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Board James A Fanfiction by Aaron Dennis

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board james

Board James, the character and web series, is owned by James Rolfe and Cinemassacre Productions, but I’m writing this story anyway, because I think James will like it.

Board James by Aaron Dennis is a work of fanfiction, and it was not created for profit. It is illegal to sell Board James by Aaron Dennis for profit as it is illegal for anyone apart from the owners of the rights to Board James and his likeness to earn a profit.

Do not sell this work of fanfiction for monetary gain of any kind.

Please visit Cinemassacre.com and watch the Board James web series. If you believe this story will make a great movie, let James know by reviewing this after you finish reading.

Allen and Sharon buy a new house. It turns out to be the former home of Board James. Strange occurrences frighten the newly weds. When Allen wakes up, he finds himself sitting before James, Mike, and Bootsy. They must play James’s newest, made-up game, Board James, to completion, lest they be forever trapped within the living game.
Board James is fanfiction based upon the Board James web series owned by James Rolfe and Cinemassacre Productions.

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Chapter One

“Okay,” James started. “Here we are again; it’s the night before Halloween, and time to review a classic board game. What do we have? One Night, Ultimate Werewolf…okay.” Indifferently, he tossed the box aside to reach for another one. “Level Seven, Escape.” He turned the box over a few times, shook his head while wincing, and tossed it aside as well. “What’s this?”

Amidst other, colorful boxes was a small, square box. A picture of a goofy ghost was on the front.

“Ghost Blitz, and look, there’s a green bottle on the ground next to him. Is that beer? Is he drunk? Is that why it’s Ghost Blitz? ‘Cause he’s blitzed? He sure as fuck looks tweaked.” James started to crack open the box, but paused. “Major fun award? What the Hell is that? Well, whatever. Let’s get started.”

After dropping the top, James pulled out a deck of cards and a baggy with game pieces. “Let’s see; we got cards with pictures of the ghost. This one has a chair. This one a mouse, and what’re these? Oh, this is the chair, but it’s red. Why’s the chair on the card blue? And what’s this piece? A butt plug? Oh, that’s the ghost.”

Once he finished rifling through the game pieces, he scratched his head in confusion, picked up the tiny manual, and read through it. “A reaction game as fast as lightning for two to eight bright minds. Yeah, no dumbasses allowed. Story and object of the game– Object? Do they mean objective? Anyway….

“Balduin, the house ghost,” he stopped speaking to laugh. “House ghost? Is that like house…? Never mind, we won’t go there. So, Balduin found an old camera in the castle cellar. I like where this is goin’; a ghost director. Kind of reminds me of something, but I can’t put my finger on it….” Trailing off, the reviewer readjusted his ball cap then returned his gaze to the manual. “Immediately, he photographed everything that he loves to make disappear. So, it’s like a camera for pictures not filming; too bad. I wonder if he takes a picture of his ghost shit, ‘cause ghost dookie vanishes, get it?” James smiled.

There wasn’t anyone else there besides James. To whom he was speaking was as much a mystery as to where his friends had gone. Word was, Board James was a serial killer, a madman cutting the balls off his mates whenever they got tired of his shitty games.

“Unfortunately, the enchanted camera takes many photos in the wrong color. What? Sometimes, the green bottle is white; other times, it’s blue. Looking at the photos, Balduin doesn’t really remember what he wanted to make disappear next. Yeah, and I don’t remember the last time I took a shit or what color it was. Guess I should’ve taken a picture…now that’s a shitty picture.”

Frowning so hard his lips curled down, James’s eyes went wide as he nodded. “Can you help him with his haunting and quickly name the right piece, or even make it disappear by yourself?” He threw the red, chair, game piece into the corner. “It’s gone, vanished, banished to the black hole of Uranus,” he asserted.

The game reviewer shook his head in consternation. Then, cracking the manual open, he perused the actual game rules.

Short Stories

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From the Mind of Aaron Dennis

9 short stories. The Tuurngait, a mind bending horror tale. My first, a horrible tale from a psycho’s point of view. The Potato Clock, a silly story, Hunting, the mind of a survivor killing zombies. Losing Human, a mad scientist loses his humanity. Eudora, a young girl used to be something quite different. Expedition, a fantasy. Raising Dead, a fantasy. A Night in Hartford, a zombie horror.

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He looked back at the phone. It was almost 8pm; the day had gotten away from him. Now, it was night in Hartford.

Eric nodded. He had grown up in town and practically lived at the preservation as a kid. He knew about the weird, run down shacks, and warehouse looking buildings on the east edge of the preservation, but as a kid he was too scared to investigate. Now, he hated himself, was full of negative energy, and had a burning question in his heart. Is there more to Hartford than a pretty girl and a preservation? He made his mind up on the spot. It was time to investigate.

“But how do I get there unnoticed? I can’t drive up to the gates…no, but I can drive up to the town dump and park in the orange grove up the road…then it’s just, what, a five mile hike? Yeah…time to find out what’s really going on.”

