D'Artagnon

The silence is resounding
echoing
deep without measure, wide and wild without boundaries.
Without sound... without thought... without whispers or winds or worrisome winding whirls
The SILENCE....
(heaving breaths)
Resounding.

yeah, well, seriously considering just not writing anymore.  can't make a living at it, can't find the time to do it, just don't seem to have any energy or feel for it anymore.
too many people dragging on my time, too many things getting in the way, barely getting by at the job (just over broke), We're still stuck in my old bed room at my mom's place coming up on a year now.  just about no privacy, completely dependent on someone else for a roof over our heads, just barely got a car back after losing three this year, and at least two thousand in repairs before be lost two of them.  In debt so deep i'm in the lower decks of the Titanic, financially.
Just dont see any use anymore.
 

yeah, well, seriously considering just not writing anymore.  can't make a living at it, can't find the time to do it, just don't seem to have any energy or feel for it anymore.
too many people dragging on my time, too many things getting in the way, barely getting by at the job (just over broke), We're still stuck in my old bed room at my mom's place coming up on a year now.  just about no privacy, completely dependent on someone else for a roof over our heads, just barely got a car back after losing three this year, and at least two thousand in repairs before be lost two of them.  In debt so deep i'm in the lower decks of the Titanic, financially.
Just dont see any use anymore.
 

The silence is resounding
echoing
deep without measure, wide and wild without boundaries.
Without sound... without thought... without whispers or winds or worrisome winding whirls
The SILENCE....
(heaving breaths)
Resounding.

Welcome, Frank.

Hi all, I use the name Wizard here and I decided to add myself as other than guest a few weeks ago to reply to someone i found making unjust accusations against writers.  I had to come and defense your authors because it was not fair to attack them that way.
 
My name is Frank,  I speak and read both french and English.  I'm not a fan of love stories, I'm more into the type of stories like Arthur and Kyle Aarons write,  If other authors are writing the same types of stories here they can manifest themselves to me and I will give them a shot also.
I'm from Montreal, Canada hence knowing both English and French and I work more than I wish or need unfortunately not giving me as much time as i wish to read or even write anymore.
If you want to know more about me just ask.

In the aftermath of Glen's brush with the spirits and his growing powers leads us to a few loose strings, we find out there are threads leading to other scenes in a larger tapestry in  Canterbury.  But then again, that is another story.  And here are a few juicy clues.
Bolt from the Blue - Codicil The Next Morning lays things to rest.  Or does it?

Who's that peepin' in my win-dow?  Who's that creepin' 'neath the sill?

Yeah, uh, I'm about to be homeless, i have almost no money at the moment, my one car is still in the shop awaiting repairs, my other car payment is just under $400 a month.  I make maybe $500 a week, and pay about a third of that out in gas for my job, a paper route.  My boyfriend works two jobs and all our money has gone into repairing the Jeep this past month.   And it still isn't working.  Anything that went wrong around here was our fault, even if there was no proof.  So, I'm not likely going to be writing a whole lot the next several months.  It is complicated being broke, poor, stuck in a dead end job and without a place to just hang your hat to sleep.
I don't know what to do.  I don't have a lot of options.  Just when things were looking up... something completely left field comes up and I get the blame. 
Benji looks to me for answers and I just don't have any.
So, if it seems silent from me for a while, that's why.  Thought you'd like to know.

Life has a funny way about it. Once you think everything is under control it hits you with something new. They will always be some complainers. You can not make everyone happy or even content. Yet it is ones wish to do so as a human. We have our limits and we fall behind on our projects. This never the less dose not take away from the work presented. As it was said this is a free site. That works off the generous donations of its readers. We should be more than happy to have this site and the stories we read free of charge. I for one are grateful for this opportunity. If no one has said it as of late. Thank you to all those that contribute to CR.

Dear bother D'Artagnon I saw your post of your present position. I am truly sorry to hear of the hardship you are going threw. My most kindest thoughts and wishes for a turn if events to your favor. I for one have enjoyed your stories you have presented here on CR. I am sure we all understands life gets in our way. The blame dose not lay with anyone. There is no blame to go around. It is one voice of complaint which is their right. One dose not in any way take away all you and others have given us followers and members to CR community. Thank you for what you have done. I hope everything can work out for you but until then most kindness of thoughts for you.

