Master of Composition

Ivan Kulikov,  1904, Oil on canvas, Gemäldegalerie der Stadt Murom

I am plagued by an unusual curse in life that to a large extent has limited my efficiency of output in my journey of story. During each occasion that I apply processes and habits that are tantamount to purposeful action and positive results I am bombarded with imagery and memories from my formerly successful past – my dreams morph into the passion of my youth. It isn’t until my eyes creep open that I must self-inflict a painful reminder that my former dream is now dead and the passion I once had is a crop that can only grow but never produce. This cycle is debilitating, anguishing, and demoralizing. The common solution to this problem is to engage in behaviors that will distract the mind – behaviors that do not hammer a single nail in the foundation of success.

But tonight I stumbled on a realization.

The successful behaviors I employ today run along the same wires that propelled me to perpetual improvement during my youth. It seems that running current through the “success” channels of my brain may be what is prompting the vivid memories that I’ve spent so much effort to contain to the past.

Successful behaviors will produce the desirable result across different fields of application.

Our tendency to produce work that passes our highest degree of scrutiny will dictate the quality of our artwork. The determination to shape each plot point to its proper timeline, each character change to its newfound obstacle, each word to its speaker, and each action to its motivator will all work in tandem to deliver a story that resonates with the viewer. The same characteristics of tedious effort carry over to music, to painting, to family, and to life.

Now what if in God’s hands we are no different than one of our works? What if our ability to shape our thoughts and actions toward unrelenting focus on a singular goal is what enables Him to make us that artist we seek to become? Perhaps by undertaking the same processes, disciplines, and habits we know are required to deliver masterful compositions we are enabling ourselves to be shaped into a master of compositions.

I’m sure these connections may be obvious to most, and to others unconnected, and to still others uninspired by any deity, but to me this has been a light-bulb revelation.

I find it ironic that my previous post was making a mockery of the need for an exemplary script prior to moving toward production. I have spent the past 2 days ceaselessly sharpening my story to the point that it will puncture the mind of the viewer. Despite the likelihood it will not achieve any great recognition even when it has been completed, that is not going to stop me from trying.

The composing of art to the highest level of personal achievement is both fulfilling and self-developmental. Any artist on the bottom is not creating to be heard, recognized, or profitable. We are creating because every object of creation competes with every other object of creation. Each individual has the right to compose their piece with a masterful stroke of brilliance should they reach high enough to grab it. The ability to acquire these skills is a God-given right, and for me that is a most tremendous blessing.

Translation of the Intuition

One of the most captivating stories about art for me has always been a short monologue from the television show Lost. In fact, it was after watching this show that I decided I wanted to become a writer myself. The story comes from Season 1, Episode 13:

In summary, the character of John Locke informs another character that the artist Michelangelo would regularly contemplate the art piece he was going to create before he ever began his work.

Now I cannot verify the authenticity of this story, but I can tell you I spent some time in my younger days reading the journals of Michelangelo and he regularly spoke about interpreting the intuition correctly. He used a different, beautiful word to describe it, but I can’t seem to find that specific word anywhere else today.

I once heard a phrase at a writers convention used to describe the most necessary asset of any writer. The phrase was “You must hear the music.” The speaker stated that if you cannot hear the music, you cannot write. This is to say that story is born from within, possibly a communication with the divine, and cannot be manufactured by the mere understanding of plot devices.

Furthermore, I believe the shared love of writing comes from this introspection and communication with the most innate part of our being. What is up for discussion is whether this communication is with a divine force or with the deepest parts of our subconscious.

I have previously written about the mathematics of writing, which I believe is a more logical and human way to interpret story. What I am writing about today deals more with the creative and spiritual side of the artistic process. Both are integral to the formation of any artistic composition, regardless of the medium. There are songs that are played perfectly that are soulless. There are books and movies that hit every conceivable plot point that fail to leave an emotional impact. The inability to recognize the role of intuition in art is why I believe so many incredible teachers fall short of creating a masterful artistic piece themselves.

The question has existed since the dawn of man, regardless of its external expression. It is a concept we grapple with on a daily basis during our interactions with other, with ourselves, and with the world around us:

“Do I look to the teachings of others to guide my life, or do I rely on the intuition within to direct my path?”

