Things You Will NEVER Be too Old For

Things You Will NEVER Be too Old For


New video! YYYAAAAAYYYYY!!!!! It's been FOREVER, so sorry about that, but now I've finally gotten some filmed and in the editing process. I ran into so many problems trying to shoot during the summer, so I kinda just gave up for a while, but it seems to be going fine now. So here ya go, and hopefully I can get back into the semi-weekly groove.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIAvZ8wufMI




c. Taylor Ward 2013. All rights reserved.

GRIM Chapter 6

GRIM Chapter 6

HERE IT FINALLY IS. So sorry it took this long guys, but here you have it. I am going to start writing several at a time now, so that I don't slack and come in a month later and be like "oops."

This one follows the same characters that were in chapter 2, so if you need a recap, go there. The next one will feature a new storyline to mix in with the long, intertwining plot. 

So without further ado, here you have it: 

CHAPTER 6

J A C O B

AIR FORCE ONE

JULY 7, 1969

10:13 A.M.

            The barf bag is perhaps the most ingenious invention ever created by man.

            I sat within the blue cushions of the conference room, alone, right hand clutching a tonic bottle and left clasped against the armrest with a little brown bag between my thumb and forefinger. My stomach thrashed like a cat caught in a washing machine.

            The President was in his office as I waited, finishing his final investigations of the photos he had shown me earlier. Copies of them were strewn about the conference room table, reflecting the overhead white lights and the gray overcast of the world outside.

            I took a swig and then set the bottle heavily down on the wooden table. Empty.

            There was a meeting scheduled in this room, set to happen in about five minutes. And I was the only one present.

            The skull warped into the photo taken in the halls of the White House still shook me, no matter how many times I looked at it, no matter how many times I tried to stare into its eyes and not be afraid. It continued to reach into my soul and tell me that everything was not well.

            I could only hope that Area 51 held answers to this mystery. And it had better; I hated flying, and that one was perhaps the longest one of my life.

            My walkie sparked to life and crackled randomly. I picked it up and pressed the button.

            “WHAT?”

            And on the air, instead of coming from one of the workers on the plane or the President or his secretary, all I heard were clicks. Strange clicks, but not from a machine, from what sounded like a human with strep throat.

            The voice was like gravel scraped beneath an iron boot.

            I took my feet off of the conference table and leaned in, trying to see if it was just the distortion on perfect English, but I could still only hear clicks. Like a sort of rabid Morse code it went on, the pulsing the same but the rhythm uneven.

            I fell slowly into a trance.

            The door swung ajar, and I leaned back, Mr. Nixon entering the room. I stood up and offered him my chair out of respect, quickly swiping the walkie off of the table and breaking it, the batteries flying out of the device and sliding to the back of the room. We were ascending.

            “I’ll take this one,” he said, pulling back the chair opposite the table from mine and sitting down. Oddly, he was alone.

            His briefcase was dark leather brown. He set it on the table and held the buckles in hand as he turned his eyes to me. I instantly pretended, in my mind, that the clicking never happened.

            I sat down and Mr. Nixon spoke with a hint of controlled urgency in his voice.

            “Mr. Dawn, we have a problem.”

            I nodded and tried to be nonchalant about the bottle of tonic on the table. Hopefully I could swipe it before he noticed.

            “What is it?”

            “The transmission lines of the plane have gone haywire. We can’t communicate with the landing pad of the base. And we can’t land in any local airport. We have to use a plan B.”

            “And that is?”

            He opened the briefcase.

            “Manual pickup.”

            Inside was a stack of papers. They were written in numbers, letters, probably a sort of code.

            “I need you to deliver these to the man next to the pilot. He will be wearing a black suit with a red tie, and will carry a matching briefcase.”

            What did he mean by “manual pickup?”

            I took the papers and examined them. The numbers were random, but I could start to see a pattern, or at least a recurring sequence. Five numbers, in the same order, spelled out one word in code:

            1-12-9-5-14.

            I didn’t ask him about that word. Instead I tried to get the details straight.

            “What do you mean, ‘manual pickup?’ And what pilot? Pilot of what?”

            He opened his mouth to speak and then looked down and his eyes met the bottle. I shut my eyes out of annoyance.

            I waited for it. My berating. My re-assigning. My badge being taken away. Drinking on the job.

            And to my surprise, he didn’t say anything about it. He just pushed it off of the table.

            He must have trusted me that much.

            The President folded his hands and leaned on the table, his face somber and dark. The light outside seemed to fade and the clouds gathered even more intensely.

            “Jacob, the papers in your hand are coded transmissions sent out from an unidentified source in Africa to Area 51. According to the memos sent to me just recently, the source is a spy sent there to take care of a cell of drug smugglers in the  country of Ethiopia.”

            “What does anything in Africa have to do with this skull photo?”

