h
The official Heart, Humor & Horror Digital Experience
Page 1
Summer 2015 - A look inside 4
10
Also inside Welcome - 3 Editorial - 3 Excerpt: Black Parakeets -4 Fools Rush in - 9 Excerpt - Monster Man - 10 Pirates - 11
12
Full story - Windsong & Requiem - Welcomes us Home - 12 Innerwise - 18 Writers’ Top Ten - 19 The Writing Process Find your Beach- 19
Page 2
WELCOME
Hi and welcome back to H4 - the Chad Hunter - Humor, Heart and Horror digital experience. First and foremost, I want to thank you all for continuing to enjoy the literary worlds being woven at www.hunterchad.com. This edition will focus on that wild and powerful emotion behind all writing – freedom, creativity, liberation, etc. Whatever you want to call it, it’s that wild abandon that drives writers to explore, create, destroy, rebuild, rewrite and so on. It is the rush in the blood of anyone pounding the keyboard with laughter, tears, sorrow and joy. It flutters on little wings of Black Parakeets. It pounds in the bestial heart of the Monster Man. It pushes love through tough times in the Innerwife and it sails towards the unknown in Windsong & Requiem. So, once again, with absolute sincerity - thank you for connecting and finding your freedom and your creativity! Sincerely, Chad Hunter
Writing - Find your Beach A good friend of mine, a true soul brother, once gave me one of the greatest pieces of advice. He told me very simply “To find my beach.” Now, granted, his wisdom is also the Corona Beer slogan but it is wisdom nonetheless. Why was this advice so enlightening? Because it came at the exact moment I needed it. And because it uses beaches to drive home a point even though I don’t like beaches! I battle burnout constantly (and in that battling is part of the burnout effect!) Always moving. Always going. Always pursuing self-evolution can fry me out as I build from the past and construct a future. But writing requires a sense of stillness, a sense of being present and freedom that fires the kiln of creativity. It is through that freedom that we find our words – freedom in our hearts and minds even when we can be physically bound and blocked. So, finding my beach was not about a trip to Florida but about a trip to a place that let me flourish; a place that brought my writing to life. So find your beach. And get writing. Page 3
“BLACK PARAKEETS Only Hatch in December EXCERPT Go Around Once” and “Newspaper Goblins” Here I sat in my mom’s ’84 brown New Yorker. In a Predator costume my brother had made from papier-mâché. The world of my high school wove in streams of buzz and bustle, crowd and group. She looked at me and said “You only go around once.” My mom. Risk was something that we never really took. We, all four of us kids, were honest-to-goodness do-gooders. Raised that way because our mom was a do-gooder and a golden-ruler. And I mean that with all the respect in the world. Mom taught us and even learned us on God’s way. I say “learned us” because my mom, though raised in Northwest Indiana, was a country girl. From sayin’ to prayin’, my mother was as much GRITS (Girl Raised In The South) as any belle I’d ever seen. In teaching us, this Belle of mine, she didn’t raise us with risks. Not until later, as we got older. And when she did, mom always surprised me. Halloween was always a big holiday for my brother and me. When we were much younger, Jaime would have decorated the entire house in fright-fest ornamentation. For days, my older sibling would dip fingers and hands into papier-mâché mix and turn newspaper into goblins and masking tape into ghouls. And he was good at it. Not only did water and flour pour into a giant clear plastic bowl, but imagination itself was found into the mix. For all my years of knowing the gentle giant, my brother was always at his happiest creating and, in part, scaring the crap out of me. His creations were not only life-sized but life-like. To a five-year-old, a creature born from hangers and wet paper may as well have been made of claw and fang. Once he made a witch that scared me so much he had to take it down. I know, it sounds like I was always scared. Probably because I was. As we grew, so did our love for the holiday. Only now, as we had moved from house to house, the attention shifted from an entire landscape to costumes. All my schools had costume contests. To my brother, these were challenges; like gloves slapped across the face or gauntlets thrown down. Each time, Jaime accepted. For my three years in Washington Elementary on Euclid and Chicago Avenue, I dominated the costume contests. My brother’s creations had gotten so good that the other Page 4