Of course the answer is a balance, but not in the way we typically understand balance. It is not 50/50 but a systemic process in of itself. It is the process of creation.

Before we begin work on our artistic composition, and sometimes before we even know how to work within that medium, we already have a dormant vision of the product we would like to produce.

It is naive to think we can ever ignore the realities of the physical realm.

The job of the artist is to perceive the intuitive vision with as much clarity as possible before applying human mechanics to bring it to the physical realm. A human being is more than it’s consciousness and spirituality. It has a skeleton, muscle, fat and hair. Each of these bodily systems is incredibly detailed and infinitely vast.

The more physical skills we accumulate that apply to our medium the more life we can bring to the existence of our vision.

If we are to take the clip posted above seriously and assume the story is true, we can also take the leap of assumption to interpret what gears were turning in Michelangelo’s head each day.

Not only do we seek to see the vision more clearly but we must prepare ourselves for how we can properly shape it into physical existence. It is one thing to see the curves of our future statue, it is another to know the tools and techniques required to shape those curves in accordance with its envisioned form.

Even with writing, we may start with an image in our minds along with a compelling emotion. It is the writer’s duty to find the words to describe that image precisely and build up the emotional stakes, tension, and payoff to fulfill the movement in the viewer we wish to produce.

The final movement in the viewer should be as close as possible to the movement that originally captivated and impassioned the artist themselves to reproduce that feeling. Our ability to translate the original vision for the impact of others will be the invisible measuring rod that defines the quality of our art.

Best Quotes – #1

Image taken from PocketRubbish.com

This is the third and final installment for my 3 quote challenge. Feel free to check out #3 and #2 if you missed them.

Today’s nominee: Zanthee

Today’s quote:

“Whatever we focus on tends to expand.”

– Author unknown.

Despite my inability to source whoever said this first, this quote has proven true for me time and time again. During bouts of self-pity, when my mind is occupied with all the wrongs done to me, things I’m lacking, or the difficulties of my present circumstances, life seems to get worse. And fast.

Yet, when I spend time thanking God for all the blessings I have in my life, I find I am repeatedly showered with more. To a remarkable extent.

Too many people in this world pride themselves on playing devil’s advocate and searching for reasons to doubt, or arguments that state something cannot be done. I can’t even count the number of times throughout my life I’ve accomplished something that at one point in time seemed damn-near impossible. And whenever I do, I find the skeptics have already dropped their previous assertions, and are eagerly packing new worries to hurl. For me, true faith is realized once it is  properly distinguished from common misinterpretations. Amazing accomplishments don’t occur merely because you believe that they will. Amazing accomplishments occur because you focus on what you must do to allow them to occur.

Thanks again to Jacqueline for nominating me for this award.

• Thomas M. Watt
• Author of Master

Too Perfect Marriage – Part 8 – FINALE!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Calvin’s heart raced. “So Shea is-”

“Dead,” said Brody, before taking a peek at his Rolex. “Right about… now.” He laughed in his face, blood sputtering from his lips.

“No,” said Calvin. He shook his head, reached into Brody’s jacket, then yanked out the gun. “No!” He stood up and stormed into the club.

It was like swimming through Miley Cyrus’ earhole – Strobe lights bashed the swerving bodies with split-second flashes of blue and red. Bass blasted like bombs were exploding in the speakers. Sweaty bodies, sequin gowns, cocktails in the air.

Calvin’s legs felt like jelly. The sweet ingredients of love that had been swirling in his gut earlier had been poisoned with fear, worry, and knowledge -knowledge that Bridgette had no intention of killing him. Her target was Shea, the woman whose existence sparked Calvin’s future but burned Bridgette’s to ash.

He tucked the handgun into his waistband. As he strolled through he kept his eyes trained for a blonde woman in a red dress. Luckily for him, both women matched that description. Two women in red party dresses sat talking at the bar. One had her hand behind her back, and appeared to be holding something.

Too many dancers blocked Calvin’s line of sight – impossible to get a clear view of her face.

“Move!” he said.

