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This blog is meant to answer questions, keep readers up to date on new and upcoming stories, as well as allow me the opportunity to interact with my readers.
If you have any questions, comments, or concerns please feel free to post them or email me directly at osproper@gmail.com.
If you have any questions, comments, or concerns please feel free to post them or email me directly at osproper@gmail.com.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Competitive Edge Release
So Competitive Edge went live 3/3/15. Very happy about this. For those who aren't aware, I've moved the majority of content to the new site: osmanproper.com
I still swing by and check this area but not quite as religiously as I probably should. I will try and be better about that. Ridiculously excited. Have other projects taking the Edge's place, one is perhaps a spin off for the Spires story, but I make no promises.
Spring Break is rapidly approaching, I know what I will be doing....writing...
Have a safe break if I don't catch up with you before then, have fun but not too much fun.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Competitive Edge Cover in Progress
So the amazing Chelsea and I have drummed up the cover idea, now we just have to make it happen. Competitive Edge is almost ready for release. I'm so excited I can't see straight anymore...or maybe it's lack or sleep-or worse a caffeine overdose...do those actually happen?
On a side note....
William Hopp, a fellow author and friend, who drew me into his complicated Zombie fiction years ago, recently sent me a script for his new found footage movie project Abductee. Please click the links for additional info on the author and the project.
Often times, found footage films are hit or miss. What I think Hopp is going to bring to the table with Abductee, outside of his usual brand of awesome, is a unique spin on the complicated and often misunderstood concepts surrounding alien abduction and influence. Heavy emphasis on the psychological aspect, which of course, I love. Thrillers and horror flicks are my flick addictions, with that being said, I'm waiting to see this. And if you are a fan of sci-fi and the big what-if, then this is a movie project you're going to want to help make happen.
See the above links, add Will on Facebook or take a minute to like the Abductee page. I know he's been doing a lot of marketing to get this project off the ground and will appreciate you stopping by. I can't imagine the nausea that comes with writing a script...don't think I want to.
And just in case he pops by and sees this: Dude...I'm proud of you.
On a side note....
William Hopp, a fellow author and friend, who drew me into his complicated Zombie fiction years ago, recently sent me a script for his new found footage movie project Abductee. Please click the links for additional info on the author and the project.
Often times, found footage films are hit or miss. What I think Hopp is going to bring to the table with Abductee, outside of his usual brand of awesome, is a unique spin on the complicated and often misunderstood concepts surrounding alien abduction and influence. Heavy emphasis on the psychological aspect, which of course, I love. Thrillers and horror flicks are my flick addictions, with that being said, I'm waiting to see this. And if you are a fan of sci-fi and the big what-if, then this is a movie project you're going to want to help make happen.
See the above links, add Will on Facebook or take a minute to like the Abductee page. I know he's been doing a lot of marketing to get this project off the ground and will appreciate you stopping by. I can't imagine the nausea that comes with writing a script...don't think I want to.
And just in case he pops by and sees this: Dude...I'm proud of you.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Competitive Edge --Sample Chapter One....
With the manuscript for Competitive Edge in the hands of editors and the photography being handled, I figured I'd go ahead and a sample chapter up here. A tease for those out there waiting and a preview for those who don't know it's coming.
Please keep in mind that this comes from the original rough draft version. No doubt there will likely be errors. Try not to judge me to harshly on that. They don't call me the tense shifting comma splice queen for nothing around here. I've earned it.
Anyway, hope you enjoy!
O.
========================================================================
ONE
“Accidents ambush the unsuspecting,
often violently, just like love.”-Andrew Davidson, The Gargoyle
“I know they say not to wear white after Labor Day
but when I saw it, I just couldn’t help myself.” I say as I run my hands over the smooth lines
of my new Prada skirt set. The
sleeveless ivory blouse has a faint opalescent shimmer to it, even under the
harsh glare of florescent lights in our office.
The skirt is made out of the same svelte material that ran to a perfect
stop above the knee. Classy, sophisticated,
with just a hint of toned down sexy.
It is exactly what I needed.
I give Louie another practice spin, adjusting to the
height of my newest stilettos, enjoying the way the cuffs secure my ankles so I
won’t just slide out of them. Usually I
stick to shorter thicker heels, especially in the office, by comparison these
are stilts. It isn’t wise to wear new
shoes in public before breaking them in.
Usually, it’s just a painful experience but every now and then you might
end up with a broken heel. I’d thrown
caution out the window with this outfit.
Today is a big day. I need to shine
like freshly minted money.
“Girl!”
Louie’s exclamation is my seal of approval.