students wanted to see what he had cooked up this year and the next. I remember going as Optimus Prime from the Transformers. I was half-man, half-fly and once, I was an evil knight with a bat’s head replacing my own. Each time, from vampire’s bite until the last wolf ’s howl, I was a supernatural superstar. But really, each time I wore my brother’s creation with pride Years after sixth grade, the contests had died off. I had grown up. Jaime had lost a bit of the zeal for the holiday and had done his last cardboard headstone. But in high school, my senior year, we heard those three words. Halloween Costume Contest. And something woke up in us again. Every mummy tore loose its one good arm in a dusted resurrection. Every lagoon’s creature bubbled up from murky depths. Every zombie moaned with newfound unlife. My brother had that look in his eyes again. Behind his irises set a fire that burned and let things of his imagination and his internal creation bound about. We would have one last run. I say “we” but it was basically all Jaime. I was nothing more than the runway model for his creations. However, it was not Paris or London where I strutted and spun. It was school auditoriums with orange and black streamers and bubbling punch. We had both loved the movie Predator with future governor Arnold Schwarzenegger. Watching the amphibious man-hunting alien chase the Republican was an awesome movie for any sci-fi fan. My brother had paused the tape, sketched on pad and strained both eyes for every detail and design of the extraterrestrial. Newspapers were wet in papier-mâché glory. Masking tape tore and spray paint cans shook with delight. The artist was at work creating. Of all the years I had grown up with Jaime, he was never more alive than when he created. When he painted or sketched. When he imagined or envisioned. My brother would burn like some night star and work until dawn. After fittings and trials, I sat in my mom’s ’84 New Yorker. Dressed like the Predator. In a costume my brother had made from papier-mâché. The world of my high school wove in streams of buzz and bustle, crowd and group. The leather of the brownish-copper automobile squeaked against my shifting weight. I saw all the usuals enter my school. The jocks. The geeks. The hot chicks. I always noticed the hot chicks. And my gloved hand, painted in beige and black to resemble the alien’s claws, did not find the door handle. I froze. “Baby, if you want, we can go back home…” my mom said to me. Actually, my mother was speaking to the dreadlocked-mandible-mouthed creature that was replacing her son for the day. “But,” she continued, “You only go around once.” My mom. The woman who had taught us caution and responsibility was now telling me about risk. And she did it with one sentence. Page 5
I smiled. Yes, there were tons of hot chicks at my school but at that moment, my mom was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. Out of an ’84 New Yorker stepped the Predator. I heard screams. I heard gasps. I heard amazement. It was my last costume contest and I won. Really, I won. Not just that metaphoric, “I was a winner because of how I felt” win. I actually won – “Best Costume.”
About the Author Chad Hunter grew up in Northwest Indiana and is a 1993 graduate of East Chicago Central High School. He received his Associates and Bachelor’s degrees in Computer Programming and Networking from Purdue University Calumet by December of 1997. In the application of his degrees, he has specialized in computer technology for the Department of Justice since 1997. He has been a guest lecturer for his alma mater, Purdue University Calumet as well as for IvyTech College, in the Computer Information Services department for a combined fifteen years. Hunter has been published with credits in Black Petals and Poetry.com. The piece Good Girls Finish Their Plates resided on the literary website, www.horrrorfind.com. He has ranked on Poetry.com and was placed in Who’s Who of American Poets for the Millennium. He has also been a freelance writer for AskMen.com, Complex Magazine, Baton Rouge Parenting, Tae Kwon Do Magazine and the Chicago Sun Times. Hunter chaired the Selection Committee for the Highland (Indiana) Borders Writers’ Group publication. He credits his background with journalism and layout with his education in the East Chicago public school system. In addition, Hunter states that his membership in the Highland Borders Writers’ Group for almost seven years has been an incalculable credit to learning his craft. Black Parakeets Only Hatch in December marks another entry into the world of publishing and professional writing. It is the stories and characters in these reflections that have shown the author that life is truly a masterpiece and a delicacy. Hunter is the youngest of four incredible siblings, uncle to one pretty cool nephew and second son to a very wise and Christian mother. Hunter is married to a beautiful and brilliant woman whom he met in February 2005. He is also the father to one very energetic baby boy.
Page 6
Follow Black Parakeets Only Hatch in December on Facebook!
Follow Black Parakeets Only Hatch in December on YouTube!
Page 7
Fools Rush In In October 2015, the world held its breath as the horror/dark fantasy novel “The Monster Man - King of Fools” was released! Several happenings made the experience more than just a labor but a labor of love. First up, horror host and Chicagoland (and international!) celebrity Rich Koz put the novel on the map by scribing a heartfelt and much appreciated Forward. The meeting of classic horror monsters and a new protragonist has been very well received and reviewed even by the families of Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi. Enjoy this excerpt! For more, please visit www.monstermanworld.com!