Social events can be very revealing, especially in tight knit groups.  Glen and Peter's sleepover plans might be in for a bit of a sudden left turn... into a wall... at Mach 20!  But there are other implications in the air as well.  And a few twists of uncommon expectation.
Bolt from the Blue - Chapter 4 - Shapes in the Clouds starts us off.

Chase!  Wanna go for a walk boy?

First off, I apologize for how long it took to get this one out.  It has been a difficult year.  Being homeless has brought new challenges and perspectives to my life.  Changes in my family situation have also made life, well, let's call it interesting.  I have been working on Glen's story for a  while now, trying to make sense of the various medical and scientific aspects I have written into the story.
But be warned, Glen's memories aren't the only thing changed by his contact with the electrical world.  Things in his life that Glen-who-is would never have suspected are about to make their presence felt.  And a few little surprises will enter along the way.
Act three is in the works.  I'm hoping it will take less than 18 months to get it to the finish line.  There are other projects still wanting love as well, so I will do my best.
Seeya on the other side, my brothers,
D'Artagnon, aka Robby
PS.  Monumental shout of praise to Al who made the graphic for the story page.  You keep coming through for this site again and again, buddy.  Thank you.

Al, Ken, I literally am home from work a half hour, saw the post about this story and went right to chapter one.
I'm only about ten paragraphs in and I'm hooked.  The writing style is fresh, smart, moves along quickly, and the introductory bits definitely draw the reader in.   I will be giving this so reading time this week.  Where did you guys find this writer?  And why does no one know about this story?
Be warned Mr. Trager: I may write a review of this story.  Interest piqued!

I, too, do my very best respond to all emails that are sent to me. The volume of mail peaks, of course, after each irregular posting of my story. (I'm not sure that I'm getting email directly through CR or not. I see almost none, from what I can tell.) I personally enjoy the conversations I have with my readers. It is part of the reward of writing, for me. I may not answer every email, every time, as I, too, have more in my life than just writing. But I do see each missive from a reader as something to be treasured.

D'Artagnon will be the last to admit it, but he is an excellent writer.
I am constantly amazed how he weaves his many stories together to be an almost seamless whole, yet still standing alone by themselves.

RIP to a great writer who showed me even super heroes have flaws.
Kaius

I said elsewhere and earlier I was re-reading D'Artagnon's interrelated stories. The past few days, I've focused on one of the best: "The Lost Boys." The first chapter (prologue/introduction) is telling, without telling too much. It sets up the story in the reader's mind and certainly encouraged this one to continue reading.   Of particular note, in my opinion, is the contrast between what Sammy is and how he sees himself. His understanding of bullying – what it is, how one defends against it, and how that understanding progresses – offers insight into his character. I hope we see more of Sammy in other stories.   Besides the usual sources of conflict (good guys vs bad guys), there is conflict among the protagonists. For example, early in the story, one takes a life; one saves a life.   Besides the handful of protagonists, D'Artagnon introduces a collage of antagonists drawn from the most perverse of humanity and the darkest of humanity's dreams.   The complexities of the plot are further explored in other stories. I've read them all; I am enjoying re-reading to find the commonalities that tie them together.

It is with great sadness that I bring to the Castle news of the passing of a legend in the entertainment, story telling and pop culture world.  Stan "the Man" Lee has died at age 95.  His many accomplishments range the gamut of literary pop culture from comic books to graphic novels, movies, art, social awareness and his own quest to show us the truth about heroes in everyday life as well as the every day struggles of those we look up to so much.  Always a proponent of social equality, telling big stories in big ways and elevating the dignity of all he met, Stan was  one of the founders of Marvel Comics with his longtime friend and co-creator, the immortal Jack "King" Kirby.  He will be  greatly missed by those of us who escaped the rougher parts of life in a four color universe for a while.  He taught us to dream big, remember to treat others with respect and to always reach for the greatness  within yourself.
Excelsior, Stan!  Ever upwards.  Thank you for sharing your vision and bringing the rest of us along for the ride.

I had heard this anecdote before, but I remember it from Designing Women, when Mary Jo talked about being at a posh cocktail party in New York. She said, "I didn't know anyone there so I tried to start a conversation with the woman beside me. I asked her, 'Where are y'all from?'
She said, 'I'm from a place where we don't end our sentences with a preposition.' 
'I looked at her and said, So, where are y'all from... bitch?'"  

So happy to see Chapter 2 of "Bolt from the Blue"; so sorry to hear of Robby's troubles and travails. I hope for him a turn for the better.

