All posts filed under: My Fiction

The Apprentice | A Work in Progress — RUCKERPEDIA

{ 404 words so far } “I am Death,” he tells me as he hands me the scythe. He had personally forged the blade out of stainless steel himself. I can’t help but be amazed at his resourcefulness, and the meticulousness of his craft, his attention to detail and his drive to be the best […] via The Apprentice | A Work in Progress — RUCKERPEDIA

A Patchwork Companion | A Work in Progress — RUCKERPEDIA

{ 639 words so far } Just before dusk the man took a break from his work in the basement. He was not hungry, or more specifically, he had no appetite. Instead he opted for a cold beverage from the refrigerator in the kitchen to quench his thirst. Only when he popped the cap off […] via A Patchwork Companion | A Work in Progress — RUCKERPEDIA

A Nice Warm Welcome, Right?

~ written sometime in 1998 ~ The abrupt sound of knocking on the door echoed throughout the studio and startled him.  Aside from his parole officer, he had no other company to expect. “Mister Johns, you in there?” That was the annoying voice of the landlord, Albert McFarland coming from behind the door.  The man went by Al.  His voice reminded Maynard of Jackie Gleason on that old sitcom The Honeymooners.  McFarland knocked again. Hold your damn horses, he wanted to say.  He opened the door to see the short rotund man as he stood there with a cheap cigar in his mouth.  McFarland gave him a once-over, a look of suspicion in his sharp gray eyes. “Yeah, what can I do for you?” Maynard said, his morning voice untested and rough. “Just came to have a look at those blinds,” McFarland said. “And I forgot to mention your air unit ain’t exactly up to snuff either.” Was that all?  Maynard didn’t buy it. “Mind if I come in for a sec?” “Well, I was …

My Fiction – Pieces of Candice (eBook)

Pieces of Candice: A Horror Story The Tease Told in a voice of madness and menace inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, “Pieces of Candice” is the first-person account of what happened when a helpless young woman in a desperate situation ventured into the dark woods for help. It’s psychological horror right in step with classics by the likes of Poe, Stephen King, Clive Barker and Ramsey Campbell. Author’s Commentary As a psychological horror story with a touch of gore, it’s certainly one of the darkest pieces I’ve ever written. It’s also one of the earliest as the seeds for it date back to 1994 as I was reading a lot of horror and suspense back then. Writers like Clive Barker, Ramsey Campbell, Stephen King and Dean Koontz, to name the heavy hitters at the time. Not to mention that the serial killer fiction as true crime stuff had been all the rage during that period. When I finally took a stab at writing it in earnest, it took roughly three years of stops and starts to …

My Fiction – The Underneath (eBook)

The Underneath: A Bizzaro Flash of Horror The Tease After Ramsey discovers a strange blemish his life takes a swift turn into a painful, surreal experience, leaving him to wonder: is this real life? Author’s Commentary This one was published a couple of years back in the bizarro print anthology LIKE FROZEN STATUES OF FLESH, compiled by fellow writer/editor Joe Jablonsky. Written in 2009, it is certainly a bizarre piece of fiction dealing with a fella who has discovered a strange blemish on his skin that was not ever there previously. What happens after that discovery results in perhaps the most surreal story I’ve ever written in my two decades-plus of fiction writing. This one sports one of my better cover efforts. You can click it below to take a brief misadventure into something a bit nightmarish. Disclaimer None of these old works are my finest work, but they now exist in digital form for posterity, if nothing else. I suppose also as a reminder that as a writer I can always do better. The Cover

My Fiction – Finder Kept (eBook)

Finder Kept: A Tale of Unintended Fate The Tease Like Pandora’s Box, some things are simply best left buried or undisturbed. When a drunken homeless person unwittingly acquires a strange object from a man who is obviously running for his life, the homeless person’s apparent new fortune takes an instant turn for the worse. This is an unfortunate tale of unintended fate. Author’s Commentary This was the first story featured in the print anthology BEST LEFT BURIED, selected and edited by Gregory Miller a few years back. I’m guessing my little tale about what happens when a cursed, otherworldly trinket falls into the wrong hands must have epitomized the theme of the anthology because Miller chose to have my story lead the book. It’s no doubt an incredibly huge honor to have your words and your name be the first featured content in any book. This one’s definitely in the “weird” section of my personal library. You click the cover below for a free read. Disclaimer None of these old works are my finest work, …

Microfiction: Turn

* Note: Contains adult language and themes * Turn 486 words by Brandon L. Rucker I wrote this on January 11, 2012 via a prompt in one of the private offices at the Zoetrope Virtual Studio. The piece had to contain any of eight select words and could be any length, any genre. I wrote mine spontaneously in about 30 minutes with no editing (the fastest ever for me) and used these words: signal, seethe, focal and suffer. Roger tapped the turn signal down to make a left turn, but immediately realized it was the wrong turn when his daughter started screaming at him. “What the hell are you doing, old man, you were supposed to turn on Binford Ave. Can’t you do anything right, I swear!” He slammed on the brakes but it was too late, the car was too far into the intersection to successfully make the right turn without taking out four other cars and a pedestrian or two who stood on the curb waiting to cross. At only nineteen, Gina was already …

Make Them Pay

~ written 11/22/2010 ~ Just before dusk the man took a break from his work in the basement. He was not hungry, or more specifically, he had no appetite. Instead he opted for a cold beverage from the refrigerator in the kitchen to quench his thirst. Only when he popped the cap off the bottle did he realize that today had been his thirty-first birthday. A lot had happened in his life the past few years; several notable, calamitous events had irrevocably changed his life. He wasn’t sure if he had even acknowledged the arrival and subsequent passing of his twenty-ninth or thirtieth birthdays. His work was that demanding of his attention; his focus was keener these past two years than it had ever been in his life. He was anxious to return to his work downstairs, but something stirred inside him—emotion—a sensation that had been alien to him for quite some time. As the wave of nostalgia crashed over him, he found himself drawn up into the attic where he kept the many keepsakes …

A Very Bad Day

~ written 1/24/2006 ~ CRUNCH. That was the sound Caleb Shaw heard while lying on the pavement as he watched a steel-toed boot stomp his left hand—the hand he had used for fingering the fret board of his Les Paul guitar just an hour ago—and the cell phone that was in it.  That was after receiving a few blows to the torso, front and back, which had landed him.  Sure, the various fists, elbows and knees delivered their own brand of hurt, but it was a manageable pain, the kind most men just swallowed with ego, pride and maybe a few over-the-counter feel-good pills and a shot of hard liquor.  The smashing of his hand, though, that delivered something altogether different and new. Yeah, crunch was what he heard. But what he felt? A pain so unbearable that the scream, which his body—hell, his very soul—had mustered got lost sub-sonically in the ether, but only temporarily.  After a few seconds of uncontrolled breathing and the realization of what had just happened, not to mention the …

He Must Be Dreaming

~ written 2/27/2006 ~ I had to be dreaming. That’s the only way to explain it ‘cause there’s no goddamn way I was lying next to her, holding her in my arms snug and safe, her smelling the way she always does, like a bouquet of flowers, making me go stiff like a stale cadaver at the morgue, only I’m no dead man ‘cause she’s got me more alive than ever, like she’s my goddess giving me the gift of life, though all she really did in the end was give me the curse of heartache. Only in a dream would she still be whispering in my ear: “I want you, Lenny…” “I need you…” “My heart would die if I never saw you again…” Only in reality would I not be smart enough to know that a dame like that would never stick with a loser like me.  I’m not what most would call a looker, my face always the best impression of a mug shot after a night of boozing and passing out …