I sigh and because I can’t help myself. On autopilot my hands
retrace the fabric. Italian wool, it’s a
beautiful thing. The price tags however,
were not. I’d bit the bullet anyway. A woman in my line of work couldn’t get away
with rotating the same two suits for long before people start noticing. Men could get away with it to a degree but
not women, just another layer to the glass ceiling dividing the sexes. In advertising you rub elbows with big and
expensive fish that have wives that have nothing better to do than find reasons to dislike you. Fashion is one of the
fastest ways for one woman to spot a social climber, or worse, a fake. You want to play in the Big Leagues you need
to be ready to dress the part. Bring the
A line, be careful with namedrops, make sure you are keeping up with E’s
fashion reports on what’s in and what’s out, but don’t be afraid to bring your
own personal style to the table.
“You know that isn’t really a cardinal rule of
fashion.” Until I met Louie, who
introduced me to things like Cosmo, Fashion Week, and the many different
brushes you were actually supposed to use to apply eye shadow, I didn’t know
anything about makeup or clothes. I
lived in yoga pants and ponytails, which was great for the dorm but not so
great for the boardroom. Everything I
knew about fashion, I learned from Louie.
He isn’t just a fashion and makeup guru, he is also my administrative
assistant, but more importantly he's my friend.
Every girl should have someone like Louie in their
life. And it’s not just because he will
save you from going on your next date looking like a washed out bag lady. No, people like Louie are rare and wonderful
finds. Capable of looking beyond the
façades you throw over yourself like armor.
They see who you are and accept you for it without question. When you have a bad day they can commiserate;
with advice, or ice cream or maybe a good dose of man bashing, and sometimes
all three. And if you ask for the truth don’t be angry that they give it to you without blunting the edges. If the outfit makes you look like a Christmas
sausage, you’ll know. They aren’t afraid
to call you out for being a recalcitrant hoo-hoo. But when your world falls down, they’ll be
first in line to wrap you in a hug that salves the soul.
“You want me to call a cab?” I shook my head, enjoying the weightlessness
that came with the new layering I’d had the stylist put in yesterday. When I was younger, I hated my hair because
it was thick and had too much body for me to do anything with. Thirty minutes with Louie and a flat-iron,
and I had a new love for my locks. My
greatest adolescent bane had become one of my most feminine assets because
women didn’t wear their hair this long anymore.
Shiny black tendrils ran over my shoulders landing just beneath my
middle back. The contrast of my hair, my
skin, and the ivory fabric made me pop.
“It’s just seven blocks Louie.” He gives my new stems a pointed look before
cocking a golden brow in question.
“Yes, I’ll pay for it later but I need the time to
get my thoughts in order before I get there.”
His dirty blond faux hawk shakes.
I know he doesn’t approve but Louie’s smart enough to know he won’t be able
to talk me out of it.
“I’ll have the ice ready.” A long time ago I discovered that the key to
getting over a day spent in ruthless heels was a frozen bottle of water. You simply put your foot over it and let the
bottle glide from the tips of your toes to the back of your heels. Make sure to
give it a little extra pressure on the instep.
It’s cheaper and easier than trying to find someone willing to rub your
feet in the middle of the day.
“You’re an angel,” I say as I grab the dark red
purse/messenger bag that contained my entire life. Emergency cosmetic touch-ups, feminine products
for that unwelcome surprise, and the tablet I use to keep my chaotic schedule
in order. Be Prepared isn’t just a Boy
Scout mantra.
“Not really but it is sweet you think so.” I get one playful wink before Louie’s pushing
me toward the door.
Before I step out of the office I put on the
city-stare. It’s an unfortunate
necessity for battling the thick current of sidewalk traffic without having a
panic attack. Unlike Louie I had grown
up in a small town, a place that made Mayberry seem bustling by
comparison. Affecting a city-stare is
how I kept my mind on business and out of the crush of the crowd. I have been walking these sidewalks for three
years. Every crack, grate, and pothole
committed to memory so I could navigate blind, dodging every danger with
relative ease, even in new stilts.
Heading north, I merge with other business suits,
all heading in the same general direction:
the Mecca of downtown. It is the
heart of this city. Anything and
everything happens downtown.
After securing my place in the crowd, complacency
and memory take over while my mind wanders to more important matters. I run through a thousand different scenarios
that might play out and how to deal with all of them. This is the meeting that would make or break
my career. Everything I have been
working for these last three years. If I
succeed, making partner by thirty wouldn’t be a dream anymore but reality.
Titan is a world-wide name synonymous with
sports. From pee-wee to the majors,
everyone wears their apparel and uses their equipment because it is always the
best, cutting edge. They were one of the
first athletic companies to invest in lighter football padding that reduced
concussions. It is a multi-billion
dollar success story. Their swimsuits in
last year’s Summer Olympic games had pushed four swimmers to break new
records. I’d spent the last few days
memorizing the details. Every athlete
Titan sponsored and even the ones they’d turned down. I knew all the charities they chaired and
championed. And because I knew all these
things, I also knew why Titan wants this meeting.
One of their biggest athletes was about to be
brought down. He is an American icon, a
hero to many, and a household name. And
he wore Titan’s sponsorship patch on his jersey. That he tested positive for steroids was
going to be a major slap in the face of not only his fans but the contract he
made with Titan. Main-stream media
hadn’t gotten their hands on the story yet but it was only a matter of time,
hours. While Titan had already pulled
their sponsorship, there is going to be a backlash. An All American Hero is going to be publicly
stripped of his medals and titles in the upcoming weeks and Titan needs spin
control, a fresh campaign to revamp their image.
