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Friday Night Drabble Party! DEAD MECH Edition!

Happy Friday, Y’all!

And yes, I did capitalize the “Y” in Y’all. You deserve it!

First, a great big thanks to everyone the helped spread the word with the $.99 Z-Burbia sale! Second, thank you to everyone that helps me in any way at all!

You people rock, therefore I salute you! Or something metal like that…

Now, as you can see from the title, tonight’s Drabble Party is DEAD MECH themed. You may or may not know that my very first novel, the one that begins the Apex Trilogy, is a Drabble Novel! The one and only (as far as I know)! A novel written in 100 word sections! EXCITING!

That’s why, down below those crazy asterisks, you will find not one, not two, not three, but NINE drabbles taken straight from DEAD MECH!  Yes, I know I skipped five, six, seven, eight in that count, but I needed to save time. Which I totally have lost by writing this explanation! Dammit!

And why do this mighty excerpt extravaganza? Because it’s on sale by Severed Press for $.99! CRAZY!

Enjoy!

***

Bisby came up firing, his plasma cannon glowing red hot with each successive blast.

Red Legs agilely dodged to the left, taking cover behind some debris. Chunks of ancient concrete and steel filled the air as Bisby followed Red Legs’ movement, trying to aim his blasts ahead of the deader.

“Fucking stand still!” Bisby yelled. And Red Legs did, using the girder to block several of the plasma blasts. The undead machine hurled the warped and melted chunk of metal straight at Bisby.

Bisby brought an arm up to deflect the attack, the collision forcing his mech to stumble backwards.

***

“Themopolous,” the Doctor answered, checking Steve’s vital signs.

“Doctor? I have General Powell on secure com. I hope you have a few minutes for to speak privately?”

Themopolous glanced at the doorway as Harlow came in, sleepily stretching. She motioned at her com ear and Harlow nodded, shooing her away and taking over Steve’s assessment. Dr. Themopolous left the infirmary quickly.

“Of course, sir. I’m almost to my office now.”

“Excellent, Doctor,” the General chimed in. “I have some great news regarding the newly developed retrovirus Dr. Lisbon informed you of.”

Themopolous froze and forced herself not to be sick.

***

Red Legs took immediate advantage of Bisby’s faltering and opened fire. Bisby took a graze to the right shoulder, the smell of scorched metal overpowering his environmental filters, as his mech slammed to the ground. He checked systems and saw he had been lucky, sustaining only minimal damage.

Quickly, Bisby tucked his mech back behind a half buried transport, hoping the shell still had enough structural integrity left to take the onslaught. Red Legs’s blasts began to slow, the concussions weakening.

Bisby checked his scanners and smiled. The deader was losing power.

“Okay,” he said aloud, “no more fucking around!”

***

“I’m ready to proceed, sirs,” Themopolous said, settling into her desk chair, apprehension clawing at her, forcing her to keep her voice even.

“Excellent. I’ll keep this brief as I know you are both busy,” the General said. “At approximately 1700 hours tomorrow, a supply train will be arriving with the inoculation for your base personnel.”

“Sir?” Capreze said, stunned.

“Yes, Commander. We have already inoculated all of the city/states and security outposts. Your base is the last on the list. We didn’t want to rush the process, seeing as the mechs are an integral part of our overall survival.”

***

Bisby rolled his mech to the right into a tight crouch. Red Legs circled, trying to get the advantage, its cannons glowing dully.

“Looks like you’re almost out of juice, deader!” Bisby taunted. Red Legs roared.

Bisby sprang, his mech launching into the air, twisting away from the cannon blasts. Three, two, one… The two mechs collided in a massive, ground-shaking crunch.

Bisby didn’t lose stride, tucking his mech’s left arm up under Red Legs and lifting it into the air. He brought the right arm down fast, smashing at Red Leg’s cockpit, hoping to crush the zombie pilot inside.

***

“Is there anything I need to have prepared, sir?” Themopolous asked, her voice audibly shaking now.

“No, no, we have everything taken care of. There will be two med techs to administer the inoculations and a small security force to accompany them.”

“I’ll be sure and have accommodations ready, sir,” Capreze said, picking up on Themopolous’ faltering poise, hoping the General hadn’t.

“Not necessary, Commander. They will only be there long enough for the techs to complete their work and for the train to refuel and re-supply.”

“Well, sir, the Doctor and I will have the base ready for them.”

***

Bisby raged as he pounded away at Red Legs’ cockpit hatch, so close he could smell the rot and decay.