            “That was my question exactly, however, I have recently received several transcripts of the messages sent, and the reason you and I are sitting here, right now, on this very plane to Nevada, is that there was one word that appeared in each of the transmissions.” He paused. “Would you like to know what that word is?”

            I was apprehensive, but I nodded. His tone was what threw me off, not his words.

            “ALIEN.”

            Before I could speak, the walkie on the floor grunted to life and the clicking noise returned, this time louder and more audible. I could not hear what was going over the airwaves, but knew that the world had twisted as I picked it up slowly.

            Nixon trembled.

            “What on—”

            I turned it thrice in hand to reveal that the batteries were still strewn about the floor.

More stuff coming soon!

           

           

           

           

           

           

        

EMPIRE Prologue

EMPIRE Prologue

Allo! This is either the last or second-to-last prologue for a possible NaNoWriMo story. I'm going to be much more active on the blog during the month, posting things like quotes and small excerpts and character profiles. I just have to decide which story I want to write first.

I've been cranking out stuff these past months. I'm soon going to finish NINE (remember that one?), my first-ever-completed novel, and then I'm going to finish "The Orchid," my next one, which is the beginning of a trilogy, and then there's November, and...it's complicated. But I do have a plan. And Saturday marks chapter 6 of GRIM, so stay tuned, and the next video will be up today or tomorrow.

In the meantime, here's EMPIRE, a sci-fi series that follows a young criminal in the future, where the world is divided up into different "districts," essentially states, which each have their own government and their own militaries, etc. Aliens have arrived on Earth, in fact, that was a long time ago, and they are now the norm in society. Great human empires can rise and fall just as quickly as a cutthroat scavenger. Anything goes in EMPIRE, the first book: Tyrant. And this young criminal is one awesome fella who realizes that there are plenty of much awesomer fellas out there.

E M P I R E

T Y R A N T

  

GREATNESS CAN NEVER BE PERFECT.

ONE

DEEP STORAGE

DISTRICT 42

2248

     “INTRUDER. INTRUDER. UNIDENTIFIED. CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS.”

     The words of the blaring voice over the intercom are ones I’m used to hearing. Like so many times before, naturally, I ignore them, focusing instead on the vault.

     The door is square, from floor to ceiling, with multiple gears protruding from it at random intervals. This is how District 42 always wins; they create technology that, while not too complicated, has never been seen before. I use my right hand to spin the gears in different directions, cracking the code after the first three tries. Lucky me. My left holds a small device, just a flat little piece of glass with a display projected on its surface. It monitors the progress in opening the door.

     The room surrounding me is not very big; only a few meters of each wall, with a single automated door opposite the vault that has been sealed shut by none other than yours truly.

     Gunshots behind me.

     “ATTENTION INTRUDER! YOU ARE UNDER ARREST! SURRENDER YOUR WEAPONS AND OPEN THE DOOR, OR THE ROOM WILL BE GASSED!”

     I just roll my eyes. If someone can get this far past their defenses, then they will be too intrigued to gas me. So I continue to hack into the vault. Almost there.

     “THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE!”

     The vault door is unlocked. Doing a silent cheer, I step back and pick up my black utility bag, slinging it over my shoulder and waiting to see what’s beyond the defenses. My employer must have some guts to try and get whatever District 42 has in deep storage.

     As the door slowly and creakily slides open, releasing a thick haze of steam in its wake. I drop to one knee and unzip the black duffel bag. Inside are several packs of C4 and a detonator, sitting comfortably in the bag as if they couldn’t kills me with the snap of their fiery fingers.

     The men on the other side of the door are silent now. They can hear the vault opening. Maybe I actually will get to steal something.

     But then I see what’s inside.

     Rows upon rows of glass cases atop black metal pedestals, each one containing a perfectly-cut, glittering, transparent diamond, identical to the rest. I should’ve KNOWN that District 42 would always be one step ahead of me.

     One of these diamonds is worth half a million bucks. And the rest are fake.

     The room with the diamonds is HUGE, with a cylindrical shape that shoots up from the floor to some ceiling that is entirely out of my range of sight. The walls are made of shiny black panels, arranged so that they perfectly fit together. The only light comes from the floor, which is one big, smooth light panel. District 42 is so much smarter than I am. And I was too stupid to think twice.

     I sling my silver, rusted LG-435 over my shoulder and hold it in place, dropping the duffel bag on the ground and leaving it in the vault doorway. Holding the gun up at a ready position, I quietly proceed into the room and make my way between the fake treasures.

     District 42 is so frustratingly clever. They KNEW that lasers or automatic wall-mounted turrets or cameras would be too easy to stop. So they placed the diamond within one of the most simple yet effective tests a man could attempt to pass. Those little suckers.