Titan didn’t have exclusive contracts with any agent
or agency. It is how they kept their
advertising clean and fresh over the years.
So why were they asking me for a meeting? I might have been a new kid in the business
but I already turned three multi-million dollar companies around with my
campaigns. Now I had a well-earned
reputation for making the best out of the worst. Lemons and lemonade, my Grams would say.
I’ve made it two blocks when the rain starts. I’m prepared for the sudden mercurial shifts
in Southern weather, always carrying an umbrella in my bag. Rain causes my straight glossy hair riot in
curly frizz. So I stop to fish out my
new umbrella. I’d seen its elegant
cherry stained J crooked handle and fell in love.
What I don’t see, outside my limited periphery, is
the bike messenger that is forced to jump the curb nearest me to avoid being
clipped by a car. Everything would have
been fine if I hadn’t been at a complete stop.
The courier catches the elegant J curve and in seconds I’m snatched out
of my perfectly structured and scheduled world.
Physics takes over before I’ve even had a chance to realize exactly
what’s happening. The umbrella snaps. I teeter off balance. Then gravity did what it does best and down I
went, ass over elbows into a cesspool of city runoff.
After the initial shock wears off, I’m briefly
grateful the only thing broken in the collision is the umbrella. That gratitude evaporates when I realize
my suit is ruined beyond any and all salvation.
This is why you don’t wear white after Labor Day!
Seven blocks and didn’t make it three. This has to be a new personal record. My thigh highs are running in places, torn in
others. Too fast the culvert fills with
trash, a second wave of filth washing over me.
Thank goodness I’ve had my tetanus booster. The delicate Italian wool doesn’t appreciate
the new accessories any more than I do.
Instead of giving into my sudden need to curl up in the fetal position
and cry my eyes out, I get angry, using it to fuel my attempts to get out of
the gutter.
People pass by. They have on their own blinders on making it
easy to ignore my plight. They don’t
even look in my direction. It’s as if by
leaving the sidewalk I ceased to exist.
Anonymity is one of the reasons I’d traded the small town of Ashland for
the hustle and bustle of the city.
Ironic I’m suddenly cursing one of the very things I’d appreciated when
I moved here. The nameless facelessness
blending that came with big city life.
Worse, I know my schedule doesn’t have time for this
sort of disaster. I can’t miss my
meeting but I sure as hell can’t show up looking like the inside of a sex shop
dumpster. Two attempts end in failure. The amazing stilts were more hindrance than
help in my struggle to gain upward momentum.
I fall backward again, murky water splashing in all directions as I land
square on my ass.
Grams warned me about the perils of style over
substance. And I ignored her every
time. If she could see me struggling
like a half drowned sewer rat, she’d be laughing her curlers loose. Had this travesty occurred any other day, I’d
have laughed too. I can’t laugh. Nope.
And there is no time for the breakdown I need. No, right now I have to pull myself back
together and sally forth. Just as I
rally, the rain turns from aggravating chilly drizzle to full-scale Armageddon
flash flood downpour.
Perfect.
I’ve never been a negative person or prone to
wallowing. Life is all about adapting,
perseverance, and all that jazz. All it
takes to prove who you are is a little dose of adversity. So I channel all my frustrations into another
attempt to free myself and get my life back on track. Hope isn’t lost, a little wayward maybe but
not lost. There is a spare suit in my
office. It will be close but I can make
it happen.
My heels gain enough purchase to push me toward the
uneven concrete curb, my freshly manicured nails slid across the rain slick
surface, two get broken in the process.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes.
Could this
possibly get any worse? I regret the thought the minute it slips across my brain. Someone once told me not to provoke fate by
asking stupid questions. Another one of
those times I wasn’t really listening.
My life could have been so much easier if I’d ever just stopped and
listened to Grams. All those lessons I’d
been too smart and too busy to ever hear.
I don’t know why I looked up.
Instinct maybe, as if deep down a primal part of me knew something truly
dreadful is heading my direction. If I
had to put money on it though, I probably looked up hoping I’d meet the eyes of
some stranger who’d prove once and for all kindness and chivalry hadn’t in fact
died out with the dodo bird. Whatever
the reason, there is no changing what’s barreling my direction. Through the hazy fog brought on by the cool
rain hitting the hot asphalt there is a distinct flash of familiar yellow, a
cab with one broken headlight. Geometry
and its vile siblings weren’t my best subjects but my mind did the math on
Einstein autopilot as I projected the trajectory of the rogue cab. And wouldn’t you just know-it is on a crash
course with me.
It figures!