I am really enjoying this story.  I've read the 2 chapters currently available and am impressed with the story itself and the characterization. I suspect that Peter will become a force in his own right; there have been numerous hints.  And you gotta listen closely when tortoises use understatement!
Glenn's physique has apparently shifted.  Instead of being a bruiser of a football guy, it sounds like he might be better built now for swimming or track. If there are only to be three chapters in this story, his high school sporting life will likely not be a factor, but it is good to know he'd still be able to excel at his chosen sport(s).

This is very cool Robby.  I'm really looking forward to more of this.  Can't wait for more

I'm not really sure where this is going.  I've had this idea for a while now, about an adult who gets to go back to childhood with his knowledge of his adult life intact.  I've seen several stories like this, but thought of a few angles I would like to explore.  See what you think of this opening.  It doesn't fit in with my Canterbury stories at all, so it's pretty much a stand alone sort of idea. I'll expand upon it little by little as it takes shape in my mind more.  If people like it, I'll see about  continuing it.
 
“You know, you are a total failure as an adult,” the man who sidled up to me at the bar said.  He quickly ordered a drink while removing his coat.  He’d caught me in mid sip, just about to swallow down the last of my double bourbon and ask for another.  I looked over to him, my eyes blurry with all the alcohol I’d previously poured down my throat.  My skin felt itchy and it was like my stubble kept trying to roll around on my face.  Three days without a shave and I didn’t care if I went thirty more.

“Comfy in there?” the guy asked.  I managed to focus my eyes enough to make him out.  Strong face, almost classical, like a Greek statue.  No beard on him.  Hair the color of warm wheat in a sunny field.  Couldn’t make out his eye color in the dim light of this smoky hole in the wall.  His suit was impeccable.  Gunmetal gray, pin striped, tailored to his narrow waist and broad shoulders.  Power tie that looked fresh from the dry cleaners.  Just like the kind my former boss would wear once, throw away and have twenty more waiting in his walk in closet, no doubt bigger than my entire flea-bitten apartment.  Same just out of college age as my last boss, too.  The prick.

“In where?” I asked, tilting the shot glass around by my fingertips.

“In the bottle, sir,” he deadpanned, reaching for the glass offered him.  He turned and leaned back against the bar with his wine glass in his hand, elbows up on the bar.  “Seems you are determined to either climb into the bottle with the booze or let the booze pickle you from the inside out.”

“Says the guy who ordered a glass of merlot,” I countered, draining my cup.  The amber liquid should have burned going down, but by this point in my drunk, I was feeling the warmth only.  And thankfully precious little else.

“Moderation is the key to enjoying the complexities and mysteries of alcohol,” he replied, taking a sip.  “But I see you choose to seek wisdom at the palace of excess.”

“Under it, if possible.”  I signaled to the bartender, who held up a finger as he spoke with one of his waitresses.  “What business is it of yours?”

“Funny you should ask,” he said, rubbing a finger around the inside of his wine glass.  The dark liquid followed, making a soft ringing sound as his finger rubbed hard on the lip.  The tone would have been pleasant if it wasn’t leaning on my own descent to blissful unconsciousness.

“Would you stop that?” I asked.  He pulled the finger out of the glass and brought it to his lips.  He inserted the finger and slurped the rich, purple liquid off.

“Indeed.  Stopping.  That’s what I’m here for,” he responded.

“Just finish your drink and let me finish mine, okay, buddy?”

“Buddy!  Oh yes, I quite like that.  Not the same as my real name, of course, but the familiarity of it!  Oh, the hint of such close and intimate friendship!  Yes, that will do wonderfully.  I thank you,” he beamed. 

“Whatever,” I said, raising my hand towards the barkeep again.

“Anyhow,” my new buddy said, turning dramatically, “To the matter of stopping.  And your absolute abject failure as an adult.”

He was not only starting to get on my nerves, but now was being rude in suggesting my flaws were evident.  Guy was a total stranger to me.  And while I wasn’t above picking up a stranger in a gay bar like this, or starting a fight with one, I just didn’t have the energy to deal with it.  Besides, he sounded either entirely too camp to be real or just plain crazy.  Neither of which are appealing to me in either a fuck or a fight.

“Ya know, Buddy, you’re really beginning to piss me off.  I had a good depression going here and you’re starting to turn it into an aggression.  Piss off.”

“Maybe later.  Actually, I’ve been sent here to stop you.”

