the assault. Fleetingly, she could feel something, almost a rhythm to the chaos of combat, but it was always a flicker of insight, lost the moment she tried to focus.

Then it was over, and her sword knocked away again. This time when Perle retrieved the weapon, she put it away, the tremors in her arms too violent to ignore. Next would come magic, then Ivan’s odd idea of training, and finally they’d rest for the night, only to rise in the morning, travel, and start the cycle over again.

Such had been their process since leaving Ravidon. Upon their exit, Perle had felt fired up and ready to see what came next. As it turned though, what came next was approximately a six-week trek to Omotane, the nearest major city, a place where they might have a hope of acquiring resources and aid. Or at the very least, faster means of traversal.

The ample travel time had been put swiftly to use, as Perle was tasked with investigating the effects of the magic she’d absorbed. No one could be sure how the power would manifest, which was ostensibly why she was being educated in multiple disciplines at once. Perle’s pet theory, one she nursed only during the most grueling sessions, was that everyone enjoyed knocking her around and nobody wanted to miss a turn.

Maybe she’d feel differently if there was any sense of progress, but after weeks of effort she could barely hold off Elya for a few heartbeats, her control over magic was still laughable measured against Auro’s, and Ivan… the less focus put toward that pointless endeavor, the better. It wasn’t as if she expected to explode with potential, but some sense of forward momentum might have been appreciated.

Auro sat on the cool grass, motioning for Perle to do the same. His hands rested just above his knees, and her fingers settled gently onto his palm. It was the same position they’d been assuming since the first session. Sometimes Auro would pull her magic into his hand, twisting into various patterns, then waiting until she replicated each one. On other occasions, he would push his own magic up through her fingers until she forced it back, a task comparable with trying to shovel water.

All too soon, her head ached like it had been bludgeoned by a hefty rock. Perle had once thought herself talented at the mystical arts. Among the other acolytes, she was considered gifted, albeit nowhere near a prodigy. Experiencing the way Auro could manipulate magic put into perspective how lacking her skill had truly been. If this was the skill of a giant serpent who’d been driven mad for countless years, what were true masters of magic capable of?

Eventually, this practice too came to an end, though not until Auro had Perle replicate an especially precise pattern. While he could form them in seconds, she often took tens of minutes for each effort, many of which ended in failure. Yet onward she persisted, never forgetting the sense of helplessness that had plagued her for so long.

The training would bear fruit someday. No matter how pointless it felt, she had to be getting at least a little stronger. Bit by bit, she’d build herself up, until Perle no longer needed to lean on others to save her world.

Others like the man strolling under the trees’ shadows, every step pressing deep into the soft ground. Ivan, her summoned champion from another world, and a seemingly unstoppable monster who was happy to rip apart anyone or thing that stood in his way. He looked so unassuming in his simple, dark clothes. They’d picked up a fresh tunic and trousers for him in Ravidon, as his original traveling clothes were thoroughly coated in gore. Without the strangeness of his garb, Ivan could have been a farmer or smith in any town along the kingdom’s roads.

That was, until he moved. There was something in his motion that whispered the truth, a man in perfect control, walking with absolute confidence. Like there wasn’t a single threat in the world that worried him. And from what Perle had seen so far, that might very well be the case.

“Finished with the magic?”

Perle didn’t bother answering, instead using the time to take deep breaths and rub the sides of her head. Burning through most of one’s magic was never pleasant, but Auro somehow managed to create a whole new degree of torment. The way he taught left Perle feeling more strained and drained than any of her prior magical efforts.

She dearly hoped that was a good sign.

“Our student has completed her curriculum for the night,” Auro reported, cheerily hopping up to his feet. Just like with Elya, the session that left Perle entirely spent didn’t even seem to momentarily wind her teacher. It was part of what made them qualified to instruct in the first place, and not at all a reason to silently loathe each one while her own body was laden with pain. That was what Perle kept telling herself, anyway.

Muscles already burning, Perle forced herself to rise, ready to face Ivan’s curriculum. It was a distinct contrast to Elya’s sparring, or the constant match of wits and might against ever-shifting challenges of Auro. She and Ivan didn’t fight at all, in fact.

Instead, they exercised using Ivan as the resistance force against Perle’s efforts. Holding out her arms, he carefully pressed his own palms against Perle’s, forcing them down. She fought against him as hard as she could, the parts of the arm he kept referring to as biceps straining futilely as they were forced into defeat.

Then she had to push them back up, with Ivan offering so much resistance that any progress demanded Perle’s absolute effort. Anything less, and her hands would go down once more. Once the apex was finally reached, Ivan increased the pressure slightly, breaking the equilibrium and forcing her arms down again.