The Monster Man – King of Fools excerpt In the kitchen, the Malachi’s were washing and drying dishes. The couple played and flirted until a scream broke the air. Damian burst into his son’s room. Elsa caught up. She was breathing heavy while her husband barely looked like he had covered the house in the few steps he had taken. “MOMMY! DAYEE!!! SCARY FACE! SCARY MONSTER!” “BC, “Damian said, “Where?” Elsa was consoling her son. The boy pointed to the closet. Malachi stood and looked into the open and dark closet. He paused and then looked back at his wife, shaking his head after finding nothing. Elsa smiled and her eyes were filled with teary love. Her cheeks swelled as she smiled. “Baby,” she said softly, “It was just a bad dream. Go back to sleep. Mommy and daddy will be right here.” Surprisingly, Bradbury accepted the offer and, as his mother held him, fluttered back to sleep. She put him down and the couple left the room. The child’s room was quiet. It was dark. Until it simmered to life in sick green coming from the closet. The door whined open and a shadow reached for young Malachi again. Another scream sent Elsa and Damian bursting into the room. Bradbury was sitting up screaming. “MOMMY! DAYEE!!! SCARY FACE! SCARY MONSTER!” “BC!!! “Damian said, “Where?” Elsa was consoling her son. The boy pointed to the closet. Once again, Malachi stood and looked into the open and dark closet. Once again, he saw nothing in the shadows. “Okay, son, we’ll take care of it.” Damian stood at the edge of the walk-in and cleared his throat. “THIS IS THE LAST TIME WE’LL HAVE YOU BOTHERING US! YOU HEAR?” Another conversation of consolation from mother to son. Another successful return to slumber. Elsa kissed Bradbury and he returned under his blankets. Page 8
Another dark room. Another green glow. Another shadow reached. Bradbury cried out. Damian came in, this time, by himself. Elsa was in the shower. The father was visibly angry now. “You need to know that this is the last time I’m going to put up with this…” he began. BC looked up at his father with big watery eyes. “But Dayee…why you yelling at me?” Damian inhaled deeply. Suddenly, he changed. He was moderate height with an athletic build but now he stretched and widened – skin pulling and bones popping. A green flicker ran over his body like a crackling tide washing over with the same tint as that color from the closet. Suddenly, Damian Malachi was nearly seven feet tall, football wide shoulders with furred skin. His defined face was gone and something lupine with a skeletal nose had taken its place. A massive dark collar adorned the skintight black one-piece suit that clung to his rippling muscular body. “I wasn’t talking to you, son…” The voice was not Damian’s anymore. At least not only his voice. There was something else. Something that howled and growled underneath his words. What-was-Malachi thrust a muscular clawed arm into the closet’s shadows. He pulled something out of the darkness. He retrieved Bradbury’s monster – by the throat. “…I was talking to him.” Damian-not-Damian held the beast up. It was a short stocky creature with large eyes and a mouth of short naillike teeth. Its hands ended in stubby claws. It sniffled and snarled while the lycanthropic-vampiric creature held it off the ground. “A Sub-Terrorean? They sent a Sub-Terrorean to MY HOUSE? TO MY FAMILY?” Malachi pulled the creature close. His mouth bared a row of wolf fangs. “You tell them – I’m-coming-back!” With that, he hurled the below ground dweller back into the closet. Rather than slamming into children’s clothing, hangers and drywall, the bestial hunchback disappeared into a flash of green and then the dark. The remaining monster turned and looked at his child. “Bradbury, don’t be scared, son, it’s me, Da---“ Bradbury exploded in a scream. Damian-not-Damian jumped back. His son’s shriek brought in Elsa. “WHAT’S GOING ON?!?!?!” Bradbury pointed to the beast that stood in his father’s place. “COOLEST. THING. EVER!!!!!!!!! DADDY!!!!!! MONSTER DADDY!!!!!” Elsa shook her head. She looked at Damian-not-Damian. Almond dark eyes to his glowing penlight lupine gaze. “Well honey,” Mrs. Malachi began, “You said you would tell him one day.” The wolf-like creature raised an eyebrow. ---------------------------------------Product Details Paperback: pages ISBN-10: 1501048155 Category: Fantasy/Horror www.hunterchad.com www.monstermanworld.com
Page 9
Jaysus and Jack Ketch
Into the world of pirates, monsters and our love of adventure When I was a kid, I wanted to be all the things a little boy wants to be - a cowboy, a superhero, a robot, an astronaut and, without hesitation and despite my dislike of the water, a pirate. I wanted to captain a ship. I wanted to sail the seven seas (despite being unable to name more than four at a time) and I wanted to find treasure, sword fight and even walk a plank or two. Why did I love the bandits and thieves who braved the dangers of the oceans for hidden gold and uncertain maps? Adventure speaks to us all. It excites us. It awakens us. And, possibly most of all, it speaks to our creativity, our freedom and our thirst for true liberation - the pursuit of who we ultimately are. Why do we romanticize pirates? They were a brutal and savage lot. They were involved in theft, murder, slavery, wholesale cruelty and widespread disdain for civilized habitation. So why would we place such a horrid lot on a pedastal for ourselves and our children? We’re not white-washing the cruelty of the time period and piracy. Those of us who yell “arrrr” and swash our buckles do not do so with ignorance about the prevalent barbarism of the open seas. But we do not lose the freedom, the self-reliance and the feeling of free-will. It’s the same reason why we love cowboys or knights of old. In our hearts and mind, we relish the idea that who a person was in the morning