The dead mech tried to ward off the blows, but it was no match for Bisby’s close combat skills. For every maneuver it tried to make, Bisby expertly countered, never letting the bludgeoning slack.

After only minutes, the dead mech’s power reserves gave up and the giant machine became dead weight. Bisby threw the deader to the ground and shoved his 50mm into the cracked cockpit, ready to vaporize the barely moving zombie pilot.

“Biz? Talk to me!” Rachel crackled.

***

“Now, I do need to verify all base personnel will be present,” General Powell said casually.

“Well, no sir. I have a team on a supply run to Foggy Bottom as we speak. They won’t return for a few days.”

“Their names, Commander?”

Capreze hesitated. This wasn’t protocol. There was no need for a First General to be inquiring about the roster; that was why he had an assistant.

“Pilot Masters, General Mechanic Rind, and our new Rookie.”

There was a slight pause. “Excellent, Commander. Thank you. I’ll let both of you return to your busy schedules.”

“Thank you, sir.”

***

“Whatcha want, Rache?” Bisby asked, exhausted, trigger finger itching to depress and obliterate Red Legs’s zombie pilot.

“What do I want? WHAT DO I FUCKING WANT?” Rachel exploded. “I want to know that you aren’t deader food! That you are still alive and in one piece! That’s what I fucking want!”

Bisby took a deep breath and removed his finger from the trigger. “Yeah, I’m in one piece. Red Legs is out of commission.” Bisby undid his harness and opened his cockpit. “I’m descending now to retrieve the head for Themopolous.”

“Be careful.”

Bisby snorted and climbed down his mech.

***

If you dug that, and haven’t already purchased the ebook, then get to it!

Cheers!

Disclaimer: There are naughty words up there. But I guess it’s a little too late for the warning. My bad!

Friday Night Drabble Party!

KAPOW!

FRIDAY NIGHT DRABBLE PARTY!

Let’s see, what mood am I in tonight? Scifi? Horror? Fantasy? Pulp crime? Hmmm…

Guess you’ll just have to read the drabble to find out!

But, before you get all drabble-reading and shit, how’s about you go get yourself some Mega? It’s on a Kindle Countdown Deal all weekend long! $.99 FTW!

And now, on with the show!

Enjoy!

***

A Violent Precursor

By

Jake Bible

 

 

The baton slowly slid from out of Hester’s sleeve. She watched the men around her, waiting for them to notice the threat.

 

But none did; they never do. Why would they take a woman seriously?

 

Hester’s eyelid twitched, a violent precursor, but once again this was something the men didn’t notice. She was only a young female, dressed in a tattered, mud-covered dress, her hair in tangles, blood trickling from her brow where she was smacked by one of the men.

 

“You’re pretty,” a man said.

 

“You’re dead,” Hester replied.

 

The violence began.

 

They really should have taken her seriously.

***

Cheers!

Disclaimer: Seriously?

Views From The Captain’s Chair! Episode Four: Professionalism!

Captains ChairBlog

Ahoy, Mateys!

Time for some more Views From The Captain’s Chair!

This week’s post will be short and sweet. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I have been slammed with finishing the manuscript to Z-Burbia 3: Estate Of The Dead. I’m in the final edits and should have that off to my publisher by Friday. Yay!

Why has that held up getting a blog post in? Because I usually write on Monday morning, edit on Tuesday, then publish on Wednesday. But this week I needed to finish first round edits of Z3 as well as listen to audio and approve that for the audiobook of Z-Burbia. That has eaten into my time.

But there has also been something that has eaten into my time and that’s this crazy little internet spat going on regarding a blog post by Chuck Wendig. First, let me say I agree with Chuck 100%. Why? Because I read the whole post and actually understood what it meant. I didn’t see it as an attack on anything other than sub-par publishing. It wasn’t an attack on self-publishing, that’s for sure. The beauty of being a writer is I know how to read and understand what I read. Those that got all bent out of shape over his post? Yeah, not so much.

Yet, this post won’t be about self-publishing/traditional publishing/author-publishing/1,000 chimpanzee publishing (working on that one). Nope, this post is about professionalism.

Like I said above, this will be short and sweet, mainly because the more words I add in here the more words some folks will try to argue with. So let me spell this out clearly:

If you write then you are a writer.

If you make any money from your writing then you are a professional writer, as opposed to being a hobbyist or amateur. But, that doesn’t make you a professional.

