Lone Ranger<\/em> took second, third, and fourth place to this drifter. He was the only one powerful enough to battle the monsters out west. <\/p>\n\n\n\nThe cowboy\u2019s pinky finger plucked the thirteenth string, and the rhythm took a ruthless twist. The strings burst to blue flames, while a specter\u2019s hand emerged from the sound hole of the guitar and beckoned with one long extended scythe finger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The axe has been waiting for you,\u201d said the cowboy. \u201cWe both have.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A thrill ensnared him to forgo his hesitation and move his feet forward. \u201cMe? Why?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The cowboy raised his head. Low lights of soft blue flames surged through the hollow space of his fleshless skull. \u201cTo see if you have what it takes to be a hero. Are you up for the challenge?\u201dChris came to a jerky halt. \u201cSure am. Plan on cleaning up the filth out west.\u201d\u201cThen you\u2019ll need the aid of my old friend.\u201d With a wave of his arm, the snow began to fall. \u201cCount the snowflakes as they fall.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As\nimpossible as the challenge sounded, and the fact that the voice now sounded\nlike Roman\u2019s, Chris wasted no time in asking questions. He stretched out his\narms to either side of his body, palms upward, and the snowflakes transformed\ninto mathematically equations of space multiplied by time. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Passing\nminutes gave way to hours. His limbs began to waver, and his head to nod.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The snow halted. Somewhere in the distant pitch he heard a clock chime with the dead hour 13, a time when the dead could see the living. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Cool hands took hold of his shoulder from behind. \u201cAnswer, boy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His head rocked back on his neck. He saw the illumination of blue-flamed eyes above him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTwo billion and fourteen,\u201d he said, barely pushing the whispers past his frozen lips.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis night, you win the axe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chris yelped with a jerk of his head up. \u201cReally? I counted correctly?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\nwere at least two or three off.\u201d A short burst of laughter rumbled in his\nchest. \u201cBut the challenge wasn\u2019t in counting the snowflakes. You didn\u2019t give\nup, even when you thought the challenge impossible to win.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\ngrew dizzy headed as the ebony steel was place into his hands. The words blue\nblazes were engraved along the neck. He whooped and hollered, pumping the air\nwith a fist. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTell\nme, boy,\u201d said the cowboy, giving each of the knobs a slight turn to tune them.\n\u201cDo you know what it takes to be a hero?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\nlifted his chin and pushed back his shoulders. \u201cThe essence of a hero is not\nmeasured by his strength, wit, speed, or magic. His heart measures him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The\ncowboy looked him straight in the eye, nodded slowly, and then ruffled the hair\non his head, causing it to spike. \u201cI\u2019m proud of you, boy. The heart is the core\nof a hero, the empowerment for which to reach beyond the limits of endurance.\nRemember that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A\nslow drawing smile pulled up the slack of his mouth \u201cI will. Always.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The\ncowboy tipped his hat and turned away, his coat whipping in the wind. \u201cThe fate\nof the planet depends on you, boy. Be the hero of the story . . .\u201d
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chapter\n3<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The dream vanished with the dawn of light, pouring\nin through the tall arched windows of his bedchamber. There was a smell of\nsinged wax in the air, coming from the bedside table where a candle had burned\nto a stub, and the flame droning in its wax. \nThe hands of the grandfather clock in the corner were stuck at 13. No\ntick-tock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chris found himself among the twisted bedding, drenched in sweat. He sought out the writing nook and hanging shelf, filled with his favorite dime novels. It had only been a dream. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\nheard the barking of the basset hounds coming from outside and kicked aside the\nbedding, but could only look from his bed because his ankle was shackled to a\nbedpost. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The lush meadow was consumed by milkweed, and dancing monarch butterflies with orange wings trimmed in black. Lord Ludwig was preparing for a fox chase with the new neighbors in front of the stables. It looked like rain. Dark clouds. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Spying the last issue of the Blue Cowboy, laying in the floor by the bed, he stretched over the edge with fingertips, grasped the cover\u2019s edge, and slipped it under his pillow. Cradling an imaginary guitar, he plucked its strings, while humming the peaceful death tune.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Roman\nentered with an on average breakfast of oatmeal, biscuits, and blackberry jam,\nand with him the smell of tea-mint pipe tobacco. The gold split tailcoat he\nwore strained to hold in his round middle as he waddled toward the bed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCan\u2019t say your singing is getting better, but that don\u2019t keep you from trying, and trying some more,\u201d he said as he shook a finger in one ear. \u201cNightmares again, Master Steampunk?