He pushed a few drinkers out of the way, then cracked his knuckles as he motored through the crowd. Brody had said Shea was already dead, but Calvin refused to believe that. He wasn’t too late – he could feel it in his soul.

Calvin’s breath drew heavy as he closed in on the bar. He reached back into his waistband and swiped out the handgun. He hid the barrel up his white sleeve, and concealed the bulky handle with his fist.

Someone popped out at him – an adorable brunette.

“You’re cute,” she said.

“Watch out,” said Calvin.

The two blondes at the bar were facing the counter, backs to him. The one holding something extended her other arm and hugged the blonde beside her into her chest. She raised her other hand like she were going for the girl’s neck.

“Don’t be rude!” said the brunette.

Bridgette was going to slit Shea’s neck.

“Shea, no!” Shouted Calvin.

He jolted forward and took aim. The brunette tripped into his line of fire-

The two girls he had yelled at swiveled around, gazed at him, and blinked like owls. Calvin lowered his gun when he noticed the girl’s hand – she was holding a crumpled napkin, probably with some guys number on it.

Calvin shook his head and tore around. Where were they?

Every clock-hand tick meant Bridgette was closer to killing Shea.

Calvin’s eyes dotted around the packed house again. A few blondes, some red-dresses, but none of them Bridgette nor Shea. Calvin had to strike more than he needed to think. They wouldn’t have left the club, the plan was to kill Shea inside. But where?

Upstairs! Like finding keys in a front jean’s pocket, the obvious location struck Calvin in the forehead. Before he’d gone outside with Shea, he’d spotted Bridgette and Brody hovering over the top balcony. If there were any private place to kill someone in a club, it was the VIP room, and Brody had reserved it.

Calvin rushed through the dancers again.

“Move!” he said.

He plowed through. A guy hitting on a girl blocked his path.

Calvin shoved them to the ground, raced forward to the stairs, then sprinted up the flight. He breathlessly broke through Brody’s party guests’ circle. They quit drinking and mingling.

“Where is she?” Calvin said. “Where is she!”

“Who?”

“Shea!”

The guests dismissed Calvin by rolling their eyes and returning to their conversations.

Calvin flipped around. The VIP room in the back wasn’t entirely blocked – a curtain of jewelry beads hid it from view. He could make out moving bodies on the couch inside it.

Calvin rushed inside, smacking away the beads with his gun drawn.

A girl in a black skirt was riding some guy on the couch. She jumped off, and the guy held his hands up.

“Never told me dude! I swear!”

Calvin circled around, gun at his side. The freaked-out couple were panting and staring at him like he were a twisted serial killer. Calvin could care less about how he looked – he needed to save Shea, and too much time had already passed.

“She didn’t say she had a dude!” said the guy.

“I don’t,” said the girl.

Calvin paced with one hand scratching the back of his head, the other holding the gun.

“Oh, well.. It’s a private room, so uhh…”

“Use a goddamn stall then!” said Calvin. He stopped pacing. “Oh my God.”

Calvin bolted out the VIP room and flew down the stairs. He caught a pair of familiar eyes glaring at him during his descent.

They belonged to Big Fella, who seconds later fired a barrage of bullets into the ceiling. DJ killed the music, and panicked yells shook the dance floor as frightened patrons fled to the exit.

Calvin hauled ass over to the bathrooms, running against the tide of club-goers who were gushing out in the opposite direction. He stole a glance over his shoulder – Big Fella was chasing him, gaining ground every stride.

“Move!” Calvin said to people blocking his path.

Calvin pushed his way through, and reached the women’s restroom – door was locked.

“Stop!” He screamed, then kicked it. “Shea! Shea, are you alright!”

The door wouldn’t budge. Calvin loaded the gun, then fired a shot into the bolt. It broke off. Calvin stomped the door – something still jammed it shut from the inside.

Calvin rotated his body then charged, shoulder first. He made some headway, but only a crack. He could hear their voices – Shea and Bridgette were shouting in a heated argument.

“Help Calvin!” said Shea. “Hurry!”

“Trying to!” said Calvin. He backed away, then charged again – he banged it open enough to barely slide his arm through. Calvin hurried back one more time. He sprinted forward, turned to crash, then caught sight of Big Fella, holding his glock.