Fear paints my insides an
unflattering shade of canary bird yellow, almost the same color of the
cab. I don’t freeze up though. I try harder to extricate myself from the
gutters. And I get nowhere-fast. Worse, the cab is still barreling in my
direction. It doesn’t even look like the
driver is slowing down. He probably
doesn’t even see me. Doesn’t even
realize what’s about to happen. Water
hits the pavement in this city and every last driver loses their minds. I’m convinced IQ’s drop the minute
precipitation hits the asphalt.
I have seconds left, and one of those
gets spent to discover the reason I haven’t moved free of my
soon-to-be-watery-grave. My left heel is
wedged, most inconveniently, in the same cast iron grate I’d been using to try
and leverage my way out of the gutter.
Because I’m not religious, I have nowhere to direct my last minute Hail
Mary request for a miracle and I’m not hypocrite enough to start asking for
favors now.
Nope, I am going to spend my last few
seconds on Earth cursing sexy impractical designer shoes…..
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Veil Series Q&A
The Ever Expanding.....
Where
did the idea come from?
Simply put: Madness.
If you’ve found
anything about me via the vast spectrum of interwebs and social media, it’s that
I’m 101% certifiable. Reclusive and
bipolar writing has always allowed me to connect to the world in ways I can’t
in reality. Prin started out no
different from the rest of my characters, a voice inside my head that wouldn’t
shut up until I started writing. No, I’m
not a complete nutter, though there are days I’m sure those around me truly
wonder.
So, there I was
thinking about this great city that would later become known through two
different stories as Antigone. (I took
my favorite parts of my favorite cities and threw them together.) While I sketched out Antigone, Prin started
talking. And she just didn’t stop. Prin’s journey was loosely similar to my own. She is by
far one of the most emotionally stunted characters I’ve ever encountered.
It is through her
madness I better understood my own.
Why
has it taken you so long to put this story out?
The original manuscript
was lost with the great hard drive crash that took several other manuscripts
with it; Perception, Silverside, Abby, and Patient 49. For a writer, this is akin to losing an
entire family. For a bipolar writer, it
was a disaster of the apocalyptic variety.
One intervention and a
heavy dose of medication later, I redrafted Prin the best I could from memory
on my best friend’s parent’s back porch in Arizona. In less than two months, the rough draft was
finished.
Should have published
then right? Wrong! I’m a perfectionist. So I have a rather nasty history of picking
things to pieces. I’d like to think this
means you end up with a better product but that’s just an attempt to
rationalize my own neurosis.
Editing is Hell. Just saying.
And as a self-publishing author, it’s worse. I’ve little structure or support so I’m left
to my own devices. While I enjoy the
creative and personal freedom of self-publication, I despise editing. I’m certain Dante omitted that circle of Hell
from his journey….
So there it is: Computer meltdown, human meltdown, attack of
vicious neurosis, and a pit-stop through the unforgiving monotony of editing.
How
many books are in the Veil Series?
Veil is a five book
set. I’d like to think that is a firm
number and success won’t change that number.
No amount of begging will either so don’t bother….I’m not one of those
authors prone to dragging a story out to pad their pockets. If anything, I’ll shorten it to four books if
I feel that I can tie everything up nicely by the end of the fourth. But for the time being, it’s five, and not a
single book more.
Touch the Veil; Through
the Veil; Rend the Veil; 4&5 remain untitled at this time.
How
does it end?
I’m not going to tell
you how many people have asked this question.
It’s enough to have earned this little bullet point in the Q&A so
that should give you an idea.
You’ll find out in the
last book but I’ve known from the moment I started writing Touch the Veil
exactly how Prin’s story will end.
Whether it’s happy or otherwise, well, you’ll just have to stay tuned.
Is
anything sacred?
Because of the overall
outrage with GoT I feel I should put this out here as early as possible.
Nothing
is sacred.
Love the characters but
realize everyone is expendable at any moment, including the main character. This is true for the Veil Series and anything
else I write. Good endings aren’t always
happy. Sometimes the good guy has to
die. Softening the blow? Nope.
Reality doesn’t hold punches and neither will I, especially where my
hardcore female leads are concerned. The
day of watery and weak women has passed.
Prin’s
background is a little rough?
For some, the opening
of Touch the Veil, with Prin’s
torture scene might be too much to handle. I won’t apologize for telling her story in the
order it needs to be told. Prin has a
lot of residual damage from that attack and it has shaped everything about her. Insight into her past, ugly as it is, helps
you better understand her. FYI: If you thought her past was bad, wait ‘til
you get a glimpse of what’s coming. Get
out now if you can’t handle that, cause it’s weak sauce by comparison.
It is only through
adversity we discover not only who we truly are, but of what we are fully capable
of, Prin is no different. Everything I
put her through is preparing her for what’s ahead. How can characters grow if they remain
untested and unchallenged?
Where
do you get your mythical beasties?
Some I pull from
loosely related folklore, though I’ve taken a lot of liberties playing with
their overall concepts and natures. No
one source gave me anything substantially formative.