Silently, he laughed in his head. He knew there wasn’t anything going on. That was precisely the problem with everyone. There was never anything going on in Hartford. It was a boring paradise. At least, it was boring before Claire. Now, it was weird, and new, and kind of scary in a fun way.

He nabbed his camping gear, took from it his headlamp, new batteries, his CZ 9 millimeter handgun, his shotgun, a machete, ammo, packed two sandwiches, and filled his water canteen. Figuring nothing was going to be out of the ordinary, he took his hammock, too.  No way I’m walking five miles back to my truck at three in the morning. Last, he got his phone charger, walked to his truck, hooked up his dying phone, and sent one last text.

How’s your sister? Are you guys having fun? He held his breath for a second.  No reply. He started the engine. To his surprise, Mad Mike was still on.

“These so called police folk happen to be people no one in Hartford have ever met before. What do you think about that? We all know everyone! I tried to contact the Hartford Police Department. Their damned phones are off, and I get redirected to the county Sheriff’s office, and guess what!? They refuse to talk unless it’s an emergency! Last time I checked, the nonemergency number was for nonemergencies! Listen, people–”

Just like that, the radio station blared static. Eric looked through his windshield into the darkness. What the Hell is going here? Reconsidering for a second, he looked at his phone. Claire had not replied. She wasn’t going to. One little, jealous, insecure mistake, and it was over. For the first time in his life, Eric wanted to bleed. He hoped there was something strange going on that night in.

He turned on his headlights, and pulled onto the road. Forty five minutes passed in silence. Not a single car was on the road. There was no way for him to know the silent, black helicopters had already quarantined the town.

Once Eric spotted the sign for the dump, he shut off his headlights and crawled along in the darkness. The sound of the engine wasn’t loud enough to block out heavy wheels crunching small rocks. Moments later, he pulled off the road and into the orange grove.

From his truck, he pulled all his gear. With the handgun in a holster clipped to the back of his pants, and his machete dangling from his belt, he took his phone, strapped the headlamp on, set it to red, and loaded the shotgun. Two steps later, his nerves got the better of him and he had to pee.

Cayneian A man From Blood By Aaron Dennis

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A man stands resolved. Dysart, clan Bloodhammer, has returned to the island of Volgunther to purge it of the evil called Salamandrus. He has given his tongue, so that he may speak no contracts. He has given his manhood, so that he may not know his power as a man. He has given his mind, so that no God may take pity upon him.
Wielding the forbidden power of Sang Daemanus, Dysart imbibes the blood of Daemons to cast his spells, to grow his strength, to fuel his powers, but will he be able to stave off the bloodlust before the evils upon the island claim him?

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Prologue- The expedition

There was a time when man was powerful, and hungering for more power, he set his wizard’s gaze to search for the unknown. A forgotten king learned of an island. It was said no one had ever been there, but that was not the truth.

Before man was powerful, Daemons ruled by flame. Whether it was divine providence from above, the steely determination of heroes, or the Daemons’ hubris, they were defeated, driven deep, deep underground.

Time passed. Man flourished. It was forgotten that a Daemon cannot die, and so the residents of an island grew reckless as all those with an insatiable thirst for power do. They stole deep beneath their proliferous kingdom. There, they found flame. The flame beckoned, and the flame promised, but fire devours all.

When the haughty king sent his men on an expedition to that island, his men discovered evidence that it had been very much inhabited. Though no sign of battle was evident, whole forests were cut down, homes sat in disrepair, and ominous clouds covered the skies, but still the expedition trekked forth in search of power for their king.

Every turn held great trepidations for both the soldiers and those brave men whose purpose it was to find the unknown source of power. Starting with an errant bolt of lightning destroying their only vessel, evil quickly reared its head, matters grew out of hand.

The sun set never to rise again. Vile monsters came forth from shadow and feasted on human flesh. The very air poisoned the voyagers’ souls, and when they pressed beyond the domain of the sealed, they, too, found Daemons.

It is unclear whether or not any of the king’s men survived, but what is known, is that a great wizard begot of great wizards sealed the Daemons away as had been done ages prior. For a time, immense destruction was averted. On the island, the worst of dangers subsided, yet disasters lurked behind darkened recesses.

Like men who hunger for power, Daemons hunger, but theirs is a fierce hunger. From a sealed tomb, one Daemon continued to beckon. It continued to prod at the souls of good men. Good will alone does not stay evil, and even good men fall to bad judgment.

A progression of tribulations accosted those left upon the island. Some settled in as there was no alternative, no escape. It was an awful life, but any attempt at sailing away was met with an untimely demise.

The horrid living conditions broke the spirits of men and even twisted some into monstrous creatures. Thirsting for more power, the Daemon sought out and away from the island by ways of hellish rituals. Upon satiating its hunger, it beckoned once more.

Long before the expedition, one good man was promised a power from blood. Seeking vengeance on those whom had done him ill will, he accepted. The practice of Sang Daemanus came to be.

While only men may undergo this ritual, and the power is nearly without limit, most falter at the very mention. Men brave enough to attempt the ritual normally go mad within days. The indomitable are the sole successors to Sang Daemanus, but they are twisted creatures. Often, they do not return alone.

