The Most Givingest Away Ends

As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself…

I want to begin by saying that this job gets harder every year.  Even though my heart shrivels a little more with each passing day (owing to the deal I brooked with a witch long ago to make all my first borns hale and hardy, as they have all been thus far), you people…you people manage to make choosing a victor ever-harder and consequently make my heart swell with joy and sorrow for the decision I must make.

I’ve done giveaways before and I’ve never received such an outpouring of willingness or creativity.  The entries that came to me were all intense and nary a murmur of “gimme or I’ll poop on your dresser” was to be found.  For this, I (and my many fancy shirts) thank you.

Seriously, thank you so much for your interest.  I delayed this day for awhile, just because it was super hard to choose.  And because it was hard to choose, I would like to implore you all who entered: Please send me your mailing address and I will ship you a free pair of bookplates to accompany books you have (or may come to acquire).  You deserve it, champ!

But choose I had to do.

And choose I did.

David Lindop sent me this email:

Dear Mr. Sam

Here’s why you should send me a signed copies of your books…

As you can see from the attached photos, my offspring has taken a strong liking to your first book… over and above Rohan’s ‘Anvil of Ice’ AND Abercrombie’s ‘The Blade Itself’.

I know it’s not exactly responsible bedtime story material for one-year-olds. But whatever — he can handle it.

Now here’s the clincher.

Since my delightful little spawn seems to like destroying my books with malicious abandon, I’ve decided to move all my books to ebook format — keeping only my signed or first copies (you see where this is going, don’t you?). These special relics will remain unassailable from my destructive larvae, and will be displayed on the highest shelf, where upon each day, at the appointed time, a ray of sunshine will stream through the window and illuminate your name.

If this story fails to touch your heart, I am at a loss.

It is true that I am typically not moved by words, possessing an aforementioned heart of stone (shriveled stone), but then Mr. Lindop followed up with this…

These books are for you, kid.  Read them when you’re older.

The next entry is for the late, great Kai Mundwiler…

Kai was an ever gregarious person who no one would ever call shy.

His parents, Steve the hirstute Burt Reynolds look alike, and Laurie the reformed hippie, had him back in the glorious days of the early eighties, sporting their polyester and bad haircuts, but darn it if they didn’t strike gold on May 5th when they had Kai.  They tried to replicate it another seven times over the next seventeen years, but the jury is still out on if they ever duplicate their debut album.  There were shades of Rockyesque glory early on, his Napoleonic height providing an ample target to the Dutch behemoths while attending grammar school, but he rose time after time with a glare that brought a smile to even the oldest of farts and a chuckle to the lungs of the venerable lunch ladies.

“He was….special.  You can define what kind of special.”  Laurie Mundwiler – mother

His parents got a taste for adventure and screwed up in their choice of how to find that adventure when they up and moved the family to Effingham, Illinois in the mid nineties.  Why wouldn’t you though?  It was the home of the Flaming Hearts and oh was it a grand time living in the moderately hickish streets of Southern Illinois.  After four long years, Steve got a transfer and the family was heading back up to Michigan.  These were the days that Kai always attributed to murdering his modesty and social decorum.  How could they not?  Switching 5 schools in four years is either going to shell shock a kid into ultimate shydom or going to throw him so far out of his comfort zone that it leaves it a crumbling wasteland to never return to.

After that was the rest of high school and then time in college where alcohol and Robert Jordan were found.  Great recipe for grades, but it did result in an English and Writing degree that was used only after work hours and a job in IT that paid the bills.

“He always just said ‘when in doubt, reboot’, don’t know how that qualified him for a job,” Ken McFadden – coworker.

Kai got lucky and batted way above his average and wrangled a smoking hot wife in the form of Kate Mundwiler.  Pretty sure he died with a smile on his face and God Bless him, he should have.

He is survived by his understanding and loving wife, his two parents, and a seven siblings that always struggled between fond affection and a feeling that inspired cracked teeth and anal fissures.

“I think I got more bruises from him than smiles over the years.  He could be a real bastard,” said Caleb Mundwiler, brother to the deceased.  “He was good guy though, he left me all of his books.”

Kai was an avid reader and his biggest joy was finding new and promising fantasy authors.  He often said there wasn’t a book he couldn’t read if it involved a little magic and a lot of blood and guts, especially if it had names that sounded like they were products of a bad acid trip.

“His last wish was to get some new book by some author that loved monkeys.  Sam Pikes or Sicks.  Sykes, that’s it.  Sam Sykes.”  Kate Mundwiler said.  “Too bad he’ll never get that chance.”

Honestly, I said these were hard to choose from, didn’t I?  These are super hard to choose from.  People are dying, guys.  DYING.