Cruellers, Deragons, Pussal larvae, and a few other critters are my own. You’ll see more of them as the series
progresses. Maybe I’ll even draw up a
few for you (though I’ll admit my art classes stopped with finger paints in
kindergarten).
Vampires
are overdone….
Vampires in this story
are side note villains. And none of the vampires
in this series sparkle (no offense meant to Twilighters out there but for my
sanity I have to point this out. I don’t
want anyone thinking they’ve been misled.)
Vampires in the Veil Series are brutal and carry little regard for human
existence. We don’t cuddle our Big Mac,
they don’t cuddle us either. We are food
and fun, that’s it. Plus, they give Prin something else to kill...wouldn't want the girl to get bored.
So
what all can Prin do?
For now, she just reads
memory, though her abilities will change throughout the course of the series
based on different pre-plotted events.
Wee
People?
Yep, faery, Fae, wee
people, fairies….all names used in this book to describe the several of the
Veil’s most influential secondary characters.
I’ve taken a lot of
liberties with the lore, intentionally.
Spare me the riot act on sticking strictly to legend. It’s been done. I want to stretch the limits of our
imaginations. What’s the point of fantasy
if we can’t get carried away?
Preternatural
Catalogue?
I’ve every intention of
putting one up, it’s just going to take time to pull everything together (keep
in mind I’ve still got four novels of the Veil waiting to be finished). Though I’d like to see a mini catalogue of
the Veil universe up as soon as possible.
This would be a strictly for the fans addition.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Competitive Edge
Competitive Edge, my rom-com, has finally wrapped at 132 pgs. Handing it off to editor tomorrow. Hopefully be ready by the end of the month. Still have to find cover art and fix that up, but I am looking forward to the headaches that come with it. Nothing more satisfying than wrapping your novel.
Other projects are in the hands of editors: Touch the Veil and Perception. Still looking like early fall releases for those. If the dates change, I'll keep the blog updated.
What's on deck?
Honestly, I need to work on Through the Veil, but also, Silverside has been brought up a lot lately. I'm torn. Guess I'll sleep on it, tomorrow's another day and all that. Perhaps I'll have a bright spot of inspiration.
Oh, I've sketched out the outline for a Dystopian early Industrial Revolution fiction. Think Game of Thrones, only Industrial Revolution style. I hate comparing anything I write to someone like Martin, he's pretty damned epic, but that's the closest comparison I can come up with at the moment. Not committed too heavily to it, just setting it up, finding head-shots for the main players. It's not a fly by the seat of my pants project, so it will likely be years before I have enough for a rough draft. Still, it's a great concept, here's hoping it doesn't fizzle out.
So, many things to write....so little time. Okay, back to work.
Other projects are in the hands of editors: Touch the Veil and Perception. Still looking like early fall releases for those. If the dates change, I'll keep the blog updated.
What's on deck?
Honestly, I need to work on Through the Veil, but also, Silverside has been brought up a lot lately. I'm torn. Guess I'll sleep on it, tomorrow's another day and all that. Perhaps I'll have a bright spot of inspiration.
Oh, I've sketched out the outline for a Dystopian early Industrial Revolution fiction. Think Game of Thrones, only Industrial Revolution style. I hate comparing anything I write to someone like Martin, he's pretty damned epic, but that's the closest comparison I can come up with at the moment. Not committed too heavily to it, just setting it up, finding head-shots for the main players. It's not a fly by the seat of my pants project, so it will likely be years before I have enough for a rough draft. Still, it's a great concept, here's hoping it doesn't fizzle out.
So, many things to write....so little time. Okay, back to work.
Saturday, May 24, 2014
The top pic is Perception and Touch the Veil side by side. The middle image is Touch the Veil and the bottom is Perception. Seeing the manuscripts like this makes everything seem so much closer to reality.
Thought I would share these.
Gotta get back to the edits so they'll be ready for publisher rejections.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Touch the Veil excerpt. Sharp's Pussal Larvae Infestation
Touch the Veil excerpt, as promised. This is not a teaser, this is content that never made it into the book due to length. (Forgive grammar flubs as this never made it to the editors....)
Touch the Veil will be published as soon as edits and cover art is finished, so hopefully you'll enjoy this little bonus.
Enjoy!!
Touch the Veil will be published as soon as edits and cover art is finished, so hopefully you'll enjoy this little bonus.
Enjoy!!
I
stood and stretched, my back ached from crawling the last fifteen acres of
Joshua Sharp’s expansive peanut farm, marking out the vast network of
subterranean Pussal larva tunnels. If
Sharp had waited any longer to contract my services, the remaining four hundred
and eighty five acres would end up in the same disastrous state as the back
nine of his fields.
When
I can safely feel my toes again I open the trunk of my Jeep and began pulling
out milk jugs filled with neon green liquid.
No lie, it looks like antifreeze under black light. It’s not antifreeze and as far as I know, it
won’t damage Sharp’s crops any more than the Pussal larva already had. This field wasn't just infested, it was
ruined. If not wiped out, the bastards
would spread. Sharp would lose
everything. And the price of peanuts in
Antigone would ratchet up to astronomical heights. I don’t necessarily care for nuts, excuse me,
legumes, but Denise does.