Big Fella fired but missed.

Calvin busted through and fell on the tiles of the women’s restroom.

“Let her go!” screamed Calvin.

The two blondes fought near the far wall, backs to Calvin. They were nowhere close to the mirror, and both had red dresses and blonde hair. The one closest to the wall was on her knees, struggling to escape the neck-brace of the women behind her. Calvin couldn’t tell who was who.

“It’s finished god-dammit! Get off her!”

The woman standing up raised a knife. She was on the verge of slitting the other girl’s throat. Somebody kicked the bathroom door open – Big Fella.

“Duck Shea!” said Calvin.

He pulled the trigger, and fired a bullet straight into the back of the woman with the knife.

“Oh… shit,” said Big Fella, stopping behind him.

The blonde women with the knife crumbled to the tile. She dropped the girl she’d been choking, and the knife fell from her loosened grip. It was Shea, and she lie on the floor, clutching her bleeding heart.

“No,” said Calvin. “God… no. There’s no way…”

Bridgette stood up, coughed to clear her throat, then fanned herself.

“Curious, didn’t you realize we wore the same dress and I didn’t say anything? You should have known we needed to get rid of both of you to be married. Now you’ll be in jail, and she’ll be a corpse.”

“How… no. This isn’t happening.” said Calvin.

“It is, sorry bae.” Bridgette rubbed his cheek, kissed him by the temple, then left the restroom, as did Big Fella.

Calvin walked forward like he were knee-deep in mud. “Get up,” he said. “Get up and be okay.”

The club music was off – looping police sirens took its place.

Calvin reached Shea. Blood poured out from her chest wound – the bullet went straight through her. Her eyes turned up as she gasped for air.

“Cal.. Calvin?” she said.

He slid down against the back wall, then tugged her onto his lap by her armpits.

“It doesn’t end like this,” he said. “No, no. It can’t.”

“Sorry…”

“Don’t be!” he said. “It’s my fault!”

She coughed, then smirked. Tears welled up in Calvin’s eyes. He clenched the knife handle, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Don’t die.”

“Don’t… leave.”

Police barged in.

“Put the knife down!” One shouted. “Put the knife down!”

“Please,” she said.

Calvin sniffed. “I won’t.”

“…forever.”

“Get on the ground! Now!”

“Forever.” Calvin pressed his lips into hers, then plunged the blade into her neck.

Police fired away until both were riddled with holes. They died in each others arms, lips joined together.

• * *

Brody and Bridgette did a series of joint interviews following the tragedy that made national headlines. Security footage proved Calvin slugged Brody across the face then robbed the him of the gun he used to murder Brody’s wife.

Choked up with tears, Brody spoke about how blissful life could have been had he only won that fight, and interviewees and the American audience sympathized with his loss. Bridgette invited the public to share with her as she grieved, and many understood how disturbed she felt to discover her husband had kissed the women shortly before ruthlessly murdering her.

When Bridgette and Brody tied the knot, wedding gifts poured in from around the globe, and business boomed for Brody’s car dealership. They accumulated widespread fame from their against-the-odds love that blossomed into marriage, which proved to so many that not even a destructive mad-man could permanently destroy the lives of blessed good people for long.

The sudden influx of funds from Shea’s family fortune certainly helped Brody’s chain of dealerships thrive, but Brody always insisted he’d trade the tens of millions he’d inherited from Shea for even a day of her descension back to earth, even if it only meant holding her in his arms one more time.

When asked about the century old knife Calvin had used to carve into Shea, Brody informed viewers that the knife had belonged to her great, great, great, great grandfather, who had used it to peal a grapefruit he gave to a girl that became his future wife. They began the billion-dollar company together, and the knife had been passed down from generation to generation. Brody added, with tremendous difficulty, that Shea and he had always hoped to have children, and the knife would have gone to their firstborn. Because Calvin slaughtered her to soon, Shea died as the last surviving member of her incredible family.

*On a curious note, the shooter and his victim were buried in the same graveyard, despite specific orders and a never-ending outcry from the public. Shea and Calvin’s gravestones were placed side-by-side, in a remote area under some sycamore trees. The graveyard director position became a revolving door, and each new person hired for the job resigned within their first week, swearing “Forces beyond their control” prevented Calvin and Shea’s gravestones from ever being separated.