The only thing that makes you professional is holding yourself up to certain standards. Doctors, lawyers, teachers, engineers, architects, etc. These are professions that have minimum standards to ensure quality work done within each profession. The problem with being a writer is it is also an art. Who’s to say what the standard for art is? You can’t. It’s the very nature of art that makes it impossible to set standards. Eye of the beholder and all that jazz.

Yet, we can have minimum standards for the work itself, if not the artistic merit. For a writer this means: edited and proofread copy, quality book covers, and behavior becoming a professional. Anyone that can’t live up to those simple standards should find a new profession. Those aren’t hard standards, they just takes work. And if you aren’t willing to put in the work then you aren’t going to be considered a professional.

That’s it. No more details, no metaphors, no bullet points. Act like a professional and you are one. Act like a petulant three-year old that wants it NOW and you’re just an amateur. Argue sales all you want, but money just makes you a professional writer, not an actual professional.

And there’s a difference. A big one.

And that’s it, folks. Short and sweet.

Now, I have to get back to editing Z-Burbia 3: Estate Of The Dead as well as listen to eight hours of audio. And plot out my next novel. Plus, plot out six middle grade novels. That’s called work; work I do because I’m a professional.

Cheers!

Disclaimer: Views From The Captain’s Chair are just that: views. These are not laws. These are not set in stone. I could be totally wrong. I could be off my rocker (shut up). I could be full of S-H-I-T. I could change my mind next week. All of that is possible. Who knows? But if even just a little of this helps you then I’m happy with that. If it just makes you stop and think then I’ve done my job. Which I really need to get back to. Blogging don’t pay for the bourbon! Oh, and the whole Captain’s Chair thing? Yeah, I write in a captain’s chair. It’s true, Mateys! Got a question? Need some one on one? Shoot me an email, a DM, a PM (no BMs) or comment below.

Jake Bible lives in Asheville, NC with his wife and two kids.

A professional writer since 2009, Jake has a proven record of innovation, invention and creativity. Novelist, short story writer, independent screenwriter, podcaster, and inventor of the Drabble Novel, Jake is able to switch between or mash-up genres with ease to create new and exciting storyscapes that have captivated and built an audience of thousands.

Friday Night Drabble Party!

Another Friday is upon us and I bring you a mighty, mighty Drabble!

To the Drabble Party machine!

No extra words tonight except that if you are one of those people that love thriller/adventure word crack then you should check out Mega! It’s one sweet thrill ride of a novel! And leave a review if you have read it! It makes a HUGE difference!

Enjoy!

***

Build It

By

Jake Bible

 

“Build it and they will come” is a phrase that’s bounced around popular culture since that one movie back whenever.

 

So, being a curious bastard, I decided to try it out.

 

I wanted to build something spectacular, something that would create awe in my friends/family/neighbors. It needed to be impressive even if after the building was done they didn’t come.

 

I spent years in the barn perfecting the machine. My  two-story, battle mech.

 

They were all impressed.

 

Oh, and did they come, you ask? Yes, yes they did.

 

So if you’ll excuse me, I have some kaiju to deal with.

***

Cheers!

(And don’t forget about Mega!)

Disclaimer: Please check with your local zoning ordinances before building mechs in your backyard.

Friday Night Drabble Party!

So, sometimes shit doesn’t go your way. That’s life, right?

Yep. That’s why there’s the Friday Night Drabble Party! It’s not just about bringing top quality micro-fiction your way, but also about me getting to vent and exorcise the demons that nearly drive me mad.

In that spirit I bring you tonight’s drabble.

Enjoy!

***

PUNCH

By

Jake Bible

Punch.

Punch, punch.

Punch, punch, punch, punch.

PUNCH. PUNCH. PUNCHPUNCHPUNCH.

Pant, pant, sweat, pant. Punch.

PUNCH, PUNCH, PUNCH, PUNCH, PUNCH, PUNCH,

“Ow! Fuck!”

“You about done?”

“Not even close. Just getting started.”

“Fine. I’m going to go get beer and smokes. Want anything?”

“Ice. Plenty of ice. And whiskey. More whiskey than ice, but lots of ice.”

“So whiskey, whiskey, whiskey, and ice?”

“Something like that.”

“Want a burrito? I think I’ll get a burrito.”

“Nope. Just whiskey and ice.”

“I’m guessing the ice is for your hand?”

“And for the whiskey.”

“Be right back.”

Punch.

PUNCH, PUNCH, PUNCH, PUNCH.

***

Cheers!

Disclaimer: Watch the thumb.

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