Only now has it come pass that it was this abominable power which the Council of Five had discovered. It was unfortunate that these wizards, advisors to the king who sent the expedition—though cunning—lacked the practical knowledge required to assuage the soul from evil provocation.

Now, deep beneath the island of despair, the wizards seek only reprisal. A broken kingdom is ruled by fear and hatred. The Daemon calls, and the Daemon burns.

Chapter One- Dark shores

Dysart coughed uncontrollably as he attempted to spew salty water from his lungs. The tide forced him into the rocky shore. Having had no choice but to strip himself of armor after his sloop shattered, he incurred several scrapes. His fresh wounds ravaged by the sea had turned sore before even setting foot on the forsaken island. On hands and knees he looked back at the floating debris, but remnants of his escape vessel. What a beginning.

He rolled onto his back—legs still lapped by waves—and with a push of errant, gray braids from his face, he saw the glittering of stars. Was it not day a moment prior? His thoughts gave way to anxiety. Flopping onto his side, he heaved the remaining water from his lungs. Then, he heard something in the darkness.

The sound was rapid, repetitive, like hooves. With eyes darting, he glossed over the surroundings for movement. There were freshly cut tree trunks, a cabin in the distance, a worn path through rocky hills. A twitch of the ears accompanied realization. Bare feet!

Forcing himself to a knee, he whipped his head to the left. A glimpse of a figure clad in raggedy, dark clothing demanded attention. The rabid attacker hissed and delivered a rising kick into Dysart’s flank. A snap followed by the vacuum of wind from lungs ensued. Gasps escaped his mouth while the assailant—frothing at the lips—latched gnarled fingers round his throat.

The two tussled—Dysart coming to his knees, and the rabid man thrashing all about. He brought both forearms from his lap into the attacker’s elbows. The man did not buckle, so Dysart struck both palms into his opponent’s emaciated chest, and the two fell into water. In the sea, they rolled over sharp rocks. The man came to hold Dysart’s face beneath the waves. He scrambled for a stone as salt water rushed into his sinuses.

Once fingers grasped a rough stone, a powerful swing of the rude weapon connected against the wild man’s skull. He fell into the water. Dysart burst forth, secured the man’s throat with his right arm and beat him in the head until there was nothing left. The sea washed away most of the blood, but a glance at his hands revealed not all of it departed.

Taking a breath, he dropped the rock in the water then sniffed his hands. This one was corrupted…that sulfuric scent, pungent. What a waste. He stumbled onto the rocky shore—the restless sea crashing waves behind him—and scanned the dark horizon for the cabin, and then he moved on; bare feet trudging over cold stones. A chill on the night wind brushed over his wet form.

Breathing from his mouth, he was forced to stumble onwards. Adrenaline wore off quickly, and the pain in his flank mounted with each step. He wrapped arms round his torso. Before long, he was shivering uncontrollably.

Roughly hewn logs barely illuminated in the moonless night were close. Another hiss erupted. A man rose from behind an old stump. With arms spread out to the sides, the wild man crashed over the damp soil. Dysart steadied himself for another fight.

Within seconds, the twisted man set upon him. Dysart gripped the wiry creature’s jaw and tossed the assailant through the air. Wasting no time, he pounced; repeated blows unleashed a flat, hacking sound. The scrambling man writhed beneath Dysart’s weight. Then, he bit him, drawing blood from torn flesh. Dysart howled from the separation of his meat from bone. Falling onto his rear, he glared at the man with widened eyes. The grotesque enemy stood quickly before thrusting a knee into Dysart’s chin.

Three sounds swiftly cut through the wind. Each one stopped abruptly with a reverberating thwang. Both Dysart and the wild man held firm. Three arrows protruded from the creature’s chest. He slumped to his knees, so Dysart broke off an arrow, stretched the man’s neck then stuck the splintered shaft into his throat. A gurgle escaped. A trickle of blood spilled from the wound. Death rattled. Dysart sighed. A rough beginning.

Raising Dead by Aaron Dennis

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Raising Dead By Aaron Dennis
Raising Dead By Aaron Dennis

An ancient necromancer seeks but one dream, the power of perfection, the power of immortality. What he finds leaves him speechless. Is he but chasing the wind?

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I heard a story, once…it was about a powerful magician of sorts. He had obtained the power of creation, and as such, decided to craft creatures in his likeness, but because his was a power born of Earth, those creatures, which looked human enough, were impervious to fires.

Truth, it was an odd story, but there is more, you see…. Those creatures often found themselves in the midst of flames for one reason or another. This led to them to the discovery that they were unnatural. Inevitably, they returned to their master asking why it was that such an oddity was prevalent.

“Because I have created you. You are not human.” Such were his responses, and more often than not, those creatures went mad from learning the truth…hmph, truth.

It is has always been about truth, and perhaps it is why I like this story so. Now, here’s my favorite part. One day, that powerful magician found himself chased from his home, due to awful practices no doubt, and so he set up a camp. While sitting at the campfire, a creature, we’ll say it was a wolf. I am partial to wolves…but that is another story for another time.