The End.

• Thomas M. Watt

Hope you’ve enjoyed the series! Check in tomorrow for the official cover release for Master, my novel about a former football star’s quest to save his family from the deranged psychiatrist who infiltrates his dreams.

Way of the World: Mrs. Dunlap

A lot of thought and research went into the worldly and Spiritual cultures of “Way of the World.” Loyalists, citizens, bandits, deputies, and biblically-based characters have wardrobes specific to themselves. Buildings, technologies, weapons, and clothing styles in “Way of the World” were taken from various cultures and span multiple centuries, from medieval times to present day. Today we’ll take a look at Mrs. Dunlap, who is married to the mayor, and has as much influence over Gnashing as the first lady has over the United States.

Mrs. Dunlap is a sweetheart who married the wrong man, despite his being the Mayor of Gnashing. She has a tremendous impact on Michael. She loves to talk a lot, which is a good thing, considering Michael hates to talk. Even after she learns that Michael is the most wanted murderer in the history of Gnashing, the notorious “Death Angel”, she continues to treat him humanely, and despises the feelings she has developed for him.

Her sweetness crushes Michael, as he has avoided ordinary people (women included) his entire life. For the first time, he reconsiders the path of violence, and begins to feel an emotion he has never felt before – love.

Unfortunately for Michael, he’s going to have to overcome his fear of speaking in order to explain how he was forced to kill throughout his childhood. And when his quest forces him to decide between love and vengeance, will Michael open up to Mrs. Dunlap, or go after his enemies and do what he knows best?

Way of the World: Michael’s Story

Coming soon…

– Thomas M. Watt

Author of “A New Kingdom”

Bizarre Setting for “Way of the World”

The entire Way of the World series takes place in two distinct settings – The Island of Paradise and a town called Gnashing.

The Island of Paradise is a metaphor for the garden of Eden, and in later books becomes the kingdom of heaven.

Gnashing is a metaphor for the world – and in the town of Gnashing there is a wilderness that features rattlesnakes, wolves, and bears. There are green ferns from the east coast, and giant redwood trees from the west coast. To one side of the wilderness is a beach, to the other a desert. The extravagant homes in Gnashing are based on early 20th century Edwardian models. Here is a sketch of the Dunlap’s residence:

Across from the luxurious houses are farms, where the lowly class of Loyalists work (they were slaves not long ago).

The setting of Gnashing is meant to be timeless and multicultural. The “Way of the World” series has a Spiritual message at its heart, a theme which each and every generation of man has questioned since the beginning of his existence.

What do you think of this setting? Is it too ridiculous and unbelievable to have a rich wilderness within close proximity of a desert? Should the bizarre setting of Gnashing and non-existent time period be established within the first few pages through direct narration, or should that be left up to the readers to figure out as they go along?

Looking forward to hearing your opinions.

– Thomas M. Watt

Author of “A New Kingdom”

Cover Art

I’ve been researching successful indie authors the past few days to get an idea of how I can maximize book sales. One point that gets hammered is the importance of having a good cover design. Word on the street is find books in the genre you are writing in, see what cover designs sell the most books, then get a cover similar to them. If it were up to me, this painting I made would be my cover for Way of the World – Michael’s Story:

And I feel it would be complement the cover to Way of the World – Adam’s Story:

Unfortunately, one truth I have learned about people is they’re much more likely to purchase a product that seems familiar to them, rather then branching out to try a product that seems unique and different. Here are my top three cover selections from the genre of Christian Fantasy:

Each of these covers was designed by a different cover artist. G. and J. publishing, Lookout Design Inc., and “Resistance” credited four various contributors.

Perhaps I’m dreaming big, because I have no idea whether these cover artists are even available, willing to work with me, or even within my budget. Still, these covers are impressive, and each contributed to a book that found its way into the top 100 bestsellers list for Christian fantasy.

What do you think? Which cover design is your favorite? Am I fooling myself by thinking the paintings I made would make good covers? Be honest now.

Looking forward to your responses.