and who they were at night was entirely up to them. We envision pirates holding on to the rigging watching the setting sun on the distant horizon. We see them choosing their direction and their path without emails, without taxes and faxes and without the drudgery of our modern lives. So, how did Windsong & Requiem come to be? I’m an avid gamer and fell in love at the brillance of the game Assassin’s Creed 4: Black Flag. A true masterpiece of art and gaming, the experience fell in cosmic synch with a marathon of Pirates of the Carribean, the series Black Sails and a healthy amount of rum. Given my prediliction for the supernatural and adventure, the burning desire for a pirate diving into worlds of monsers reared its head. In truth, I have had the concept for Captain Travis in mind for over a decade. Originally he was an ancestor (or at least a spiritual predeccesor) of Jonathan Portray, my premiere character The Parannihilator. But like any fictional creation, Travis took on a life of his own. That life, that tale did not fit him. He wanted more. He wanted different. And after cooking in my mind for enough time, a once nameless supporting character became the altruistic ne’er do-well Nabopollassar Defoe Travis. Drop in various influences and designs and eventually the crew of the Requiem came aboard. And I thank my brother Jaime for the ship’s name which set a theme and style for my growing pirate world. So, over the next few pages, please enjoy the first story of Captain Travis and his crew. Batten the hatches, pour the bumbo and prepare to board a world that will never let you go. No quarter asked... Chad Hunter
Page 10
Windsong & Requiem - “Welcomes us Home” A young blonde boy looked up at the man in a large coat with slick black hair and a thin mustache. A large curved sword hung at his hip. The child, wearing darkened rags and deep wounds, had a face mixed with dirt and blood. Tears had left clean streaks down his gritty face but had done nothing to take the anger from his eyes. The man leaned forward. “Do you know who I am, boy?” He had a French accent to his words, something Parisian and cultured. There was a series of shines off the five rings on his left hand. The child nodded. “They say you are Robert Quebedeaux, treasure hunter, myth killer...pirate.” And the last word hung in the air. The dirty and large men around Quebedeaux looked like giants to the child. Yet the boy showed no fear. His lips quivered from something far deeper and darker than terror of men - rage. Quebedeaux smiled. “Oui, I am all that and more. And you are one of the last survivors of Rossio Isle. Come with me, boy. We sail for a place of safety. Calavera always welcomes us home.” The death’s head island was non-existent to most chart readers and map makers. But to those who sailed under their own flags, the small jut of rock was home and haven to pirates, privateers and their similar persuasion. To everyone who knew of the location, it was an island barely and in the right lighting, it was an island that looked like a skull. Tonight, a deep fog was rolling around the skull island’s coast. And as the siege of billowing mist enshrouded the pirate cove, those who were sober and pulling in to dock made notice and news of the fog’s green color. A rare event even for Calavera. The Requiem had just pulled into the harbor and its hull finished rocking. She was a unique craft with a history and design lost on the words of myths, legends and lore. Somewhere married to a brig’s design and the force of a galleon, the Requiem was a sight with her fine dark wood crafting. Nights on Calavera always seemed blacker than sailing under the moon on the open waters. The crew of the ship were making preparation for docking. Ropes hurtled between sailors. Lamp-lights were lit to fight back the night’s obscurity. As the Requiem’s hands prepared her for resting, a lone figure stood perched on the deck, ensuring a smooth and ease dock. Preparations finished and the man moved down the short steps leading to the captain’s cabin. “Nabopolassar, are you sure you want to remain?” The man asking was tall. His skin darkened by a lifetime or more under the Syrian sun. A pepper gray beard came to a point. Clad in black, he was barely visible when night fell on the Requiem and his dark silks made him a shadow. The scimitar at his side had saved the crew’s lives more than he could remember. Captain Nabopolassar Defoe Travis squinted at the sound; his full first name. His hair was a dirtied blonde and his skin tanned by ocean salt and sun. “Aye, God, Ghassan, please---!” The man walked to the edge of the Requiem’s steps which extended to Calavera’s dock. He wore a long coat which opened enough to show a form fitting off-white shirt. He wore thick dark Page 11
gloves and the left wrist was exposed, showcasing several rows of beads and bracelets. “Yes Nabopolassar?” “Jaysus and Jack Ketch, Arab, do ye need to say that? No one---” Ghassan smiled but his lips were tight. “I know…’Bo,’ only those who really know you---“ “Know not to use it me full moniker,” The young captain shook with his eyes closed. The sound of his name caught many off guard most of all himself. “Go, old man, get drunk with the rest of the crew. Or meditate, pray, whatever ye do. You’ve all earned it.” “Are the new designs on your sword to your liking…”Bo?” Ghassan continued. Travis pulled the blade partially from its scabbard. “Aye, old friend. It took awhile to find the right blacksmith but the stout man back at Havilland port did his art on this one.” “You knew Quebedeaux, did you not?” “Yes I did.” The man from the Middle East narrowed his eyes as if pulling wisdom from deep within. “Every man lives with versions of himself. Hearsay has it that Quebedeaux was sunk by the Crown. Some say he retired, scuttled his ship and lives with a long beard in a coastal