On they would go, until her arms could take no more, failing entirely, at which point Ivan would switch their position to target a new muscle group. How he always knew exactly what her limit was and drove her to it was a mystery. Sadly, like the other exercises, it didn’t really appear to matter.

Perle couldn’t tell any improvement in her efforts against Ivan. Even their sessions seemed to last exactly the same length, meaning her ability to resist had yet to increase in any meaningful way. Sure, she couldn’t stand against the real strength Ivan displayed, but if that’s what he was using her arms would have been torn off.

This evening was no different, and by the time Ivan was satisfied Perle could scarcely move. All that allowed her to stay upright was the heavenly scent of Auro’s stew. Whatever beasts Ivan hunted down, their resident serpent was able to cobble into delicious dishes, using magic to supplement the lack of tools and spices.

He’d told Perle there were some herbs and minor spells to aid in her recovery, and each morning she did feel refreshed, so there was no reason to doubt Auro’s claim. Also, after being soundless beaten and exhausted multiple times over, she might not have cared if the stew was poisonous.

Not when it smelled that good.

Perle was halfway through her second bowl before she’d recovered enough to lift her head and pay attention to the conversation. Usually, the nightly chat centered around scouting reports, history and geography, or what monsters in the area to keep watch for.

Tonight, another subject had taken their fancy however, and it took Perle a tad too long to realize just what, or rather who, they were discussing.

“It is genuinely remarkable,” Elya said, tone sounding like she was voicing agreement to some missed prior statement. “We’ve trained with her for what, four weeks?”

“Still two weeks to Omotane, so four should be right.” Auro confirmed.

Elya shook her helmet, eliciting a series of rusty groans from the dark armor. “That level of improvement in four weeks. Remarkable isn’t even the word.”

“I get it. I’ve had you all for four weeks and haven’t improved a bit.” Perle tried to cast the rest of her stew away, feeling her appetite should be ruined, however it seemed her stomach’s commands were superseding her brain’s, as she instead slurped down another spoonful.

Since Elya wore a helm covering her face and Ivan was incredibly stoic by nature, only Auro showed any visible surprise to her statement, though he packed in enough for all three. Tilting back, he feigned fainting off the log entirely, left hand pressed to his forehead.

“Dear me, now that is a situational misreading. Had you not been lost in your own mental fog during our discussion, you might have noticed we were discussing the incredible speed of your improvement. Which is, make no mistake, prodigious.”

They were having a lark at her expense, surely. Except while Auro might do such a thing, it was harder to imagine their stalwart knight joining in on the fun, and Elya was nodding along.

“But I haven’t improved at all. I’m no closer to hitting Elya, outcasting Auro, or overpowering Ivan.”

“Well, of course not.” Elya reached over, gently laying a cold, gauntlet covered hand on Perle’s arm. “Perle, not only are we all well-trained in our fields, with ample real-world experience, we also each have unique advantages that increase our power further. The idea of you training anywhere near our capabilities in the span of weeks is like asking you to lift a mountain in the same amount of time.”

That… actually did make some sense, upon reflection. Auro was a giant spell-casting serpent who claimed to be hundreds of years old, Elya had not only a knight’s training but was bolstered by her unnatural condition, and Ivan… perhaps the gods knew where his power came from, but Perle had no idea.

“So I amimproving?”

“Ridiculously so,” Ivan informed her. “When we met you could barely hold that sword, now it moves like a part of your arm. Your muscles were too weak to slice Dezzelorth’s skin, yet today you could easily sunder bark from the nearby tree with an off-hand blow.”

That was a fresh insight to Perle. “I could?”

“Elya seems to think so.”

The knight nodded, banging her chestplate. “I’ve taken more than enough attacks to rate their strength, and Perle’s hitting far heavier than a priestess should be able to.”

“Your magical aptitude and reserves are also progressing well past the expected curve,” Auro added. “I’ve had many an apprentice, and none could compare with your rate of growth. Seems we know at last what happened to that remnant of the summoning spell you absorbed.”

Rapid, exponential growth. When Perle reflected back on the tales she knew of summoned champions, it lined up perfectly. They were always most vulnerable upon first arrival, able to be slain by mere bandits with blades, yet by the end of the legends they were among the strongest powers in any realm. How would one improve at such an unfathomable rate? And more than once, at that? If the very magic that had summoned them accelerated that growth, though, the explanation was right there.

Any champion could grow to meet any threat, if they had time to train and used it well.

It was a system designed upon the idea of adaptability; new bodies built up to fulfill specializations. Binding their tenure in the realm to the life of their summoners also ensured the champions could be easily removed, should they grow too strong to control.