Anyhow, this wolf attacked, and the magician fell into the fire. To his dismay, it did not burn. You see…he, too, had been created, but by whom? He had no way to learn such.

Why do I like this story? I like truth. It never plays out the way we expect. It is not a pure light. It is not epiphany. No, my, no.

Often, truth is a dark and murky thing; a veil of sorts, which we must learn to wield in ways proper to the culmination of our very own and personal life experiences.

What is my truth? Well, let’s say…death is not the end, and leave it at that.

He calls himself a necromancer

Gaulder ran across the valley of ash enroute to Cormaire’s lair. T’was valley was rife with death. Ancient bones, or cinders thereof, remained strewn about the gnarled and blackened trees. Puffs of ash kicked up behind the man’s wake.

Cormaire, the necromancer—as he called himself due to his practices involving unlife—hid away deep in the valley of ash. His lair, a cave beneath the putrid land, was denoted by a wicked entrance. The cave mouth was carved from a lone stone, which stood near the center of the valley; a stone chiseled to resemble a disfigured and pear-shaped head. Rows of teeth lined the maws of the head—the actual entry.

Ducking his head to enter, Gaulder clutched a bundle of gray cloths; an item master Cormaire required to create a revenant was ensconced within. Being an apprentice meant being a liaison of sorts, and because Cormaire was unable to travel into town—it was an unworthy risk to his life—Gaulder ran errands in exchange for knowledge.

The young man in tattered, dark clothing worked his way through the labyrinth of stone corridors. Each hallway was alighted by torches perched in sconces. Eternally, they burned. Finally spilling into the sepulcher, the apprentice spotted the bent, aging necromancer pulling entrails from a recently deceased.

“Master,” Gaulder called.

“Mm?” Cormaire mumbled without giving his attention.

Instead he dumped the viscera into a bronze bucket.

“It was no mean feat, but…I have it,” Gaulder announced with a smile.

“Yes. Bring it into the light.”

Gaulder swallowed hard. The master was neither pleasant to work with, nor look upon. Mostly, the man was covered in dark robes. Even with the hood pulled low over his face, the wizard exuded power, and a foul odor. Gaulder approached the stone worktable where the dead subject lay with chest cavity open.

“Here,” Gaulder whispered, placing the bundle adjacent the body.

Cormaire waved his apprentice off before unwrapping the bundle. Amidst the gray cloths was a polished piece of amber the size of a child’s fist. Encased within was a dried, angel trumpet flower.

“It was not easy to obtain.”

“Powerful items seldom are.”

“How, how does it work?”

The old man walked around the worktable. A plethora of ancient tomes sat on rotting shelves behind him. Candlelight flickered. Cormaire drew back his hood revealing deep wrinkles. He smiled like a Cheshire cat; his teeth surprisingly clean. The apprentice shuddered.

“Revenants, my boy, are particularly difficult to raise,” Cormaire explained. “Firstly, the body must have perished from unnatural causes, and the bloodier the better. Next, as you just saw, the entrails, gallbladder, and bladder must be removed. Then, the cavity is stuffed with chaff bound in burlap…this is to keep the body dry.

“Now, we prefer as little trauma to the brain as possible, lest our raised be a simpleton. Furthermore, I prefer to add multiple adrenal glands. These can be obtained from any dead person, so long as they are not overly decayed. Splicing the glands into the body is a rather simple task, and it provides our revenant with boundless strength and endurance.

“Finally, the dried flower encased in amber is used to tie the deceased’s spiritual nature to the aether; the…between, if you will. If this is not done, a revenant will be unable to follow the orders of the necromancer–”

Gaulder made the mistake of interrupting by saying, “But, master, the others didn’t require–”

The master’s eyes turned fierce. A furrow creased his brow, and his jowls sank at the corners. The dread immediately filled Gaulder’s heart. He looked away.

“Are you finished trying to tell your master what you think is correct?” Cormaire hissed.

Gaulder nodded emphatically. The necromancer’s demeanor relaxed, and he continued his lesson.

“Revenants are refined creatures. They are unlike the boorish zombies, or ghouls, which any inexperienced Necromancer can raise. Revenants need a connecting link between the world of the living, and the world of the dead.”

“What purpose do they serve?”

“Ah,” Cormaire nodded, approvingly. “A most intelligent question. Revenants nearly pass for the living. With the proper series of incantations, this…young thief, here, can certainly be mistaken for a drunken ne’er-do-well.”

“And what will you have him do for you?”

Cormaire grinned again.

Expedition by Aaron Dennis

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Expedition By Aaron Dennis
Expedition By Aaron Dennis

King Eidon of Ilteriel learns of a new island, far to the south. He sends an expedition in search of new resources, allies, and power. Jorunhaal, Ilteriel’s greatest warrior, is to lead the expedition. Upon setting foot on the island, one disaster after another occurs. The men battle small were-wolves, fall prey to a foul sickness in the air, and uncover demons once sealed away.