shack. What say you, captain?” Travis was silent. He looked at the death head island. At this angle, there was enough torchlight on the other side that the skull-like silhouette seemed to herald a mammoth skeleton under the water’s top. “I say some truths are stranger than hearsay, Ghassan…” Robert Quebedeaux and two of his crewmen swung swords against hissing and clawing at the door’s frame. The blonde boy he had found once was now older and handled a blade of his own. “What are these THINGS?” the boy yelled out over the sounds of unnatural battle. “KEEP FIGHTING, BO! WE HOLD ON UNTIL DAWN AND THESE BASTARDS AND THEIR TROUBLE WILL BE LONG GONE!” With every swing of his swords, the left hand of Quebedeuax shined with the five gold and jeweled rings on his fingers. There was blood in-between the gems. “You’re injured, captain!” Travis yelled as he looked at the blood pooling on Quebedeaux’s shirt. “I’ll be fine, lad,” Robert said equally silent, “We’ll sail for Calavera at dawn. The skull island always lets me rest.” “And what of you, Captain?” The question woke Bo from his memories. The inquiry’s owner stood behind Ghassan. She had green eyes that were sharper than the cutlass at his side. Full lips pulled back on one side in a sneer and the woman they belonged to waited for her captain’s response. She had a mane of hair that should have been red like the women of her green clover fields but instead, her hair was silver from birth. It earned her a name unlike the Mary’s and the Katherine’s of her town. Bo waved slightly. “Ms. Winter Burke,” the silver haired woman swayed up. She bowed in mock and placed a hand on her sword hilt. “At ye service, captain.” Travis smiled and squinted his eyes. A dark liner surrounded his eyes. “Doubtful. I’ll be fine here on the ship. Take the whole crew, especially Glover, he needs time on the shore. I’ll be fine. I’m expecting to cross paths with an old friend.” Winter nodded. “I’ll get the little wily cur. We could all shake the sights of the last sail. All those teeth...all those eyes on that...that thing. Plus everyone needs to see this green fog. Ports from Ocracoke Inlet all the way to De Havilland Cove have reported the emerald haze moving across the seas. Can’t say I’ve ever seen the likes of it.” Travis looked over the side of the Requiem. The sunsetting landscape answered his gaze back with silence and an emerald approach. “Aye, Ms. Burke - green fog. I’ve only heard of it,” Bo said to himself. Winter clapped hands. “Then it’s decided! We all could use a drink. Raise one for ol’ Robert Q! “Very well,” Ghassan said, standing to his full and imposing stature. “We will go and toast the legend of Captain Quebedeaux.” Bo nodded. “Aye, I means to do the same.” Page 12
### The Requiem rocked slightly. Her sails were rolled up tightly and her three masts rose like mighty spires into the night sky. She groaned a bit as ships her size did. Enough battles, enough blow to her hull and the old girl often let out sounds that echoed her battles. They were either bold proclamations of her continued defiance or early cries of her death song. Captain Travis stood on the deck and watched the torches of the mammoth skull island flicker and fight against the night. The flames danced in his eyes and against the wood and rope of the dock. The sailor held a fiddle, letting it spin in one hand as he prepared to strum its strings with the other. Suddenly, a scream broke the calm night air. Travis heard screams bounding off the skull’s coastline before but this was different. It was not the usual cries of Calavera which were wild yells into a night of drink and debauchery. Nor was this a scream that the island released from its reportedly ghostly foundations. This was a plea for help. And it was a woman’s cry at that. Bo was down the plank in an eye’s blink and heading towards the origin of the scream. He ran past toasting pockets of drunken sods. He cut through taverns and alleys until finally reaching the source of the sounds. Bo slid into a stilled stance. There were two men accosting a young woman. One held her by a torn collar while the other man held a short knife to her face. Whatever sinister smiles and mouthy grins they duo had were quickly lost as they turned their gaze from the tear-soaked woman to the captain at the alley’s end. The first man, slid away from the woman with a dirty beard and one good eye. He ran a short blade across his own face. “Good evenin’ sailor…” the man said. His smile and swagger getting him closer to Travis. Bo nodded and bowed. ‘Evenin’,” he returned, “Not readin’ her mind at all but me thinks the lady wants better company.” The second man still clutched the girl by her ripped clothing. He sneered with a mouthful of metal teeth. “This ain’t none a’ ya concern, boy…” “Aye,” answered Travis, “You’re right but I was bored. So…I be making it mine.” The two men charged Travis and a sword fight began. He parried the first strikes and caught the metal-mouth man with a fist to the nose. The first man threw a kick which caught part of Bo’s side. The captain blocked another attack and slid free the dagger that he held in his waistband. The first attacker fell from the sudden blade now piercing his abdomen. The metal-mouth man rushed as Travis side-stepped him. The second man dropped as Bo sliced his sword across the men’s spine. With both assailants down, Captain Travis sheathed his swords. “---oh my God---those men---“ the woman wept, she pulled her clothing over her exposed flesh. “Shhh,” Travis began, helping her regain her footing. “I’ll take ye back to my ship.” Bo picked her up and cradled her. Waves of her honey-brown hair fell onto his leather coat. Each sway of her locks sent a smell of mead into the air. He looked into her equally enchanting eyes. “My name is Molly,” she said. And her words were music, windchimes over