– Thomas M. Watt

Author of “A New Kingdom“

Way of the World – Michael’s Story

Spent all morning stacking the chapters up so I could make a single file out of them. It amazes me how much time I spend on the easiest of tasks.

Going to promote Way of the World on a daily basis from here on out, sorry ’bout it. I’ll give you updates, information, and every reason to resent me as a blogger and a human being.

Oh well.

Anyway, Way of the World is a book series that I spent a year and a half of my life working on. I’m kind of embarrassed to admit it, but I got ridiculously obsessed with the concept – it’s a loose allegory of the bible, from Old Testament to New, and features biblical protagonists that would make Marvel comics jealous.

The first book is split into two stories – one is told from the Archangel Michael’s perspective, the other is told from Adam’s, who of course stands for the Adam who is responsible for the fall of man.

I’m not marketing this as a Christian book mainly because I don’t feel it is one. It’s a ‘Christians meet the real world’ book. I believe people who know nothing about the bible and have no belief in God whatsoever will still enjoy this story.

What are your thoughts? Does this concept appeal to you? Are there any aspects of Way of the World that you don’t like, or find offensive?

Let me know.

– Thomas M. Watt

Running Blind

For months and months been on the run,

Had myself a bit of fun.

Tore down all my truths of old,

Replaced them with some sins so bold.

In the flesh I did reside,

The more you sin the more you die.

It eases e-motional pain,

Sin enough you’ll feel no shame.

But go on you’ll find some trouble,

And when then comes your pride will double.

So sure I was of Christ’s untruth,

I laughed at Christians on youtube.

Dumb it seemed that some believed,

One man could replace our primal needs.

Sacrifice, deny yourself, worry not, you won’t see Hell.

Hahaha, haha, hehe, the things he speaks of I won’t take heed.

For I was sure that I knew better, that heavenly things were not too clever.

Dumb it was to live this life thinking one day you’ll see the light.

What light, what proof, what evidence? Where is this God that some still seek?

Nowhere, nowhere, He goes unseen, but this God of light lets blind men see.

For you see I came to truth – that evil exists, and me it used.

Day by day I could not rest, could not stop sin, did not repent.

But when I prayed my heart did open, God returned, covenant He honored.

Showed me to the days of old, when we were close and I wasn’t so cold.

Amazing how when there’s no evil, you find your own evil has doubled.

But after mocking God is through, and your world has fallen through,

And you’re sure you have no chance, that you have tripped on your last dance,

And of good feelings there’s none left, no way this life holds hope; you’re doomed.

That’s when I think it’s time to pray, and if you listen, you’ll know why I say –

That God who lives up high above, that God who you so boldly told –

That with all your heart you don’t believe, who you once deemed a mental disease,

That same God you went against, He will still be there when you’re on the fence,

And it won’t be long before you see, that God so loves you, He’s all you need.

– Thomas M. Watt

Would you kill the love of your life if…

What if the love of your life lost their mind, and their inability to show restraint during a time of crisis was putting your own life at risk?

What if a group were chasing after you, and one loud noise would give away your position and get you killed?

Would you risk hurting someone you loved to save yourself?

What if hurting them were your only option, and the future of humanity depended on YOUR survival??

James faces the same predicament in the following excerpt. To give you some context:

– James is locked in a hidden prison room.

– Zephrons are giant red aliens who invaded planet earth and enslaved whatever humans they chose not kill.

– The night of the invasion, a group of locals escaped to an underground military base. They were soon afterward indoctrinated by Colonel Fitz, who considers himself to be the new messiah. This scene takes place in that underground base.

– The zephrons are going to wipe out the rest of humanity in one day…

And James is the only person who can stop them.

* * *

CHAPTER 52

James’ stomach grumbled loudly. He hadn’t eaten a good meal since before his sentence to the picking plant. He looked around aimlessly for something edible to distract him. Nothing. Only the doggie saucer of water. He took handfuls from it, desperately hoping for the water to trick his stomach. He began weeping as he drank.

“I wanna marry you,” said Penny.

James raised his head. Penny moved in, then began licking water out from the bowl. James crawled backwards then clutched himself and began to rock. He smeared dry the tip of his nose, then looked across the room to Spes’ cell.