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The rhythmic sound of low waves crashing onto the sand was a relaxing melody to the ears of Jorunhaal. He was a great and mighty warrior; legends of his triumph over an entire clan of Medsai, though exaggerated, stuck to him like his own shadow. He was young, yet, and taught the various weapons of Ilteriel by the finest warriors who preceded him. King Eidon placed him in charge of the team of eighteen men and women. His sole purpose was to keep the expedition safe.

A few weeks at sea brought the ship of warriors and workers to golden sands. They had arrived on the island as their king had wished. Jorunhaal methodically scanned his surroundings. The broad-shouldered and burly man saw hills in the distance, mountains stood beyond.

“Sotha, unpack the furs and linens first,” Jorunhaal ordered.

Having only just anchored the ship, he knew his fellow party members were weary, and erecting camp was of the utmost importance. Sotha, a lithe woman who bore her age well, was charged with inventory, logging discovery, and sound planning. She was tasked with returning accurate information to Eidon’s hands.

“Aye,” she replied while shielding her eyes from the bright sun.

She wore traditional clothes, heavy linens. Her hair was thick and dark. Her eyes sparkled with a keen intelligence.

A warm wind caressed the backs of the party as they worked to erect tents, unload crates of supplies, and finally relax. During the hours that passed, Jorunhaal took stock of the immediate surroundings. About what I would expect, he thought. Blue waves continued crashing against golden sand. The beach before him was pristine, and the wind, heavy with salt. A few trees grew about. They had tall, straight trunks, light brown in color with a tuft of short, squat, green leaves at their tops.

Before long, night settled above the party. It was clear and many stars shone brightly over the island; prosperity seemed to be in the air. The men and women were glad to be in a new place. As they ate and drank around a large fire they conversed about what they might find, the proper steps to take, and much more.

“You think there are no men, here? No dangers,” Wilheim the mage asked in an accusatory tone.

The codger was balding and what little gray hair remained laid loosely over his shoulders. He had a hard face; years of magical practice left it worn and creased, a perpetual scowl. He continued arguing with another.

“I never said that, old man,” Durro, captain of the soldiers, replied.

Hunting by Aaron Dennis

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Mr. Gray has been hunting zombies for a long time. Hiding, scavenging, killing-this is surviving now. As Gray moves from town to city, and city to prairie, he leaves a few notes for others in his travels, but who is looking out for him?

In the year 2017 a worldwide calamity befalls the population. Poison clouds cause strange afflictions relegating major portions of the populace as a sort of walking dead. Among them Mr. Gray is not affected and decides to go off hunting. Hiding, scavenging, and killing his way across the States Gray keeps sane by writing in his journal. After food and other supplies run low he moves from town to town before coming across a farmhouse.

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Mr. Gray is asleep in a storage unit. Before giving in to exhaustion, he checked it for rats and roaches. He hates roaches. They have a symbiotic relationship with some kind of worm, like the worm is piloting some biological machine; freaky.

In this day, in this age, traveling is survival. Mr. Gray has been traveling for some time. He abandoned the last town soon as supplies ran out. Supplies always run out quick. It’s a tough decision to leave when zombies are dead and there is clean water. There was no more food, though, and Mr. Gray can’t farm or hunt, but not because he is incapable.

The soil in town looked good, but there were no seeds. Even if there were seeds, they are useless. Today’s seeds are genetically modified. They can’t be replanted for harvest, so the food supply is not sustainable. Hunting is futile, too, unless one hunts zombies. Zombies don’t qualify as food. They make people get sick and die. It’s always time to move.

Many hills line the area between town, and the storage units. It’s been cold lately, and Mr. Gray stumbled across a unit with blankets. The plan was to get some rest and then check each unit for food and other supplies. He has to keep clean or run the risk of illness.

With a quiet groan, he does a full-bodied stretch. He wakes fully, turns on his LED camping lantern, and immediately starts a stretch routine to loosen his tightness. The soft, blue light illuminates the tiny room. Once the stretches are over, he wraps up his blankets and stacks them neatly in the corner. There wasn’t anything useful in the storage unit other than blankets.

With the folding done, he turns to his black backpack. From it, he pulls out extra clothing. Because of the lowering temperature, he knows it is unwise to wear all of his clothes when going to sleep, especially if it’s getting colder. The body acclimates. Sleeping while wearing everything to keep warm keeps the body from warming up by its own accord after waking. It’s best to sleep a little cold and then don the remaining clothing when getting up.

Mr. Gray Pulls out three, additional pairs of long, black socks and puts them on his feet. He pulls out his black beanie with the eye holes. He has a pair of black, leather gloves, too. Instead of slipping them on, he slips a black, wool sweater on over his black, long sleeve tee, and leaves his protective gear lying next to him.

There are a few storage bins in there, the colored plastic ones. He opens one. It’s full of pots and pans. He pees in it and closes it then goes back to his gear, rubber backed rugs sliced and diced to contour his body.

There are a few small pieces for his thighs, calves, forearms, upper arms, and one that slides over his torso. He uses a piece of wetsuit as padding in his trousers. The rubber pieces are cinched with belts through slots he cut with his knife. Like a ritual, he straps on all his gear. Next, he takes out a can of dog food.