People
usually limit the preternatural community based on what they read. They’ve lumped them all into varied categories
of sentient creatures; vampires, trolls, faeries, shifters, etc. Truth is and will always be stranger than the
greatest fictions. Every biome has
pests, even the preternatural ones. And
that’s exactly what Pussal larva where, pests, big, ugly, crop decimating
nightmares that perpetuated world-wide famine.
Have
you ever snuggled with a grub? Or
perhaps turned one over while planting your garden, maybe burying a body? Well Pussal larva and grubs have a lot in common. They have a pale white C shaped body, three
sets of legs, and a wormy appearance, though that has more to do with their
lack of spine and supporting architecture than anything else. Bulbous brown heads with no discernible
eyes. And both have a dangerous
addiction to cellulose, as both were dedicated herbivores. That’s where the similarities between the
grub and Pussal larva end.
Pussal larvae were
built like grubs on PCP with a little Miracle Grow thrown in for good
measure. Attached to those similar brown
bulbous heads though, Pussal larvae have two sets of mandible jaw
pinchers. One that is meant to capture
and hold roots while the other works to push food into its voracious mouth;
well they also use them for defense when necessary. Like ants and bees, Pussal larvae share a
hive mind, and have delegated work groups.
They come on like a ravenous horde and don’t leave until they’ve eaten
every piece of vegetation they can.
They’ve caused more than their fair share of crop blights and dust
bowls. Soldiers prowled the perimeters
to keep away intruders, or would be predators while workers harvest and drag
dinner back to the queen.
She’s who I’m here
for. And ten gallons of Wicca fortified
insecticide should more than do the job.
Still, I don’t relish the idea of crawling through those tunnels. They’ll all know I’m there the minute I
breech. And that’s when things will get
ugly. Fifteen acres worth of tunnels, I
didn’t need to be a mathematician to know that beneath the soil wormed a
venerable army of preternatural creepy crawlies. It’s enough to make my skin crawl. Pussal larvae, future B movie stars. Though they’d have to come up with a better
name, something that inspired fear in the masses, grubs just don’t have that
violent ring to it. Not like JAWS.
In an effort to prevent
ruining a clean shirt, I slid on my coveralls and began the arduous task of
dragging the pest-be-gone toward the center of the field. This was where Sharp had first noticed the
damage. He’d even marked off the area with
bright blue flags, very considerate. It
narrowed down the amount of tunnels I was going to have to crawl through. I’d make sure to keep that in mind when I
tallied his bill.
With each step closer
to the circle of blue flags, the ground beneath my feet begins to give. Behind me, all ten gallons of
ultra-preternatural-insecticide were being dragged by a network of cleverly
woven bungee cables and climbing carbineers.
If I fell through and landed in the center of their nest, any discount
I’d planned on cutting Sharp would be negated.
He hadn’t said anything about the integrity of the ground and it was
something he would have noticed. There
was absolutely no way he could drive a harvester over this area. Details man, details.
I try to tread the brittle
terrain the best I can, but the closer I get to those flags, that spindly
feeling of dread unfolds in my stomach warning me I’m not going to make it to
my destination. No sooner than the thought
forms the ground gave way.
Shiii-
-iiii
-ii
-iit.
When I land, it’s with
a firm thud and a freshly blown curse.
Thankfully Mother Nature padded the fall with a convenient pile of rich
soil. Above, the stars were
twinkling. No, not twinkling, they were
laughing. My sudden entry was not
cloaked in stealth or masked by loud machinery so they knew I was here. Quickly my eyes dart from left to right as I
use all the power in my legs to bring the gallon containers below with me, one
at a time. At least they hadn’t fallen
on my head. Oh what fun that could have
been, my second concussion for the week!
Sadly, it wouldn’t be a new record.
The flashlight mounted
to my forehead lit up the tunnel. Four
feet wide, two feet tall, yep, my only navigational option was the belly crawl. Not the best defensible position if the
natives got restless and decided to come at me all mandible wielding ninja
style. For several seconds I studied the
walls, the top and bottom of the tunnel, sifting through the remains of roots
for signs to follow. They had front
legs, three sets for fucks sake, they should have left something behind, a
trail to follow straight to the heart of their compound so I could shove poison
down their queen’s throat and use the rest on any and all eggs. Ew, leaky egg sacks….for a moment that scene
in Alien’s plays out on the back of my lids.
The one where the freaky-tentacle-sucker face latched onto the
unsuspecting soldier, yep, totally what I needed to be thinking about before
crawling down a long dark tunnel into a nest of nasty.
Shaking the imagery of
Pussal larva attempting to attach its mandible jaws to my face, I had only one
decision to make, sigh, left or right.
Keeping with the tradition of any good dungeon crawl, I went left.
Left was a bad idea.