the roar and ruckes of Calaveras population. “Pleased to make ye acquaintance, Molly,” the pirate returned, “My name is Bo.” ### The sounds of Calavera’s nights were legendary. This night tonight they held up to expectations. Torchlight crowned the skull-shaped jut of rock and bands of pirates danced and sang and drank to their fill. The Requiem rocked with the waves that seemed to pound her sides more frequently since her captain’s return. Her black sails held tightly in their bound rolls. Travis’ cabin was a mixture of elegance and second-hand. It blended ancient wisdom, modern science and esoteric machinations bordering on the unnatural. Its depth was impressive and it was filled on its sides with candelabras and statues from across the globe. Vibrant and colorful curtains wove through the beams in the ceiling. Past the unmade bed and rumpled sheets set Travis’ desk and it was covered in maps, hand-written notes and arcane devices of the sea and the unexplainable. Page 13
Captain Travis carried a small cup with a halo of steam. He handed it to the young woman. “Here ye go. How’re ye’ fairing?” “Much better, thanks to you,” Molly took the cup in her soft, small hands. A blanket surrounded the recently distressed damsel. The flickering candlelight of the cabin put a glow around her waves of curls and a glint in her eyes. “I’d be dead or worse, good sir, if it weren’t for you. And how lucky for me - to be rescued by the captain of the legendary Requiem? Captain Travis and his crew: not pirates of the murderous sort but brave warriors on the world’s waters against things that no government would admit or sailor recall. Ship and swords against pagan gods, returning dead and soulless voyagers spreading horror.” Travis nodded. “Some of that be true. Some of it...well...So, what brings you to a place like this, Molly? Ye’ don’t strike me as the pirate type.” “I was traveling. Caught on with a merchant ship that left me here. So…what is it that has the island all a’roar tonight?” “Tis a pirate holiday of sorts. We’re toasting Robert Quebedeaux - pirate royalty of a sorts.” Molly cocked her head to the left. Hair fell over one side of her face. Her eyebrows arched. “Who is this Robert Quebedeaux?” Nabopollasar Defoe Travis leaned back into his chair. “One of the greatest pirates to ever live. A rogue and a gentleman. A wise man and a fool. He was a taskmaster. He was a friend. Robert’s been gone for a year or so now.” “Oh,” Molly replied with a shift in her posture. The blanket slid away. She placed her tea cup down on a nearby stool and began swaying over to Travis. “Good captain,” the recently rescued lovely began, “Should you not be repaid for your bravery and true heart?” The chestnut haired woman moved in and ran her hand inside Bo’s coat. He looked into her face; she was pretty in the alley, beautiful at her rescue but now, this close, with her breath on his unshaven face - she was desirable. With the perspective of her plunging neckline and heaving bosom, Molly was no longer the victim needing rescue but a wanton woman. Her lips full and glistening. Enough of her skin showed from the ragged clothing that Bo knew she was a fit woman with curve and shape. Her eyes fluttered as she leaned in for more contact. “Aye, Molly, I’d like nothing more than a pretty lass for the night. And the dawn,” Travis said, “I wake up frisky. But ye not be my type.” She smiled and paused. “I’m not?” “No, lass, I try not to fornicate with witches.” Molly pulled back. There was silence between the two people. One eyebrow raised. Travis stood without any indication of emotion or feeling. “Hmph,” she said and with that, the cabin’s air shifted violently and suddenly. Bo held onto the large wooden table behind him. It would have been and often was a proper place for lovemaking but for now, it was an anchor against unnatural winds in a small room. The woman’s skin slid from her peach coloring to green, with a hint of a life on the sea. Her hair went from honey waves of curls to dark emerald tresses similar to trails of seaweed. Just around her neck and the edge of her hairline, scales flecked out of her skin. Her lips darkened as did her eyes which turned completely black like ink and ocean’s end. Whatever the girl was, she was no longer. As Molly’s transformation ended, she inhaled deeply. “Ah,” she began, “Much better.” “Tis a trap,” said Bo. His hands on his sword and flintlock. Molly, now a sea-witch, smiled and her teeth were dark and moist, “More like an introduction. Welcome to my growing army, Captain Bo Travis.” There was a thump. Travis and Molly turned towards the door of the cabin. Another thump. Then another. Then another until the door of Bo’s quarters creaked opened. Two shadowed figures stood, leaning in the doorway. Before they entered, their smell, their odor preceded them. It was the ocean’s rank but only when some mass of water weed or flotsam had given up all life and filled with rot and stink. It was the ocean’s smell when something large that swam and lived floated dead to the surface Page 14