Bon apatite. He pulls the lid and scoops the food into his mouth with his fingers and licks them clean. Now, it’s time for the gloves. Gloves are annoying. Every time you put them on you gotta’ rub something out of your eyes.

After more stretches to loosen his knees—a good hunter keeps his body in good shape—he slides on the gloves. One can’t afford injury. Health supplies are hard to find and an injury, no matter how small, can give a zombie the leg up.

Eudora by Aaron Dennis

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Are we not all taught who we are supposed to be? What if who we are conflicts with who we want to be? She was taught to be Eudora, but she must be something quite different.

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Things have a funny way of working out. The irony is that no matter what one does, how hard someone tries to become something, to make something of oneself, those forces at large have a way of putting things back the way they were, the way they were meant to be. Eudora was no exception.

It was a balmy day. The sun was setting. Eudora, with her abnormally large teeth, thick rimmed black glasses, pasty white skin, stringy, black hair pulled back tightly—save the bangs; they hung loosely to either side of her face—she was not the image of beauty. Her big, blue braces moved up and down as she spoke. Maybe it was the braces, or the big, fake teeth in the front, but she spoke like her tongue was too big for her mouth.

They sat on the hood of the old, gray Cadillac, Eudora and her friends. They weren’t her friends of course, but she didn’t understand the difference. They were Charlie’s friends. He was her younger brother. They were quite a few years apart.

“You should just go ask him, Eudora”, Patty said. She was a tall, strawberry blonde with a light tan. “He’s been giving you the eye all day.”

“I can’t do that. I never even said hello to him before. He’ll just laugh at me.”

Eudora’s response was more out of knowledge and certainty than sadness. Sadness held no real meaning for her.

“Well, whatever, it’s not like he’s got anyone anyway. Larry ain’t exactly prince charmin’, is he?” Joe sniped.

He was Patty’s boyfriend, but not in the traditional way of family values. This time it was the 70’s, but before it was the 70’s it was just a dark basement with nothing to do, but scratch at the walls. People in the 70’s were a concept Eudora was unable to grasp—Eudora isn’t from this time; she isn’t from anytime, really….

Charlie was coming home from work. He was trying to make enough money over the summer to apply at the local, community college come winter. His grandfather helped him get a job at the mill, and Charlie was learning all sorts of things; how to work the lathe, the planer; he smoothed boards like it was no one’s business, but these things didn’t interest him. He, like his sister, was born in one life, but was learning to become someone else.

College was his ticket. He’d turn from a sweet, country boy to a calculating businessman, or that was the goal anyway. Unlike his sister, he was dark and fair haired. Most people never guessed they were family, except they shared their grandfather’s features; slim nose, big eyes, blue, all three of them.

Charlie pulled up in his Ford pick-up alongside the Cadillac. Dust kicked up. Joe and Patty covered their eyes and patted themselves off. Not Eudora, maybe it was her glasses, maybe it was something else; she never made an effort to dust herself off either. She just looked at her brother. Her oversized pearly whites and blue braces showed as she grinned.

“Hello Charlie,” she spoke with that chunky tongue.

“Heya’, Dora,” he replied and smiled back. “I saw Larry leaving. Did you say hello?”

“No, Charlie, maybe I see him tomorrow.”

“Well,” he was pensive. “Maybe we should have him over for dinner tomorrow. You and Gramps can whip up something nice.”

Michael Myers

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michael myers halloween

I’ve been a pretty big Halloween fan for a while, but apart from the original Halloween, I just haven’t really been impressed. I decided it’s time for me to write a Halloween fanfiction, and I’m just calling it: Michael Myers.

This horror is basically written from the point of view of Michael; he’s the protagonist, not the antagonist, and I promise you all, you’ve never seen Michael Myers like this.

Halloween is probably one of the best known horror flicks, and it’s certainly done very well, but I’m just not sure it’s aged well. Rob Zombie tried to retell the story, and don’t misunderstand, I love Rob Zombie, but I think this new version of Michael Myers is going to be better than Halloween.

Big words, I know, but here’s the prologue and the first chapter of Michael Myers, a Halloween Fanfiction, by Aaron Dennis. That’s me…I’m Aaron Dennis….

 

Michael Myers was three years old and hadn’t spoken a word, uttered a single sound, not even cried for his mother’s breast. When his mother tried to enroll him in school, it was discovered the boy was most likely autistic; the way he rocked back and forth, the way he waved his hand in front of his eyes, the way he ran soft things like stuffed bunnies over his skin was a dead giveaway.

Rather than waste the effort to place the boy in special education, his mom married another man, had another kid, a baby girl. No one cared about Michael Myers, the freak, the simpleton. About three years went by before the boy snapped.

His little sister had been tickling his face with a toy, makeup brush. He liked the feeling, and he found his mother’s makeup brush in her bathroom. He stood in front of the mirror of the dimly lit, damp, and grungy room, and without an expression, he traced circles around his eyes….

 

Chapter One

 

“Give me that, you little brat,” the woman shouted.