\u201d He placed the serving tray at the foot of the bed and unlocked his shackle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chris\nwiped his brow with a sleeve of his nightgown and got out of bed. \u201cActually, no. Had a good dream\u2014well, except\nfor the crazy black cat.” He walked to the basin and poured water into a\nbowl. “Lord Ludwig is going hunting, I see,” he said between the cold\nsplashes against his face, \u201cwith the Bakersfield widow and her son.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour\nfather has given me strict orders to keep you in this room today.\u201d The sound of\nRoman’s lungs laboring appeared at his side. He took the towel shoved on him.\n“If you’re thinking about rushing out there and making a fool of\nyourself–forget it! You’re sixteen, not ten.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chris\nslowly drew the towel down to reveal an arched brow. \u201cDid he?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cStop\nthat at once, you young pup! I’ll not play these games today!” His whole\nbody shook with each word, and he dabbed at his brow with his sleeve. “If\nyour father ever finds out about the things you put me up to helping you\ndo\u2014like hiding all the outlawed junk you\u2019ve collected in the basement.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
“What\nabout the things you put me up to?\u201d said Chris, wiggling his brow as he wrapped\nthe towel around his neck. “Like helping you cheat at cards?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\nsnapped a faded blue eye closed. “Know when to hold, when to fold, and\nwhen to cheat a cheater!” He jabbed the end of a corncob pipe into his\ntoothless gums. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chris\ncupped an ear with his hand and bent it forward. \u201cWords of wisdom from an old\ndog to a young pup, wouldn\u2019t you agree?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Damn\nstraight\u2014beats me every time.\u201d He puffed on the stem of the pipe and blew smoke\nrings in the air. \u201cSpring is here, and that means courtship time in New Coal\nTown. That widow Bakersfield wants to visit you tonight after dinner. I urge\nyou to be on your tiptop behavior in her presence. Lord Ludwig wants to assure\nher you\u2019re tame.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo,\nI shouldn\u2019t do anything like this?\u201d He crossed his eyes, let his tongue hang\nout, and twisted his face as if he had lost his mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Roman\npursed his lips.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGuess\nnot,\u201d said Chris. Looking at his\nreflection above the water basin, he spiked his hair with his hands. \u201cI won the\nBlue Cowboy’s guitar in that dream last night. And get this: his voice sounded\njust like yours.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBlue\nCowboy?\u201d said Roman, retrieving tan breaches and white shirt from a wardrobe in\nthe corner. \u201cLike me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chris\nwalked to the bookshelf and plucked out the first issue of the Blue Cowboy.\nThumbing through it to find a picture, he said over his shoulder, \u201cI know he\u2019s\na made-up hero, but one day I’m going to go out west and battle the monsters\njust like him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHold\nup,\u201d said Roman with a hand in the air as he placed his clothing on the back of\na chair. \u201cIt\u2019s coming to me now, the creepy cowpoke that battles the monsters\nwith a contraption called a guitar and flashes of blue light.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chris\npointed out the spiky-haired cowboy, wearing a long leather trench coat and\nwielding an ebony guitar. \u201cHe got caught\nin a storm, the lightning struck him, spiking up his hair like that.\u201d The Blue\nCowboy stood in the midst of battle, the specter\u2019s hand lashed out at the\nmonsters with long scythe fingers, their eyes like soulless pits of coal. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon’t\npretend. You know these stories as well as I do,\u201d said Chris, replacing the\nbook in the shelf. \u201cYou read them when you think I\u2019m asleep, and you never\nforget a detail.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Roman\nfolded his arms over his potbelly and gave a short bow. \u201cMaybe I do\u2019s, and\nmaybe I dont\u2019s.\u201d He left the room. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chris\u2019s\nbrow shot up as he heard the sound of a key in the lock.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Chapter\n4<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eighteen-year-old Heroine Rosemary licked her\ntingling lips as she made it beneath the entrench archway of the solitary\ntower. Steampunk Castle had been reopened. There were questions she needed\nanswers to, and a puzzle, she had to solve.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Leaning\nagainst the wall to catch her breath, she flung her hood back and wrung out the\nwet mass of her red hair. The old abbey was built nearly a century ago, but now\nlay in wood splintered ruins. The cemetery, adjacent to the abbey and\ncourtyard, was surrounded by the tangled branches of yew trees. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The\nsuperstitious people of New Coal Town believed the shadows of the yew trees\nkept the dead bound inside their pine boxes. It was a myth. The roots of the\ntrees imbibed the poisonous gases from the dead\u2019s rotting flesh. Thus were the\nunabsorbed gases the people saw over bogs and marshes, and miss took for ghost\nor apparitions. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
