Wednesday, October 21, 2009

HANDS by Kevin Hoffman

He looked down at his thick, time-worn hands and flexed his fingers deep in thought. These hands could carry a shovel and clear the way for a bright future or carry nothing and stand in the way of progress. They could cradle a baby gently within their grasp or crush the life from someone's throat. These hands can build a home to shelter a family or rip it apart one board at a time. He turned his hands over to examine the back, marveling at the variety of the size and shape of the veins running below the surface.

He thought how each vein turned at a fork in the road; a choice made that led him down one path and away from another. Through his hands, he could love someone or show them hatred. His hands could lift someone's heart and spirits or crush them and forever damage a soul. His hands were full of power. All the power in the world to bring about whatever wish he could imagine rest within his simple, bare hands.

Kevin Hoffman has been writing stories and books since he was a kid. He's spent the last 14 years of his life writing computer software and writing books on computer programming. He has finally decided that computer programming is just a day job and his true passion is writing fiction, though you will have to pry his high-tech gadgetry from his cold, dead hands.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Behold the Dawn:

An excerpt from just released medieval novel Behold the Dawn:

The infidels struck, screaming their wordless battle cry. Everything around them turned to pain and death. Annan didn’t wait to check for the guards. He clamped one hand round the lady’s arm and lunged forward. The sounds of the slaughter surged after them with an intensity and a speed that bespoke all too well of the attackers’ vigor.

He kept low, not daring to look behind him, knowing the Moslems were much closer than he wanted them to be.

He and the lady crossed the corpse of a guard, and Annan paused long enough to lift the infidel saber from the still-warm hand. It was a masterful stroke that had felled the warrior—silently, deftly, instantly. His nostrils flared in a momentary flash of admiration. Whatever else he was or had been, the Baptist was a man of many skills.

The courser, a muscled gray, snorted through distended nostrils, but he could not veer fast enough to escape Annan’s hand on the tie-line.

“Master Knight!”

At her cry, he spun to see the approach of the horsemen, dark against the ruddy sky. With one stroke of the saber, he severed the tie line and vaulted into the saddle, narrowly clearing the high cantle.

The Moslems swept through the camp, shouting their curses of vengeance, and Mairead turned to look up at Annan, eyes dark with the sudden horror that he was abandoning her already.

He shifted sword and reins all into one hand, fighting to keep the snorting courser from charging away. He reached out with his left hand and caught the countess’s outstretched arm. His wounded shoulder burned, and the tightness of the bandage nearly forestalled the necessary strength to swing her onto the pillion behind him.

She landed with a soft thump and let go of his wrist. Her arms came around his waist, her face against his shoulders. “Go.”

He laid his heels to the gray courser’s sides, and the horse lunged forward, dark mane unfurling against his rein hand. But this was a Western horse, bred for muscle and endurance. He had not the dexterity and fleetness of the Mohammedan war mares.

Behind them, the tattoo of hoofbeats grew louder yet, and Annan dared a look over his shoulder, past Mairead’s blowing hair. Only paces separated them from two infidel pursuers.
He spurred the courser again. The horse was fresh and responded with another lengthening of stride. But Annan knew they would never outpace their followers. He could only be thankful that these infidels were not that brand of Moslem archer famed for their accuracy on horseback, else the countess’s exposed back would already have become an easy target.

Not that it mattered. Once they drew near enough, the infidels would cut them apart at their leisure anyway.

He could not run. So he must fight.

about K. M. Weiland I grew up chasing Billy the Kid and Jesse James on horseback through the sand hills of western Nebraska, where I still live. A lifelong fan of history and the power of the written word, I enjoy sharing both through my many fictional stories and my novels, A Man Called Outlaw and Behold the Dawn (available October 1st). I blog at Wordplay: Helping Writers Become Authors andAuthorCulture and air a weekly podcast as well.

Saturday, October 10, 2009


"Mommy!, I can't find my favorite necklace!" shrieked Emily.
"One sec Jane" sighed Clair as she turned away from the phone to address her daughter.
"Emily, how many times do I have to tell you?  If something is that
important to you, you have to take really good care of it or it'll end up
lost.  Go on, keep looking and I'll help you find it when I'm off the phone".

With a shake of her head, she went back to her conversation. "Sorry Jane....
I knooow!  When will they ever learn?!?  Now, what was that you were asking?
Oh no dear, that's ok, I don't mind you asking at all.  I really don't know
what happened.  I guess we just grew apart and needed something else out of
our lives."

Runswith Cizers is a nube writer who loves Mac products and Mustangs.  When he's not running with cissors, and even when he is, he is a  computer geek.  

Wednesday, October 7, 2009


The day arrived packaged in a brown paper bag

The pinched sun was knotted up behind a bank of burnt cork cloud, high up at the apex of the celestial. 

Lesser cumuli corrugated the sky like wrinkles. 

God, the old consumptive, was obviously anxious to get his latest sequestration back home through the pearly gates and was gripping to the firmament just a mite too hard. 

And then it broke, all Hell that is. 

A jagged tear at the bottom where the sky kissed the concrete Babel, from which hailstones rehashed from Ancient Egypt toppled on to the sidewalk.

The divine short order chef dashing his eggs over easy.

Sunny side down. 

Or perhaps, considering the alcoholic withdrawal that continually ram-raided the hole in my soul, maybe the hailstones were resonating more like popping corn inside mycranium

Unhh, no need for an alarm clock with my finely altered biochemistry.

Marc Nash:  Experimental UK writer, lover of language and imagery. Ex-playwright, now assaulting the novel form. Self-published "A,B&E" imminent. A scabrous mirror held up to my people. A love-hate "Dear John" letter.

Self-Publishing experience Blog:
Twitter @21stCscribe