“Ain’t happening.  Once they cut me off here, I intend to take one home and drown in the comfort of my own rented shithole.”

“Deplorable.  But, you have been a waste of an adulthood, so I guess that’s to be expected.”

“What the fuck do you know?” I shouted, or tried to, getting more and more irritated at this guy by the moment.

“Well, I know that your name is Chadwick Parisse, aged 48, that you are presently unemployed because your former boss didn’t like you drinking at work.  You have been a mostly closeted gay man for most of your life, only coming out three years ago after your father’s suicide.  Your ex-wife completely emasculated you when she found you in bed with that horrible leather daddy.  Your failed marriage has left you destitute, bereft of any companionship from your life before, absent from your teenage daughter’s life and basically renounced by your son as a quote-unquote degenerate freak.  You recently acquired a legal status of Driving Under the Influence and a period of probation, which your currently highly intoxicated state is in direct violation of, by the way.  Oh, and your car has been repossessed for failure to make payments in a timely manner.”

I pushed back from the bar, about ready to clobber this effete, bothersome, nosy, know-it-all until his dumb voice just stopped talking.  It was like he knew at least eighty percent of my failures and was laying them out, casually, just to piss me off.  I was in just the mood to do some damage, to spread the hurt around to someone other than me.

“I am here to make all of that stop,” he said, as I rounded to face him.  That brought me up short.  Even staring over my one extended fist, I wasn’t sure if I was seeing him, or two of him, maybe three of him.  I shook my head to clear my eyes some, but that only made me dizzy.

“The fuck you say?”

“Yes.  Indeed.  I do say fuck.”

“Huh?”

“I am here to offer you a way out of your failed adulthood.  One that ends all these legal and financial woes, allows you to explore the sexuality you have desperately craved since childhood with acceptance and emotional support, and grant you the chance to undo all the horrendous errors that led you to be the human waste material you have grown to become.”

“Fuck you!” I shouted and lunged for him.  He simply stood up from his leaning position on the bar and stepped back, allowing me to fall flat on my face.  From there, he didn’t move, even as I tried to regain my feet.  The bourbon had robbed me of fine motor control, at this point, so balance and stability were not in my pockets.


 

I'm not really sure where this is going.  I've had this idea for a while now, about an adult who gets to go back to childhood with his knowledge of his adult life intact.  I've seen several stories like this, but thought of a few angles I would like to explore.  See what you think of this opening.  It doesn't fit in with my Canterbury stories at all, so it's pretty much a stand alone sort of idea. I'll expand upon it little by little as it takes shape in my mind more.  If people like it, I'll see about  continuing it.
 
“You know, you are a total failure as an adult,” the man who sidled up to me at the bar said.  He quickly ordered a drink while removing his coat.  He’d caught me in mid sip, just about to swallow down the last of my double bourbon and ask for another.  I looked over to him, my eyes blurry with all the alcohol I’d previously poured down my throat.  My skin felt itchy and it was like my stubble kept trying to roll around on my face.  Three days without a shave and I didn’t care if I went thirty more.

“Comfy in there?” the guy asked.  I managed to focus my eyes enough to make him out.  Strong face, almost classical, like a Greek statue.  No beard on him.  Hair the color of warm wheat in a sunny field.  Couldn’t make out his eye color in the dim light of this smoky hole in the wall.  His suit was impeccable.  Gunmetal gray, pin striped, tailored to his narrow waist and broad shoulders.  Power tie that looked fresh from the dry cleaners.  Just like the kind my former boss would wear once, throw away and have twenty more waiting in his walk in closet, no doubt bigger than my entire flea-bitten apartment.  Same just out of college age as my last boss, too.  The prick.

“In where?” I asked, tilting the shot glass around by my fingertips.

“In the bottle, sir,” he deadpanned, reaching for the glass offered him.  He turned and leaned back against the bar with his wine glass in his hand, elbows up on the bar.  “Seems you are determined to either climb into the bottle with the booze or let the booze pickle you from the inside out.”

“Says the guy who ordered a glass of merlot,” I countered, draining my cup.  The amber liquid should have burned going down, but by this point in my drunk, I was feeling the warmth only.  And thankfully precious little else.

“Moderation is the key to enjoying the complexities and mysteries of alcohol,” he replied, taking a sip.  “But I see you choose to seek wisdom at the palace of excess.”

“Under it, if possible.”  I signaled to the bartender, who held up a finger as he spoke with one of his waitresses.  “What business is it of yours?”