     The door in the room outside the vault slides open easily now, without even being blasted open. In rush two Infantrymen, training much more advanced rifles, ones made of jet-black metal, on me, the red dots caressing my forehead. The men wear white combat suits with shoulder padding and small armor plates on their limbs. Their gloves have no fingers, and their faces are covered by sleek white helmets with black visors.

     “Drop your weapon,” commands the one on the right, his voice metallic and cold through the helmet speaker. I do so; they’ve got me.

     Almost.

     The other Infantryman stoops down and picks up the C4 bag. He looks inside and then drops it back on the ground.

     “Bag contains primitive explosives. Proceed with caution.”

     “What is your prime directive? Who is your employer?” inquires the other. He holds his gun with even more focus. The Infantryman opposite him presses a button on his helmet, presumably to communicate.

     “Commander, we have him. Send word to the Operator,” he says. I can’t hear the response.

     “I was sent to recover the Specter Diamond, by someone with a lot of bling.”

     They do not respond at first. I just told them everything I know, and that's the truth.

     “Put your hands on your head and prepare for arrest,” commands the one on the right, “The Operator awaits.”

     I slowly do as they say, pulling something out of my back pocket. The detonator. They may have my gun taken, but I still have the advantage.

     When my hands are on my head, I stand silently and wait as the left Infantryman proceeds to search me. He fumbles through my black leather jacket, my jean pockets, even scans my dog tags for any possible threat. He finishes quickly and then steps back, his gun still pointed at me.

     “Identify yourself.”

     I hesitate a moment. “You don’t need to know who I am. Only my employer.”

     “Who is?”

     And I honestly don’t know the answer to that.

     “No idea. Ask the people that kidnapped me a few weeks ago and had a gun to my head."

     The one on the left shakes his head.

     “Probably one of those pirates,” he grunts, “Think they can steal from District 42.”

     So the people here are cocky. Noted.

     I keep my hands on my head as at least ten more Infantrymen take their positions in a line guarding the door, each with their rifles trained on my head. The two who found me first are lost in the crowd.

     “Hello boys,” I remark, “There still aren’t enough of you to take me.”

     “Is that a challenge?”

     An unaltered male voice from behind the line of troopers shuts me up. All I can hear are footsteps as the person approaches. And I recognize the voice.

     “You know, when I asked the Operator himself to keep the Specter Diamond safe, I didn’t know anyone knew of its actual existence,” he says, stepping past the Infantrymen to face me, his hands behind his back. “But apparently, I was wrong.”

     John C. LaBeaux. The richest man in the world.

     He is just barely taller than me, and he is a sight to behold. His hair is slicked back entirely and I think it glints green from the floor light. He wears red reflective Aviators, and his mouth is framed by a heavy five o’ clock shadow. His suit is a dark green color with a bright red bow tie. Like Christmas, but with one too many presents.

     “Gentlemen, if someone actually KNEW about the diamond, then they wouldn’t be your average pirate. Lower your weapons.”

     The Infantrymen comply.

     “So, tell me your name, age, home District, and favorite type of wine,” he commands, standing with his head held high.

     “My favorite wine?”

     He grunts as if it were obvious. “Yes, so I can plan your last meal before I strip you of your clothes and hang you from the outermost wall by your shoelaces.”

     I gulp. What scares me is how calmly he says it.

     Might as well.

     “My name is Drake Xavier,” I inform him, trying to be proud and firm, “I am twenty-five years old and an orphan from the Burg. And I don’t drink.”

     “Well, that’s surprising, considering you just tried to break into the most high-security chamber in the most powerful city in the most powerful district on earth.”

     I cock my head and grin.

     “Except, I’m not done,” I say, slowly lowering my hands from my head and revealing the detonator. “You see, you’ve forgotten something.”

     “What’s that?”

     “The bag of C4 behind you.”

     I hold my thumb over the detonator button threateningly as the Infantrymen and LaBeaux turn to see the bomb sitting on the glowing floor.

     “So,” I continue, “Unless you want to be blown sky-high, I suggest you back off.”

     The Infantrymen slowly lower their guns in confusion and a bit of fear, but LaBeaux just stands there.

     “Anyone arrogant enough to try and break into THIS vault is too arrogant to blow themselves up,” he mocks, staring me coldly in the eyes. “Put the detonator down.”

     I don’t. Duh.

     He shakes his head and looks down at the floor. “Oh, Drake, so naïve. You really think that—”

     Before he even continues his SENTENCE, he whips a silver pistol out of his suit pocket and fires one shot straight into my leg. I scream in pain and drop the detonator, hitting the ground HARD and clutching the wound.

     “You really think that I’m the richest man in the world and I don’t carry at least SOME sort of weapon around?”

     I can’t even respond as he looms over me menacingly. My vision begins to go red around the edges.

     “It’s time for you to meet the Operator,” he says before I pass out, “This ought to be interesting.”

c. Taylor Ward 2013. All rights reserved.