Molly smiled. Her two would-be-attackers shambled in, barely able to walk in a straight line. Their faces had a sick greenish hue. The skin was sliding off their skulls, exposing bone and shadow. Their limbs and fingers had shrunken tight to the joints and their clothing appeared large and baggy. Their eyes were white covered in membrane and Travis knew they did not need to see. Puppets needed no sight, they had a master. “You know, girlie,” the pirate began, without crack of surprise or fear in his voice, “Ye’ could have saved me the trouble of killing these two earlier…” “Oh no, my Captain,” Molly said, her eyes now squinting, “I had to see you, feel you brave and true. Kind and noble. Any bilge rat can be pulled into my sway in this life and the next, but for a real, powerful servant…I need a real man, a good man. I need a fighter.” “I was thinking the same thing.” Bo leapt up with his swords drawn. He swung at Molly and a blade blocked his attack, inches from her green face. Her two puppet ghouls moved in front of her with weapons ready. Travis pulled his cutlass back and spun. The fight ensued with the sea-witch’s minions. Blades clashed. Travis ducked and parried. For every slash and thrust of his weapon, the water-logged creatures felt nothing and showed even less of pain and injury. Bo’s fight was a lost cause. All he could do was protect himself. Captain Travis ran his main sword into the first attacker’s abdomen and drove his short dagger into the skull of the second. They halted for a moment and then shook off the attack. Travis’ weapons remained embedded in the revenant seamen. “Oh my sailor boy…” Molly slid up behind Bo who, in turn, spun and drove his remaining sword into her stomach. They both looked down at the cutlass sticking from her abdomen. The sea-witch looked the pirate in the eyes. She began to laugh. The green woman waved her hand and sent Bo Travis flying across his cabin. The impact was hard. Wooden chairs bit into Travis’ back. Trinkets and items hard won or harder stolen crashed about him. The pirate’s world went sideways for a moment and then came back in a haze. “Is this---“ he began, wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth, “Is this how ye’ repay a man who comes to ye’ aid? You’ll turn me into one of these mindless lackeys?” “No, no, not you,” Molly answered, “Vermin like these two have little to offer me. No strength. No conviction. They end as little more than mindless drones. But men like you…oooh, men of legend become so much more.” She smiled wider and looked towards the door of the captain’s cabin. Another set of thumps and sloshes made it clear that another visitor’s arrival. A tall figure cast a shadow in the door frame. The two water-logged ghouls moved aside. Thudding footfall after thudding footfall, the damned thing entered into the light of Travis’ cabin. Molly ran her hands down the sides of her body. Her green palms lingered suggestively around the hilt of Captain Travis’ sword still embedded in her stomach. “Let me bring about a reunion.” Bo’s eyes went wide for a moment and then cut into slits. He saw the shine of familiar rings although dulled by drudge and ocean filth. “Like I said, I need men like you…I need men of legend,” finished Molly. What stood before Travis was once a man, a great pirate and an even better mentor. He had saved a young boy searching for revenge. He taught a young boy about becoming a man. What was once Robert Quebedeaux now looked at Bo Travis with white eyes, green skin and ocean floor growths spreading across his body. The bewitched ghoul of a captain watched the young pirate in the corner. Molly smiled, talking to Bo while studying the depth-ascended Quebedeaux. She picked at his green and wet flesh. She ran her hand over his sag-flesh mustache. “I’ve just began to build my forces. And this one, this sailor, was strong, brave. He came to my rescue here not too long ago and, well, like you said, it was a trap. And he fell. And now this Captain Quebedeaux has been mine.” Molly smiled and played with a spiny thing protruding from the still and green deadman. She snapped her attention to the downed but living pirate. “The places I come from,” the sea-witch began, “They are full of things that talk about you. The famed Bo Travis, thorn of the Crown, scourge pirate, hunter of shadows, killer of legends. Little boy whose home got blown to smoke and bone? Bogie-man and Jennie Greenteeth come and take your family under tow?” Bo’s lips went thin in tightened grimace. Quebedeaux or whatever he was now merely shifted in his stance and reeked of the sea’s grasp. The regal look of a pirate captain was now lost under layers of dark growth, sloughPage 15
ing skin and green hue. Robert’s eyes were frosted over and Travis looked hard for something within them. The sea-witch moved past her stilled drones. Her dark dress clung to her curves and moved with her every bare footstep. “Ol’ Molly has a home for you, Nabopolassar. This will just take a kiss.” She leaned in with a wide smile. Her eyes flashed over green. Her hair dripped onto Bo’s leather coat. He smelled salt and moisture. The sea-witch reached out with talons clicking eagerly. Then the Captain smiled. His eyes squinted. “You know those things in those places you come from?” he whispered to his female predator. Molly paused and turned her head slightly. “Hmmm-mmm...” Bo reached the sword in her stomach. A subtle and quick manipulation by his hand and the hilt came loose. A stub of metal, dark and clump covered, showed. The blacksmith had done good work. “They also say how iron kills a witch.” The captain shoved the knob of metal higher up into Molly’s chest. The sea-witch gasped. The only sound that came from her mouth was a futile series of exhalations and huffs. Molly slumped to one side and water began to pour from her snapping maw. Suddenly, the air in the cabin plunged to arctic cold and a small gale ravaged the quarters. Bo held himself against the wall and let the death throes run their course. Over the sound of the whipping force and the bone-shearing winds, Travis heard Molly’s screams and the shrieks that were more animal than human. She clutched clumsily at the iron stuck in her form. It looked as if to burn and a noxious green smoke shot billowed from her wound. As quickly as it came, the raging and frigid hurricane ended. Papers fluttered to the ship’s floor. Items completed their crashings. Travis knelt at the sea-witch’s dying body. Her fluttering green eyes fell on his face. Bo smiled. “Like I said before, girlie - tis a trap. But it was mine.” “...how...how did you know…?” Bo stood. “Green fog. Every time