The final entry, though, positively blows everything…and everyone away.

Michelle Goldsmith wins.  For obvious reasons.  Read on…if you dare.

Night of the Psychic Pug-Velociraptor-Stalker: A Precautionary Tale

It was a mild midsummer night and all the world was quiet and still. Sam Sykes had taken advantage of the weather and chosen to walk home after a rather enjoyable evening spent at his local bar, requesting odd cocktails based on abstract concepts, obscure celebrities and emotional states. He’d decided to leave earlier than usual in the hope of getting some writing done before his roommate came home. Hopefully he’d even manage to work in that chapter he’d written regarding the troubles faced by a ‘single Mother Deep’ in her quest to find a mate who would look past the purely physical and accept her for who she truly was. Just because she has 13 hundred children and may have put on a little weight over the last few centuries doesn’t mean she doesn’t have needs like everyone else, damn it! Ahem..

 

It wasn’t long before Sam found himself at the end of his street. Minutes later he stood in the dark at his front door of his apartment block. Apparently the porch light was broken again. He made a mental note to fix it, but not until after he’d committed to the page a stirring dance number known as ‘The Frogman’s Lament (or In the End Every One of Us Will Croak)’.

Key in hand, he reached for the place where he knew the lock would be. He found nothing. Puzzled, he ran his hand over the wooden surface. It was completely smooth. No lock, no doorknob.

“Damn knob thieves!” he muttered. “They think they’re so damn hardcore but we all know they’re just compensating for something.”

He momentarily put aside his disgust at the state of humanity and resigned himself to entry through the side gate. As Sam drew nearer to the gate he felt a prickling sensation run down his spine. The night was too quiet. Not even the sound of distant traffic or barking dogs broke the oppressive silence.

Strange

Thankfully the latch opened easily enough and the gate appeared wholly untampered with. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he stepped into the yard.

“I can’t believe I let those stupid kids unnerve me,” he inwardly admonished.

A sudden movement drew his gaze. The trees in the yard appeared to begun swaying on their own accord despite the lack of breeze.

“Someone really needs to prune those,” thought Sam. “They’re getting a little feisty.”

Determined to ignore any additional distractions he made his way past the in-ground pool and towards the back enterance.

Too late, he felt something cold and slimy wrap around his ankle, tripping him and sending him sprawling on the ground.

“What the —?”

His breath caught in his throat as he noticed the hulking shape crouched approximately where the pool should be.

Wings unfurled and tentacles flailed.

“Oh come on!” cried Sykes. “The knob jokes and now Cthulhu? This is just getting ridiculous!”

Indignation apparently served as no deterrent to the Elder God and Sam found himself forced to roll quickly to the side in a desperate attempt to avoid a barrage of swatting tentacles.

Sparing a moment to commend himself for remembering to leave the dogs inside, he jumped to his feet and faced his attacker.

He felt his famous bear wrestling rage building to a killing edge within him.

It seemed that the time was nigh for the ultimate showdown, the battle to end all battles, that inevitable clash of the titans, Sykes vs. Cthulhu.

Sam prepared to charge, letting forth a barbarian battle cry and tearing open his shirt, Hulk style.

Suddenly, an icy voice echoed through the night, freezing both parties in their tracks.

“Leave him,” it hissed.“That one is mine to deal with.”

Sykes looked at Cthulhu. Cthulhu looked back at Sykes. The Lovecraftian horror raised its claws and shrugged its shoulders in the universal gesture for ‘Oh well, whatever’ and sunk back into the murky depths of the pool.

“I really should clean that,” thought Sam, shaking his head in disbelief.

Without further ado, he made his way to the door, stepped across the threshold and made his way to his apartment. Home at last.

 

Two dogs came bounding to greet Sam as he entered. One was large, one was small. However, neither one was a pug.

“Otis?” he called as he bent down to pat the other two.

“Otis! If I find you asleep in my underwear drawer again..”

Still no pug appeared.

“Where has he got to?” wondered Sam.

Becoming worried for Otis’ safety, especially given the apparent monster plague and other bizarre happenings, Sam began to scour the building looking for him.

Room after room he searched, yet found no trace.

By the time he reached his bedroom Sam was rather frantic, all thought of writing long forgotten.

He pushed open the door.

Unfortunately the sight that greeted him was not his missing dog, although it promised to provide some clue to his whereabouts.

The bookcase against the wall had been pushed to the side. In the place where it once stood was revealed a large hidden doorway. This doorway appeared to provide access to a dark, damp stone staircase leading down deep into the earth.