For the first time, Perle found herself pondering the summoning rituals origins Just who was it that had designed not only magic to transport people from other realms, but also shackles to bind them upon arrival?

“I’m getting stronger, and yet it will be a long while before I can catch up to any of you. I’m not likely to be fighting any of you, however. What matters is: where do I sit in comparison to demons?”

The three exchanged glances, or at least Elya turned her helm in the other two’s direction, but it was Auro who spoke, to no one’s surprise. “Demons are just like humans and monsters, there’s not one set rating for the whole populous. You could probably stand up to their lesser troops, maybe handle one of the big boys that we saw in Ravidon. Commanders like Dezzolorth are still beyond you, for now.”

In four weeks, she’d gone from zero combat abilities to fighting on the same level of some demons. That alone should have sent Perle’s heart soaring, except she knew it would be much more than fodder in their path. The enemies would get stronger as the demons grew more aware of their threat, that was when they’d started hunting Perle’s party in earnest.

She needed to be ready for that day. Because if she wasn’t, then Perle’s only recourse was to depend on Ivan. And she understood the death toll that would follow such a choice.

“Now that we’re drawing near to Omotane, perhaps the time is right to discuss what we will do upon our arrival,” Elya suggested. “Is there anything worth stopping for, or are we simply gathering information and provisions?”

All eyes turned to Perle, since Auro knew little of the modern world outside his swamp, and Ivan hailed from another realm entirely. “Omotane is a much larger city than Ravidon, with an actual royal presence. The market is likely to have much more useful supplies, possibly even enchanted items. Beyond that, it’s home to one of the seven sages, Balipher the Subtle. His tower there draws in all manner of casters, and there’s an academy that trains the best of those that arrive.”

Auro released a soft, somehow cheerful, hiss. “So if we want to upgrade our tools or gather minions, Omotane would be an ideal spot.”

While Perle might have called them “reinforcements” rather than minions, that had been an idea she’d considered. Surely a group this small couldn’t continue to stand against the forces of the demons. They had entire armies on their side, the numbers would drown anything four lone individuals could manage, no matter how spectacular they were.

Yet at the same time, Perle couldn’t picture any future where those who followed them weren’t quickly carved away. Elya and Auro were able to protect themselves, Ivan kept her safe because Perle’s death would mean the end of his time on their world.

Anyone else would be on their own.

Still, there was more in Omotane than disposable bodies. If she could somehow gain an audience with the sage, Balipher would surely know the best way to deploy Ivan’s strength. Perle’s champion represented an incredible, nigh-unstoppable weapon for humanity. Whether it was enough to win the war or not would likely hinge on the way it was wielded.

And Perle the priestess knew approximately nothing about war, other than the fact that it resulted in corpses.

“We’ll at least want to stop by the Omotane market. Without knowing where we’ll head next, it might be our last chance to purchase supplies, especially enchanted ones.” Perle watched for a reaction, however none of her compatriots did more than stare back. She took that as agreement, and continued.

“Nearly as important is information. Dezzolorth capturing Ravidon effectively choked out communications from the rest of the kingdom, this will be our first chance to hear how the war efforts are going elsewhere. If there’s a pressing need to head toward, then that’s what we’ll do. Otherwise, assuming time permits, I’d like to inquire about Balipher, and whether there’s any chance of gaining an audience. The wisdom of a sage would no doubt be a great boon to our efforts.”

Lifting a hand, Auro started to lift his fingers one by one. “That’s supplies, information, access to an important figure, and naturally we’ll need lodging and meals while pursuing all these goals. With that in mind, Perle, what do you think our actual first priority has to be?”

Although she squirmed a bit while doing so, Perle offered the correct answer. “Gold.” It was a concept she’d dealt with fleetingly during her years in church’s service, but Perle had lived enough beforehand to understand the essentials of economics. Gold bought things, and the more of it one had, the greater the grandeur of things they could buy.

“As I said, learning and growing constantly,” Auro beamed. “How do people make their money these days? If monster parts are skill highly valued, I’m due for a skid-shedding soon. That would surely be worth a fair few coins.”

He glanced to Perle who quickly lifted her shoulders, as she hadn’t the faintest idea what giant snakeskin would be valued at. Meanwhile, Elya lifted her helm a bit higher, spine straightened. “If what we need is money, then the best pay will usually come from removing a problem. A city as big as Omotane is going to have a few monsters prowling around, and one of them will have upset somebody who solves their troubles with gold. For us, it should be an easy way to earn funds.”

“Not us.” Ivan’s voice cut through the night; eyes locked on the priestess. “Perle.”