it’s come in, folk disappear from Calavera. A good hunting ground of the drunk and the lost. But the green fog gives ye’ away. I’ve played plenty of Liar’s Dice, hag. And even the best cheat and trickster has a tell. Ye’ do too. There was green fog the night Quebedeaux disappeared. Only I knew he had come home to Calavera. To the arms of this place. After enough inquisition and bribery into the underworld, I heard there was a woman of the waters, a sea-witch with anxious designs and assembling forces.” Travis looked at the servants. They shook and trembled. Their skin glistened heavily and their bones cracked with the clutching of their heads. The two watery ghouls slumped and fell. Water logged and bloated, their bodies began to liquefy. Legs and arms disassembled from torso. Heads spasmed and pulled free. Flesh sloughed loose and bone creaked and cracked. Everything that bound together the tide-turned tortured now came apart and slid out of the cabin and back into the sea. Travis returned his gaze to the dying she-creature. “I had to put up with the charade long enough, darlin’, to be sure ye’ were the one...and that Robert would be with ya’.” The green woman bared her gritted teeth. Her jaws creaked open and a mix of dank fluid and Calavera water seeped from her rupturing flesh. “…does…it…keep you awake…Captain Travis?” Molly found strength to cackle. Her cheekbones began to show as her skull seemed to push out while her face pulled in. Bo looked on, watching the sea-witch fade. “…The fear that after all your travels…all your huntin’ of the Rossio beastie that did ya’... What...what if you didn’t...get the right monster?” With her last word, Molly smiled and her lips tightened. Her face pulled back onto a flesh covered skull and her body went limp. Bo left her form and moved to what was once Quebedeaux. Captain Travis reached out and held, barely, the ringed hand of his old friend. Bo leaned in, speaking to a sagging ear and bloated head. The resurrected pirate captain looked ahead with no reaction. “Go, my captain,” Bo whispered, a glisten in his eyes. “Sail for a place of safety. Calavera always welcomes us home.” There was nothing. A breath, maybe two passed by and Travis waited. What was once Robert turned its head slowly and looked at its former protege. Page 16
The moment held. Bo smiled with glistening eyes and nodded. Then the resurrected pirate collapsed. His remains slid out into nothingness. The green fog lifted. Calavera, in all its death’s head beauty, sat clear on the ocean’s surface. Captain Travis knelt down in his cabin and waited for his crew’s return. THE END
Page 17
HAPPY WIFE, HAPPY LIFE The Return of the Innerwife?
Not long ago, I ended the Blogtalkradio show Real Talk with the Innerwife. Time, changes in the studio and other factors made the show growingly difficult to continue in the exact way we ran it for nearly four years. Now, fans of the Blogtalkradio sensation need worry no longer. The Innerwife is back. The unique style of relationship discussion will return starting with the gradual availability of ALL the Blogtalkradio shows appearing on the official Chad Hunter YouTube channel. Click on any image below to follow through to the channel and all that it offers. After we convert all the shows to YouTube, will we begin new content on love, life and ultimate strife, who knows? Well, technically, I know but I’m not telling! Good life, good love.
Page 18
Top 10 Quotes on freedom, creativity & pirates 1. “Conformity is the jailer of freedom and the enemy of growth.” - John F. Kennedy 2. “Parrots have gone a bit quiet since pirates have gone.” - Karl Pilkington 3. “Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.“ - Scott Adams 4. “The average man will bristle if you say his father was dishonest, but he will brag a little if he discovers that his great-grandfather was a pirate.” - Bern Williams 5. “Creativity involves breaking out of established patterns in order to look at things in a different way.” Edward de Bono 6. “There is more treasure in books than in all the pirate’s loot on Treasure Island.” - Walt Disney 7. “Freedom lies in being bold.” - Robert Frost 8. “The amount of happiness that you have depends on the amount of freedom you have in your heart.” Thich Nhat Hanh 9. “We seek peace, knowing that peace is the climate of freedom.” - Dwight D. Eisenhower 10. “Why join the navy if you can be a pirate?” - Steve Jobs
Write Here – Tips on Finding your beach & taking it with you How do you write? Writers all work differently but there are some common tips that could help us all. Here’re a few recommendations for putting word to paper (or keyboard, smartphone, etc.) • Coffee – A must, especially for late-night writers. Sometimes you need the sweet, swift kick of caffeine to pound those keys. • Quiet (or music) – some writers need pin-drop silence for the words to flow. Others fall back on music as the background. Try classical, smooth jazz, EDM or the clattering of a coffee house to help you flow. • Find your beach – When you find that place that reinvigorates you, capture it. That’s the place (or vibe) that you need to include in your writing process. The place that soothes you and puts you in the zone – coffee shop, library, whatever it may be - Remember it, reproduce it. • Muses – Major part of the process. Have music, books, pictures, action figures, whatever nearby to keep your creative flames stoked and on point. • Write – Oh yeah…do that too!
Page 19
Thank you for reading! For more information, please go to www.hunterchad.com My personal thanks to the following for their help with this newsletter – Kmartinez – Launch Team Jhollywood – Design and concept Awallace, PBerrette – Interview and additional content Stay tuned for more H4 and what’s new in humor, heart and horror! Chad Hunter
h Follow on Facebook!
Follow on YouTube! Page 20