Not more than three
feet committed and I could hear them snuffling and shuffling through the
earthen walls, above and below. They
weren’t in front or behind me yet, but it wouldn’t be long. Extinction event was put on pause as my
flashlight illuminated the path ahead of me, one amber brown mandible peaking
around a corner. Bastards were going to
ambush me. Damn sneaky.
I try to wiggle
backward. It’s a mistake. The space is too narrow for such an acrobatic
feat, and I’m no contortionist. Even if
I was, ten gallons of metaphysical bug spray blocked the backward exodus. Range of movement was a vital and in this
earthen crawl space there wasn’t any. As
the mandibles I’d spotted inch around the corner I slid my hands down my
hips. Bullets were useless down
here. Pussal larvae weren’t much more
than fluid filled sacs. All a bullet
would manage, if it hit, was to turn them into pissed off seeping sacs. Nope, tonight it was all about blades. Close quarters and closer contact, my favorite. Some people like roller-coasters I like hand
to hand combat. And yes, I know how
incredibly psychotic and suicidal that sounds.
If things went Sasquatch hairy, well, I had a grenade secured to my
suit. A very, very last resort since it
wouldn’t kill the infestation, all it would do was collapse their network of
tunnels and force them further out into Sharp’s other fields.
My daggers slide from
their harness, and for a split second, I revel in their reassuring weight, all
2.2 lethal ounces of it. I had four
others attached to various parts of my body, but these were a personal
favorite. Four inch black skeletonized
daggers, one side serrated while the other was sharpened surgeon scalpel
smooth. They slice, dice, and mutilate,
making them perfect for the task at hand.
While earlier I cursed
the gallons of insecticide for blocking any retreat, I’m grateful for them now,
they’ll provide cover so I won’t have to divide my defenses on two
positions. My enemies will come to
me. It’s a very lemon and lemonade
assessment. Battlefield strategy 101.
As if they can hear the
tactical wheels in my head spinning, one Pussal larva finally rounds the
corner, impatience forcing it to make the first move. Mandible gnashing, its albino skin so thin
the flashlight illuminates its gooey innards.
I’m granted one second to appreciate the melatonin in human skin and all
it does to conceal the things we have no business seeing. Membrane lung sacks, milky tubular
intestines, like rolls of puff pastry submerged in white muscadine jelly. That I’m still in my belly crawl position
works to my advantage because its spindly legs force it up so it slides against
the earthen roof. It swings its bulbous
head my direction, the larger mandibles snapping to grab me, covering me with
rancid spittle. Instinct, years of
training takes over. One swift left, the
serrated edge rips through the viscous membrane of the larva’s exposed abdomen
while the scalpel edge of my right blade is shoved through the bulbous
skull. The once soothing dampened earth
smell was replaced by a nausea inducing fragrance of rotted fruit. I’ve pierced a bowel. Bluish green slime slid down my hand just
before I pull my daggers back. The
mandibles take one more wild swing at my face before emitting a low gurgling
noise as it choked to death on its own bodily fluids. A mournful shriek escapes the creature before
its body crumples in a fat seeping heap of disgusting.
There was no time to
enjoy victory or vomit. Three more
larvae have pushed their way around the corner.
And while smaller, they look absolutely pissed. Yep, hive mind. I’m not just an intruder. I’ve been upgraded, my threat level moved up
another level. Goodie. Last thing I wanted was a boring night. It’s not like I had a hot date to cancel or
anyone waiting at home. That this was
the highlight of my week was almost pathetic.
If I was a selfless hero I could claim that I was making the world a
better place, that I was sacrificing my personal life for the greater
good. But I’m not a hero. And even without creatures like the Pussal
larvae, I’d still have no life. At least
I had purpose, direction. That meant
something didn’t it?
The great quandary over
my life’s meaning ends when the encroaching larvae hiss at me, covering me in a
new layer of that rancid herbicidal spittle.
It’s a stink slice festival as I turn insides into outsides and wear
their entrails like soupy merit badges as I carve my way forward, dragging the
insecticide with me as I inch deeper to find an army of rabid mandibles waiting
around the corner. It’s going to be a long night.
Time lost meaning as I
crawled and carved a swath through the Pussal horde. While time consuming and nasty, they weren’t
exactly the smartest or toughest creatures I’ve ever dealt with. Their hive mind had a down side, their shared
consciousness meant they all thought the same, fought the same, and had the
exact same weaknesses. They were used to
fighting small mammals, rabbits or raccoons that mistakenly crawled into their
tunnels looking for an easy meal. They’d
likely never encountered predator like me, so they weren’t prepared for how to
deal with me. The confined space worked
more to my advantage than theirs. Their
vast numbers meant nothing in the narrow confines. They couldn’t overwhelm me, or sneak up from
behind. They were forced to face me head
on-er-mandible on? And I dug into
battle, no longer nauseated by the smell, no longer gagged by the noises my
blades made as I carved their gelatinous bodies. I became a machine, muscle memory and
adrenaline taking over as humanity fell away to hard-wired survival
instinct. The animal beneath the
civilized veneer, it’s in all of us, but mankind likes to pretend we’re not the
most vicious predator on the planet. I’m
not afraid of it. I own it. Some people have an eye for numbers, others
build things. Death is what I do. And damn if I’m not good at it.