Startled, Michael dropped the brush into the sink and turned to see the woman. She swooped down with a clawed hand like an eagle’s talon and swiped him clean across the face. His chin bounced off the ceramic, and he fell noisily onto the green, soiled rug. When the woman snatched him from the ground, his arms flailed out for balance, and he knocked over a pair of scissors.

“You a little faggot, huh?” the woman yelled as she shook him. She slapped him again, across the other cheek, shoved his face in the mirror, and the blood from the gash over his chin smeared over the glass. “You like paintin’ your face, you little girl?”

Grabbing him by the hair, she dragged him over to the toilet, forced his face down into the closed lid, and started punching him in the back. The boy didn’t make a sound. No tears fell from his eyes. There wasn’t any pain.

Finally, she stopped and stood back, with smug arrogance, to observe her punishment. Michael turned around. She was holding the brush.

The boy looked from the brush to the woman’s face; her look of haughty derision was lost on him, so he glanced at the blood smeared mirror, and back to the woman; he started lightly tapping his cheek bone, just beneath the eye. She snapped the brush in half and threw it at him. When he bent down to pick up the half with the brush on the end, she let out a blood curdling scream and slapped him over the head. Though he saw stars for a moment, he looked up. She cut the bristles off the brush with the scissors, dropped the scissors on the counter, booted the boy back into the tub, flipped the toilet lid up, and dropped the bristles into the bowl. When the boy went to look in the bowl, she flushed.

Immediately, Michael pushed past her, took the scissors from the counter, and began stabbing. He stabbed at the woman’s legs, her knees, her hips, and when she fell back, screaming in agony, he climbed on top of her and stabbed over, and over, and over again. Blood flew, painting the walls, the woman, the mirror, the boy.

Suddenly, over the commotion, Michael heard the man. He had come to the bathroom too late, but that didn’t stop him from latching fingers around Michael’s throat. He squeezed, cutting off the air, but Michael raised his hand, the bloody scissors still in his grip, and he brought them down into the man’s arm.

Crying, and scrambling back on his hands and seat, the man was thwarted by the soiled, green rug. He covered no ground, and Michael let loose all his fury. The final blow of the scissors left the tool in the man’s eye. Michael Myers was free to return to the bedroom he shared with his sister. She tickled his face with her toy brush.

Thanks for reading Michael Myers, a Halloween Fanfiction by Aaron Dennis.

That’s only the beginning–I’ve written more–you’ll have to wait until next week for the next chapter.

In the meantime, come check me out at Smashwords where, for the month of July, you can get a bunch of my work for free or at a 75% discount.

You can also check out this post to learn how to make money from selling my books through Smashwords. Smashwords accounts are free to make, so if you don’t have one, don’t wait for Michael Myers to come out…make one now, and see what all I have!

Some of it is horror, some scifi or fantasy, some fanfiction, all of it is awesome!

Thanks again, like, share, all that.

Calling all voice actors, voice over artists, and book vloggers!

1 Reply

How would you like to keep doing exactly what you’re doing, not a change a damn thing, and earn more money? Did I get your attention?

earn money with affiliate marketing

earn money with affiliate marketing

You’re brilliant, patient, and have a sonorous voice. You use it to convey emotions. It’s your art that elicits our passion, dreams, and aspirations, and rightfully so, you use your talent to earn a living. This is why I want to call your attention and preface the following information by saying that books are turned into movies, television shows, motion comic books, and video games, all of which need voice actors.

Many of you have YouTube accounts, and you showcase your wonderful talent. Every time you read something, a script, a novel, a short story, a review, anything, you post the video to YouTube, and your channel draws numerous visitors and subscribers.

By utilizing Google AdSense and other third party advertisers, you generate income, and that’s great. Sometimes, you sell your services to companies like Audible, and you perform readings of books, but what if there was an additional way to augment your income, which required absolutely no more work, no more effort, than what you’re already putting into your occupation?

What if on top of augmenting your income, you were also able to create more and more videos to showcase your stunning talent? You also want to get more likes and subscribers to your YouTube channel, right?

Peep this reading of The Dragon of Time, Gods and Dragons.

This book and performance was the winner of a book reading, but what if you had a chance to read this book, any book, out loud and upload it to your YouTube account. Your performance certainly sells that book to interested readers, right? You certainly deserve compensation for your efforts, don’t you? With more videos, you’ll surely get more likes and subscribers to your YouTube channel, and that means more exposure, more income.

What if you were paid every time that a book sold a copy? What if every time that a book sold, you earned a dollar? A dollar isn’t much, but if you add that dollar to the income you already earn from ads, it’s a great bonus, especially if you sold multiple books regularly. Ten books a day is suddenly ten dollars a day, that’s an additional $300 a month…not to mention that the additional likes and subscribers means more revenue from Google AdSense.

Here’s what I’m doing, and here’s where I want you to participate and earn more money by reading books, performing, selling books, and getting more likes and subscribers to your YouTube channel.