“We don’t even know what sort of monster there might be,” Elya protested.

“All the more reason to prepare her well.” Ivan stood, evidently considering the matter settled. “You have two weeks to train, at which point we will hunt a monster for you to fight. I won’t help, nor will I let Auro or Elya.”

Panic was already grasping as Perle’s heart as she searched Ivan’s face, desperate to see some sign that this was his first ever joke. Only deadly severity stared back. “Why?”

“Stronger pressure leaders to greater growth. You have a long way to go, and my patience has limits. This should help you pick up the pace.”

New Patreon Reward Schedule (2024)

With the new year almost upon us, I wanted to formally announce what the new Patreon content schedule will look like moving forward! If you’re surprised about the upcoming changes, please check out this recent entry going over my plans for the year ahead.

Each week there will be two posts, switching between different projects.

On Tuesday Mornings, there will be a new chapter in my latest serial. For the first story to kick us off, I’ll be featuring Deep Water, the novella I’ve done a few Sneak Peeks of already.

On Thursday Mornings, there will be a chapter of an older work, along with an Author’s Commentary added below. The first one here will be the first solo novella I ever published, and the only piece I’ve written to make it into a movie: Aliens Wrecked Our Kegger.

As we rotated in all this new content, however, I am going to drop an older part of the Patreon. The Q&A’s are a bit of a relic from an older form of the internet; these days the Discord offers a lot easier, and more frequent, chances for interaction. Apologies to those who liked that particular format, hopefully the new additions make up for it.

I’m looking forward to getting the serial rolling, and revisiting some of my older works with fresh eyes. Big thanks to everyone for coming along on this journey with me, I hope everyone enjoys the ride!

Q4 Sneak Peek

Tis the end of the year, and time for one last Sneak Peek. And as we usually do for this one, you all get to decide what it will be!

Options this year are selections from:

The Priestess and The Peril: Part 2 (more of Ivan's other world story from Villains' Vignettes Volume I)
Hometown Hero (A story coming in Villains' Vignettes Volume II)
Playpit (A novella in-progress that may eventually become a serial)

Hope everyone is having a Happy Holidays and New Year!

December Update

The last Patreon update of the year, and in a way, of the Patreon in its current incarnation.

In case anyone missed it, starting in January the $5 tier will include weekly content, with the full details available here. It’ll be a big change, and one I’m looking forward too, but we’ve still got one final month of 2023 left before us.

And that month includes a new book from me! This month’s password will be “feathers” in honor of the upcoming release of 5-Minute Sherlock: The Case of The Felonious Faire. This is my Audible Original series, so it will be available as audio only initially, with the print/ebook version coming later.

Lastly, this is the end of Q4, so expect a Sneak Peek at the end of the month. Still figuring out what’s the at the best stage to let you all see, for once I’ve actually quite a few story irons in the fire.

For those who celebrate, I hope you and yours have a wonderful holiday season!

Upcoming Patreon Change

Hey folks, I wanted to make sure everyone was aware of an upcoming change to the Patreon starting in 2024! Details below, but the short synopsis is that I'm going to begin posting serial content once again in the new year.

https://www.drewhayesnovels.com/blog/serialreturn 

November Update

Ahhh, the warm afterglow of an excellent Halloween. Hopefully you were able to join for the 13 Streams of Halloween, culminating in our 24 Hours of Horror, I know we had a lot of fun enjoying the holiday classics.

But with Halloween behind us, November has arrived, and with it comes a new Q&A and password! For this month we’ll use ‘chilly’ because I’m writing this looking out a window in Denver at several feet of gorgeous snow.

I know this month is a hectic one, but I hope everyone has a good November. For those of you traveling this month, please be safe out there!

13 Stream of Halloween Kickoff

Hey there folks!

For anyone who missed the Discord announcement, for Halloween this week we're doing the 13 Streams of Halloween. This is an event I've been wanting to do for years, because Halloween episodes/specials are one of my favorite parts of the season. 

So for this year, we're going to be streaming some selections together, all leading up to the 24-hours of Horror on actual Halloween. The times will shift around to accommodate as many schedules as possible over the span, but our first one kicks off today at 12:30 CST on the Discord.

Hope you're having a spooky season!

October Update

Spooky, Scary, Patreon Update!

Bubble your cauldrons and toil your troubles, it’s Halloween month!

First off, a treat for those who missed the announcement earlier in the week: Super Powereds is getting a webcomic adaptation! We don’t have details or dates to share yet, but it’s being done through Aethon books and their new webcomic branch, you can read the full details here.