Although he knew the presence of such a hidden passage made absolutely no logical or architectural sense whatsoever Sam was only mildly surprised. After all, it was just one more entry on the long list of ‘weird shit’ that had occurred in the last few hours. However, it did nothing to appease his worries as he was 87% sure Otis hadn’t been renovating recently. Besides, the pug’s taste was far more refined than this dank dungeon.

 

He entered the passageway and began his descent. The staircase was seemingly endless and lit only by the occasional wilting candle.

Just as he begun to entertain thoughts of despair he found himself faced with a large oaken door.

It had a large brass handle shaped like a pugs head.

“Maybe it is him after all,” Sam thought. “Only one way to find out!”

He grasped the handle and pulled open the door.

 

The door opened onto a lavishly appointed chamber, decorated in rich reds and browns and abounding in oak panelling.

In the opposite wall stood an enormous ornate fireplace, logs crackling and flames dancing within.

Nevertheless, Sam’s eyes were immediately drawn to what stood before the fireplace. A large black leather swivel chair, facing the opposite direction.

“Otis?” he asked.

The swivel chair slowly turned in response, stopping only when he and its occupant stood face to face.

“Looking for someone?” said the figure seated within.

Sam couldn’t contain his surprise.

“You?” he cried.

“Indeed,” came the reply.

Sitting in the chair, slowly stroking the pug that sat nestled in her lap was someone he had never expected to see in real life (although, to be fair, she did give ample warning).

It was Michelle. Yes, ‘that’ Michelle. The reviewer from The Ranting Dragon and professional Sam Sykes stalker.

Recovering quickly from his horror, Sam launched an offensive in the form of a barrage of (quite reasonable given the circumstances) questions.

Here they are listed, and with some of the more colourful language emitted:

“What is this place?!”

“Why are you in my house?!”

“What are you doing with my dog?!”

“And why is there an elder god in my goddamn swimming pool?!”

“So many questions,” sighed Michelle. “I thought the answers would be obvious!” “Nevertheless, I will humour you for the sake of this narrative and answer them in the order I feel will most increase dramatic tension.”

Sam stared incredulously.

“As to the first two,” she said, “they are rather simple. Clearly this ‘place’ is my secret lair and obviously I’m in your house because that’s where I’m most likely to find you. I needed to speak with you.”

“Likewise,” she continued, “Cthulhu is here providing security. My original choice, Ulbecetonth, is on a date tonight and I didn’t want us to be interrupted when we had this conversation. By the way, would it have killed you to come home earlier? You wouldn’t believe how much that guy charges!”

“And Otis?” asked Sam.

“That is somewhat more complicated,” said Michelle, “However it pretty much comes down to the fact that I’ve been watching your every move for many months through my psychic connection with your pug.”

“Otis! You betrayed me!” cried Sykes, “How could you!”

Otis whined sadly and refused to meet his gaze.

“How does it even work! This psychic business!”

“It’s quite simple really,” stated Michelle, “We all know pugs are psychic aliens and I happen to be ¼ pug. I’m also 1/8 Velociraptor. Don’t ask.”

Sykes forcibly pushed any emerging thoughts from his mind.

“Wait you said you saw everything? Absolutely everything?” he said.

“Yes. It was…interesting viewing to say the least.”

A moment of awkward silence followed this revelation.

Finally, Michelle broke it with a gleeful declaration.

“But now that I finally know everything about you. I have all the information I need to become you! Now I will be Sam Sykes!”

She leaned back in the chair, overcome with maniacal laughter.

Sam thought he saw a flaw in her plan and grasped at it.

“Won’t people notice?” he asked. “There’s got to be some physical differences!”

“Easily solved,” said Michelle catching her breath, “As well as being a rare human-pug-velociraptor hybrid I also happen to be a shape-shifter with bookseller super powers!”

“Oh. This looks pretty bad for me then,” came Sam’s reply.

“I’m sorry I have to do this,” said Michelle, “but you have to understand. This never would have happened if you’d just given me one of those signed copies of Black Halo or Tome of the Undergates.”

Realisation hit Sykes like a sledge hammer. An unforeseen epiphany.

“You’re right!” he cried. “What was I thinking! I should have just given you those books! Is there any chance I can just give you one now and then we can just forget this ever happened?”

“No,” said Michelle sadly, “Unfortunately that is no longer possible. I have committed myself to identity theft and there is no going back. But if it’s any consolation your bicep looks really good today.”

“Thanks,” said Sam, “it really does doesn’t it.”

They laughed amicably for a moment as if one had not just pronounced the doom of the other.

“Oh, and don’t worry,” said Michelle, “I’m not a complete monster. I found you a brand new identity as well! You even still get to be an author! Well, sort of..”

“Ever heard of Robert Newcomb?”