Smashwords books have affiliate referral links on their buy pages. Down at the bottom of the Smashwords page for They Lurk Among Us, Lokians 2, the second book of the Lokians scifi series, you can plainly see a URL, and you can also see that you can earn 25% of the sale. Not all Smashwords authors provide such a high referral income, but I do, and sometimes, I offer more than 25%, but never less, so if you perform a reading of They Lurk Among Us, Lokians 2, and people see your performance, and they buy They Lurk Among Us, Lokians 2 through your referral link, you earn a dollar from the sale, and you earn more money than just utilizing Google AdSense.

smashwords affiliate marketing aaron dennis

smashwords affiliate marketing aaron dennis

Now, imagine performing a reading of hundreds of books, books you don’t even have to purchase because you can download free samples of the books, and choose your preferred section to perform. For absolutely no cost, you can download a free sample of any of my books, perform a reading, and place your referral URL in that YouTube video, and then when people buy that book because of your performance, you earn more money.

Easy income, right? Free income from downloading free samples of great books!

There’s no hassle, no cost, and you’re just doing what you already love doing, speaking!

You do need to make a Smashwords account, but the account is free, and then your special referral URL automatically appears at the bottom of every book’s buy page, and all you do is place that URL in the video description or in the video itself.

In order to receive your compensation, you just link your Paypal account to your Smashwords account; it’s all free, it’s all easy, it requires no additional work or money, and there are thousands of free stories you can also download and read—all genres; scifi, fantasy, romance, horror.

How much fun would it be to just read stories for a living?

Here’s a link to my page on Smashwords, so that you can see all of my stories, and they are of numerous genres.

Many of them are free, but if you perform a reading of those titles, and upload your performance to your YouTube channel, you can earn easy money through the ad revenue. Then, to augment your earnings, you can download the free portions of my priced books, and perform those readings, too. Just add the referral URL to your video, and when people buy the book through your link, you get paid.

Sounds easy? Sounds too good to be true? Sounds like affiliate marketing? It is easy easy. It is not too good to be true. It is affiliate marketing—affiliate marketing simplified.

No third party software, no pay per click, no extra work or effort, absolutely no cost to you, but you get all the benefits; you get a free story or sample, you get to stretch your vocal muscles, you get to showcase your talents, you get to add videos for more ad revenue, and likes, and subscribers, and you get to enjoy fantasy, scifi, horror, romance, whatever, and you get free money whenever anyone purchases a book through your link.

You can do this for any book you want, but remember that most Smashwords authors won’t be giving you 25% or more of their sales, but even the customary 11% is nice.

Think about it. If you’re already a YouTube hit, everyone will come to view your readings. If you’re not a YouTube hit…yet, you can certainly become one by adding numerous performances—just imagine having hundreds of videos on your YouTube account all from various genres; scifi, fantasy, horror, romance, whatever you want, and so you can showcase your range, and all the while, you earn tons of cash and exposure.

You already love voice acting. You are an actor, a voice actor, and if you so choose, you can showcase your acting talents by staging actual performances with a group of friends—group readings, whatever you want. There are no limits to what you can accomplish with this wonderful opportunity, and we all benefit.

Maybe, you’re not a voice actor. Maybe, you’re just a reader, a lover of the written word, and you enjoy reviewing your favorite books on your book review vlog. You can still earn an income through both Google AdSense and Smashwords referral URLs—affiliate marketing simplified. Like I said, we all benefit.

I benefit because you’re giving me exposure. You benefit because you earn a cut of my profits, you earn more through more ads, and voice actors can certainly land more jobs from the added exposure. To top it off, fans of reading benefit from learning of new material.

If you’d like more information, you can check out this post as well.

You can also see that more and more people are searching for simplified affiliate marketing—more people are finding ways to earn money by doing what they love, free from the shackles of laborious jobs.

You definitely want to jump on this before the competition gets heavy, and I promise you, in about six months, a year, everyone will be reading books on YouTube, selling books on YouTube, reviewing books on YouTube.

Look at all the book review vlogs! It won’t be long before all the book review vloggers learn they can earn an actual living by doing what they’re already doing—selling books to consumers by reviewing them in vlog format. I also know people are taking advantage of streaming, so stream some readings, and provide the referral URL on your website, blog, or social media accounts!

Yup, this isn’t just a call to professional, voice actors; this is a call to anyone with a voice, anyone who enjoys reading, anyone who enjoys reviewing, speaking, acting.

Start earning more money today by reading books, streaming, making videos, and making vlogs. It’s your performance, your art, your interest, your passion that sells books, so earn more by doing what you already love, and at no cost, no additional effort.

Book review vloggers, when you review A Song of Ice and Fire, does Bantam pay you? Does George Martin? No, but people, your fans, certainly by those books because of your praise. Does J.K. Rowling pay you whenever you read or praise Harry Potter on your review site or review vlog? No, but I will; every time you review a book, and it sells, it sells because of your hard work, and you deserve a cut of the profit.

Start earning more money today. Streaming, blogs, vlogs—the internet is designed for you to take advantage of what you love doing; you can earn more doing what you love and without having to beg people to donate to your crowdfund campaign, or YouTube channel, or website, or whatever.

Now is the time to break away from the mainstream crap. This is the indie age, an age where anyone can earn money by providing the world a service, and your service is one of the best. Show the world what you can do, what you enjoy, get exposure, and start earning more money.