I slide through the
gaping maw entrance to the main nest.
Bodies fall to the ground around me, landing in wet thwapping
heaps. I’m bruised and my ankle sang in
mild agony, but it’s nothing a hot shower won’t cure. Considering the mandible militia I’d just
carved through, I actually came away better than I should have. It’s not that I was that good. Any redneck with a Bowie knife could have
done the same thing, but it would have taken longer. Without sparing the corpses a second glance,
I pull the bungee cord tethering the gallons of unconventional bug killer
down. One by one, I tug them out of the
tunnel and set them on the ground, unhooking them from my throbbing ankle. Should have bracketed them to my hip, but you
know what they say about hindsight right.
It doesn’t take a
genius to know I’m in the nest and the horn for a retreat has been blown. There’s no way I killed all the Pussal
larvae. My flashlight illuminated the
room, moving with my head as it swivels from left to right and back again, like
a typewriter. Sure enough the brood
queen is sitting there, blind-fat-and nine times bigger than any of the larvae
I’d encountered in the tunnels. Attached
to her backside is an embryonic sac, with hundreds of soccer ball sized
eggs. Damn, that was enough larvae to
eliminate all the vegetation in the tri-county area. The brood queen lacked mandibles like the
others. She shouldn’t need them. After all, she had an army to defend
her. Well, had, was the operative word
there. I might not have killed them all
but I’d put a dent in her forces.
I look at her size and
then give the ten gallons of poison a skeptical glance. I sure hope I brought enough to do the job…..
She knew I was there
but for all my menace she doesn't make a sound.
No gaseous hissing, no watery warbling.
Her big head just tracked my movements, following me as I shouldered the
poison and dragged it closer. While I
assessed the best route to climb the gelatinous mountain, she studies me. I’m going to have to pour at least four
gallons down her throat. The rest I’ll
have to apply to the eggs she’s already laid.
When you destroy a large group of people, its mass murder, maybe even
genocide if you've got a real hate on for who they are or what they stand
for. When you lay waste to an entire
community of larvae, it’s called larvicide.
Somewhere, someone will read this and think me a monster. That I’m destroying creatures I shouldn't. PETA will add me to their
ever lengthening list of chronic offenders.
I should feel guilty right? I
don’t.
First, these creatures
don’t belong here. They aren't of this
world and I don’t have a way to send them back to where they belong. Second, Pussal larvae do not get full. They eat.
And eat. And eat. Until there is nothing left but barren soil. So it wasn't just Sharp’s peanuts in danger
here. It was the entirety of Antigone’s
flora. Unchecked, they’d create another prodigious
famine. Thirdly, and most importantly,
I’m a humanist. And in the coin toss of
them-or-us existence, I’ll choose us every-single-fucking-time. Someone has to be willing to make these
decisions and carry the consequences because no one else likes the weight of
it. Next time you eat peanuts, remember
this. Next time you give your kid the
apple he’s been begging for, remember this.
And maybe you won’t thank me, if I've done my job right you won’t even know I've done anything at all. You’re
welcome. Now point the judgment
elsewhere while I finish my work.
The ascent was
treacherous, finding and keeping your footing on a waterbed, and the brood
queen’s body is very much like a waterbed.
Despite the pain I’m inflicting with my climb, the brood mother remained
still, silent. And this unnerves
me. As if she’s accepted the defeat.
When I make it to her
head, I have to trap it with my arm and anchor it, though she doesn't fight,
the last thing I need to do is lose my damned footing and land on my ass in
this chamber. With my arm around her golden
brown head, her mouth is forced open.
Using my free hand I pop the first bottle of poison, and turn it up.
“It will be quick,” I
promise, and painless I think but don’t say.
It will taste like honey suckle sugar.
Second gallon, she’s guzzling it down.
Third.
Fourth.
As the last of the
sticky sweet poison drips out, the empty bottle falls to the cavern floor with
the others, landing with a hollow thump.
She still isn’t fighting me, so I loosen my grip on her neck. The poison has to work its way through her
digestive track and right into the eggs in her belly, the ones in her birthing
canal. I can feel her insides quiver beneath me as
the poison finally hits home.
I dismount her
carefully, knowing when she falls I don’t want to be anywhere near her. I back away, letting the poison finish what I
started. The brood queen’s once tall and
foreboding body arches, tilting awkwardly before landing inches away from the
tip of my boots. I wipe my face with a
grimy sleeve, my eyes stinging from some kind of dirt I must have gotten in
them. I can’t physically cry, haven’t
been able to for years, so it’s debris I’m wiping away, not phantom
tears.
Guilt doesn't live
here.
Humans win;
every-single-fucking-time.
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