“Do not worry, human. It will never-”

“Never what!” James screamed. He stood up, grabbed the prison cell bars, then shook them. “What do you want me to do? My best friend is dead, my dad is dead, and tomorrow morning, every human on the surface of the earth will be dead! And here I am.” He grabbed both sides of his hair and breathed chaotically. “Stuck in a prison cell, unable to do anything about it.” He squinted back at them and pointed his index finger. “And you idiots expect me to believe that this is God’s plan? That somehow my being here is going to help me conquer the zephrons?”

“Calm down, human. God knows-”

“God knows, God knows, you know what? God knows shit. That’s what I think. If you want something done you’ve got to do it yourself, period.”

A humming noise came from outside. The door started to creak open to the corridor, and Fitz entered in. He held the ring of keys.

“Well well well, traitor.” He walked over to James with the key ring in one hand, a rifle in the other. “I get your bicep, in case you were wondering.”

“What happened to Roy? What happened to your daughter?”

“I locked Penny up for disobeying me. She was hanging around that drunk loser after I forbid her to.”
“And Roy?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I did.”

“Well? Did she tell you?”

“She’s a little kooky if you haven’t noticed.”

Fitz smiled. “Roy is dead.”

“From a bullet?”
He nodded.

James lowered his head. “Suicide.”

“Not suicide.”

James looked back up.

Fitz grinned and pointed to himself. “That was all me.”
“You killed Roy?”

Just then, the ambulance sirens in the hallway began going off – the same that were triggered whenever someone stepped out from the elevator and entered the underground base. They were soon accompanied by the sounds of zephron howls. Human shrieks quickly followed.

“You led them back here!” said Fitz.

James tried to shake his head as Fitz raised his rifle.

“You led them-”

Janie ran in and tackled Fitz. The ring of keys dropped to the ground, but the rifle remained in his grasp.

“My king! My king! We have to go!”

Greg, Juan, and the other underground council members rushed in. They grabbed Fitz and carried him off his feet and out from the room, then turned towards the back end of the corridor. The keys remained in the middle of the room, unreachable by any of the now-fully exposed prisoners – the door to the secret prison had been left open. All the zephrons had to do was peak inside and James would be toast.

“Ahh!” screamed Penny.

James hurried over then hugged Penny’s face into his chest. He picked up a ratty, child-sized blanket and did his best to cover them both with it. He whispered into her ear as the loud, nightmarish yells echoed from the main room over to them.

“Penny, I need you to calm down,” he whispered.

She bit her lips into her mouth. “But what’s happening?”

The screams only intensified. So did the wild zephron howls. It was a slaughter – no doubt about it. James was nervous and scared, but knew that as long as everyone inside the secret prison area remained quiet, there was a good chance the zephrons wouldn’t bother leaving the main room. And even if they did, they were more likely to run straight past them and battle Fitz and his small army instead.

“What’s happen-”

“Don’t worry – I just need you to be quiet. Can you do that for me?” James’ eyes flickered up. He noticed the hammer in the corner of the cell. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“James!” said Penny.

“Shh,” he whispered, then covered her mouth. “Be quiet, Penny.”

Soon he heard their loud, thumping footsteps echoing through the corridor.

“Hime-cared!” She blurted out.

James hugged her face into his shoulder. “Please… just, shhh.”

Penny struggled to break free as the monstrous roars grew closer. She began to move her limbs erratically, and screamed more muffled words. James struggled to keep her quiet, but she wouldn’t be still. Penny escaped his grasp.

“James! James! Promise you’ll marry me, James!”

He could hear the zephrons closing in. James crawled on his hands and knees over to the hammer. He picked it up, then gulped and looked at Penny.

“Say you love me! Say it!”

James grabbed Penny by the throat and shoved her down, back against the ground. His hand shook as he held the hammer over her forehead.

“Shut-up,” He pleaded through a whisper.

“JAMES!” Penny screamed.

“Don’t!” said Fides, from across the room.

“JAMES!” She shouted again.

James swung the…

* * *

Well, what would you do? I’d love to hear a variety of perspectives.

* And if you’re dying to know what actually happens, you can start by clicking here.

– Thomas M. Watt