Also, if you’re in the Colorado area, I’ll be in your neck of the woods at the end of the month for MileHiCon. Looks like they’ve got me on some fun panels, so come on out and say hi!

Now then, onto the actual update business: our password for this month will be “treat”, the Q&A is up, and last quarter’s Sneak Peek is posted and waiting.

September Update

Whew, what an August. That was a busy one.

I’m starting September up in Atlanta for Dragon Con, for folks also around you can see my schedule here. Come say hi!

The password for this month can only be named after our very… unique screening on Channel Drew last month. That’s right, the September password is “torque”.

We’ve also got the monthly Q&A up, and since this is the end of Q3, there will be a Sneak Peek arriving later in the month, so keep an eye out.

Oh, and if anyone missed the announcements, Villains’ Vignettes: Volume I is now out in audio!

August Update

Check out this month’s Q&A here! 

At long last, August has arrived.

And with it… Authors & Dragons Con 2023!

For folks who might not know, A&D Con is a yearly con put on by the Authors & Dragons crew, with this year’s being in Portland. We’ve got guests including Matt Dinniman (Dungeon Crawler Carl) , Amy Landon (narrator for many projects, including Villains’ Code, and Actus (My Best Friend is an Eldritch Monster) along with the A&D usuals.

I’ll also be at Dragon Con again this year, but I feel like they’ve got enough promotional stuff handled.

With all that in mind, the password this month will be “dragon” because hey, why mess with a theme when presented with one?

July Password/Update

Happy July Everyone!

Hopefully you caught the Q2 Sneak Peek already, but just in case here’s the link. It’s a look at a short horror piece I’m working on, one featuring an old terror of my own.

The password for this month will be “cocoa” both as a small nod to the recently released Villains’ Vignettes: Volume I, and to the notion of Christmas in July.

The latest Q&A can be found here, and be sure to leave your question for next month.

Finally, don’t forget that Authors & Dragons Con 2023 is next month in Portland, Oregon! We’ve got some amazing guests including Amy Landon (narrator of Villains’ Code among many others), Matt Dinniman (author of Dungeon Crawler Carl), and his own narrator: Jeff Hays. Hope to see you there!

June Password/Update

June is here, and that means it’s new book release month!

Despite what you might expect with Villains’ Vignettes Volume I coming out on 6/21, this month’s password is actually unrelated to the upcoming launch. This month the password is “decade” because this officially marks ten years since I took the chance on trying to be a full-time writer.

On top of that, it’s the end of Q2, so be sure to keep an eye out for a Sneak Peek coming later in the month! This month’s Q&A is already posted and ready to check out though.

And for anyone who hasn’t seen the social media promos we’re doing, the A&D Con 2023 Events have started getting revealed. We’ve got some really fun ones still to come, so keep an eye out and if you’re interested please remember to book your hotel before the discount ends at the start of July.

May Update

Another month past, and summer is nearly here! Remind me that I was excited by that thought when Texas is over 100 degrees and I’m melting every time the door opens.

The password for this month will be "costume" as I've got Villains Vignettes edits on the brain. 

Our newest Q&A is up here, so be sure to check that out and leave your questions in the comments below.

Before the end of this month, I’m planning to reveal the cover and release date for Villains Vignettes Volume I, which will be coming out in June! While audio dates are still being determined, Amy Landon is confirmed for the project, and I can’t wait to hear her version as well. More details to come, so keep an eye out!

April 2023 Update

Greetings from Denver! For those who didn’t know, I’m at Readers Take Denver this weekend, so if you’re the area I hope you can swing by and say hi.

Convention or not, this is the start of a new month, which means we’re due for a new password and this month’s Q&A. The password for April will be “waves” because it’s warm enough to start dreaming of the beach.

If you missed the Q1 Sneak Peek that went up yesterday, you can check it out here. Very excited to have all of that story out later this year!

March 2023 Update

March is here, and am I ever ready for it!

On top of bringing some actual sunshine for a change, March marks my first con of 2023. If you need a clue where, our password for this month is “denver”. For anyone in the Colorado area, I’ll be at Readers Take Denver March 30th– Apr 3rd; hope you can swing by! It looks to be like a hell of a fun time.

The new Q&A is up; remember to post your questions for next month on there. And since this is the final month of Q1, keep an eye out for a Sneak Peek heading your way.

February 2023 Update

Damn, February already? Guess it’s going to be one of those years.

This month’s password will be “snow” in honor of the weather phenomenon that has shut my state down with only an inch or two. The monthly Q&A is up, and we’re currently voting on the next show to watch for Channel Drew, so if you haven’t connected to the Discord yet there’s still time to cast your vote.

Stay warm!