“Funny you should ask,” he said, rubbing a finger around the inside of his wine glass.  The dark liquid followed, making a soft ringing sound as his finger rubbed hard on the lip.  The tone would have been pleasant if it wasn’t leaning on my own descent to blissful unconsciousness.

“Would you stop that?” I asked.  He pulled the finger out of the glass and brought it to his lips.  He inserted the finger and slurped the rich, purple liquid off.

“Indeed.  Stopping.  That’s what I’m here for,” he responded.

“Just finish your drink and let me finish mine, okay, buddy?”

“Buddy!  Oh yes, I quite like that.  Not the same as my real name, of course, but the familiarity of it!  Oh, the hint of such close and intimate friendship!  Yes, that will do wonderfully.  I thank you,” he beamed. 

“Whatever,” I said, raising my hand towards the barkeep again.

“Anyhow,” my new buddy said, turning dramatically, “To the matter of stopping.  And your absolute abject failure as an adult.”

He was not only starting to get on my nerves, but now was being rude in suggesting my flaws were evident.  Guy was a total stranger to me.  And while I wasn’t above picking up a stranger in a gay bar like this, or starting a fight with one, I just didn’t have the energy to deal with it.  Besides, he sounded either entirely too camp to be real or just plain crazy.  Neither of which are appealing to me in either a fuck or a fight.

“Ya know, Buddy, you’re really beginning to piss me off.  I had a good depression going here and you’re starting to turn it into an aggression.  Piss off.”

“Maybe later.  Actually, I’ve been sent here to stop you.”

“Ain’t happening.  Once they cut me off here, I intend to take one home and drown in the comfort of my own rented shithole.”

“Deplorable.  But, you have been a waste of an adulthood, so I guess that’s to be expected.”

“What the fuck do you know?” I shouted, or tried to, getting more and more irritated at this guy by the moment.

“Well, I know that your name is Chadwick Parisse, aged 48, that you are presently unemployed because your former boss didn’t like you drinking at work.  You have been a mostly closeted gay man for most of your life, only coming out three years ago after your father’s suicide.  Your ex-wife completely emasculated you when she found you in bed with that horrible leather daddy.  Your failed marriage has left you destitute, bereft of any companionship from your life before, absent from your teenage daughter’s life and basically renounced by your son as a quote-unquote degenerate freak.  You recently acquired a legal status of Driving Under the Influence and a period of probation, which your currently highly intoxicated state is in direct violation of, by the way.  Oh, and your car has been repossessed for failure to make payments in a timely manner.”

I pushed back from the bar, about ready to clobber this effete, bothersome, nosy, know-it-all until his dumb voice just stopped talking.  It was like he knew at least eighty percent of my failures and was laying them out, casually, just to piss me off.  I was in just the mood to do some damage, to spread the hurt around to someone other than me.

“I am here to make all of that stop,” he said, as I rounded to face him.  That brought me up short.  Even staring over my one extended fist, I wasn’t sure if I was seeing him, or two of him, maybe three of him.  I shook my head to clear my eyes some, but that only made me dizzy.

“The fuck you say?”

“Yes.  Indeed.  I do say fuck.”

“Huh?”

“I am here to offer you a way out of your failed adulthood.  One that ends all these legal and financial woes, allows you to explore the sexuality you have desperately craved since childhood with acceptance and emotional support, and grant you the chance to undo all the horrendous errors that led you to be the human waste material you have grown to become.”

“Fuck you!” I shouted and lunged for him.  He simply stood up from his leaning position on the bar and stepped back, allowing me to fall flat on my face.  From there, he didn’t move, even as I tried to regain my feet.  The bourbon had robbed me of fine motor control, at this point, so balance and stability were not in my pockets.


 

I always learn something from D’Artagnon’s stories. The prize, so far, in “Bolt from the Blue,” is Lichtenbert-Figuren (to use the original German, which I got from a Google search). A simple, if difficult to understand, concept which was incorporated neatly, thus creating verisimilitude and expanding the mystery.
The story begins and continues with whimsical moments, in which anonymous watchers observe, comment, and occasionally intrude. Then, magic happens. We all know Clarke’s Second Law: Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. However, I do not think these Powers are using technology. Their magic is real. And eminently satisfying.
I promised myself I would read no more stories until they were completed. That I read (and re-read) Chapters 1 and 2 of “Bolt” is a tribute to D’artagnion and an expression of my faith in him.