With\na last glance over her shoulder to ensure she hadn\u2019t been followed, she made\nher way up the crumbling staircase of the tower. This backwoods town was still\nhaunted by the tale of the bloody masquerade ball. Their fears of the dead\nrising from the grave originated from the long-dead Dr. Richard Steampunk, who\nrobbed graves for parts to make his monstrous creations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr.\nSteampunk was described as a mild-mannered man from old wealth, widowed after\nhis young wife died in childbirth with daughter Edwina. His son Heathcliff was\na charitable man to the poor, and an inventor. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The\nfamily harbored a dark secret: Heathcliff was one of the Dr.\u2019s creations. This\nfact was revealed the night of the masquerade ball. The morning after,\nHeathcliff had disappeared and was \nblamed for the lives of over two hundred guests, thirteen of whom were part of the town\u2019s council, and his own\nfather, Dr. Steampunk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Daughter\nEdwina, a youth of eleven, had hidden beneath a table. She never spoke again of\nthe horrors she witnessed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Heroine\nset aside her damp cloak and mud-caked boots. Her wool shirt and leggings were\nthick enough to ward off the chill in the air. Giving herself a quick braid,\nshe braced her back against the cracked bell and drew her knees into her chest.\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All\nthe guests were missing various body parts. What had happened to them? And how\nhad one creature, man or monster, accomplished it all on his own and vanished\ninto nothingness?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\nsought out the abbey days ago as a place no one would think of looking for the\nliving, and cut a box in the worn floorboard to hide her forbidding art.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her\nfingers trembled as she reached for what awaited inside. She found it easy enough to remove the pencil, but it was when she\nremoved the book that she felt her stomach knot. A half zombie’s face marked\nthe cover. Its pages were as white flesh, a soulless, hollow vessel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As\na child, she suffered from the worst overactive imagination possible. If she\nwere to tell anyone just a fraction of the things she saw when\nlooking up at the constellation of spinning star-clocks, TV, electric lights,\ncomputers, cellphones, airplanes, rocket ships, an inky ocean adrift with sea\nlike creatures, she would surely be locked away and labeled mentally ill. It\nwasn\u2019t the fault of the planet. Their knowledge was limited. Her lips smirked\nat her own ounce of smugness. A writer\u2019s\nimagination was limitless. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
A\nbuzz tickled her ear, and she jumped. The bell hit the wall. She squeezed her\neyes shut and grabbed her head as her eardrums nearly popped from the ringing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A\nbutton smile pinched her lips. It was only a little black cat on her shoulder.\nIt had been five years since she’d seen Omniscient, as she had named him back\nthen. Even if it wasn\u2019t the same one,\nshe believed cats were story collectors, all knowing, all seeing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\npatted his head. Odd that it was dry. “Hello, my friend. Have any good\nstories to swap?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Seemly\nignoring the question, he chose that moment to give himself a bath. Or, was he\ndrawing attention to what looked like candle wax on his coat?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s\nokay. Bet you think I’ve returned home for the swirl of the Season, right?\u201d Her\nnose crinkled with the thought of being one of those prissy dolled up ninnies\nin oversized hooped ball gowns and laced-up corsets on the market like a prized\nturkey. \u201cOh, no, not me.\u201d She jabbed herself in the chest with a thumb. \u201cI’m\nhere to do research for a new story. The Season is just a diversion to move\nabout. If you care to stick around for a while, I’ll share the story with you.\u201d\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\nparted the book down the middle in her lap, skipping over the pages stuck with\nsome mysterious pink goo. “There is an abandoned mining town beyond the\ncemetery, Old Coal Town. Top the hill and you\u2019ll see a rickety line of\nbuildings. It\u2019s got real spook charm. Used to play there as a kid.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
His bath finished, the cat wrapped his tail around the back of her neck and turned his attention to the book and pencil in her hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGive me an insight into the monster’s heart,\u201d she said, invoking the swirl of green pools in the center of her eyes. \u201cA lead to follow.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\nwas drawn by the blinding luminosity of the blank page, her imagination\nsubmerged in a sea of frequency, the static of white noise. She drew a pair of\ndoors, held her breath, and watched as they opened outward. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Shrill\nscreams rent the air and an instrumental waltz began playing. A man appeared\nbeneath the archway wearing a gray tailored suit to fit his tall,\nbroad-shouldered frame. He had a zigzag pattern of scars across his temple, a\nchiseled jaw, a broad nose, and a full lower lip. His green eyes cast an\nominous allure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFather,\nare you out here?\u201d he shouted. \u201cThe devil has come for our souls. He claims\nit’s harvesting time.\u201d The animation\nvanished, returning to the sketch of the double doors. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIs\nthat it?\u201d said Heroine. \u201cSurely not?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The\nwind danced with the pages, stirring up the surrounding dust and cobwebs. She\nstumbled backward against the bell as the huge man\u2019s face ascended in the\nmiddle. If the bell made a sound, she couldn\u2019t hear it over the sound of his\nvoice. \u201cI\u2019m not a monster . . . I\u2019m a man.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her\nbreath caught in her throat as she fell into the green globs of his eyes. So\nmuch pain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The\nface began to fade. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWait,\u201d\nsaid Heroine, \u201care you Heathcliff Steampunk?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The\nsound of dogs barking caused her to look away for a moment, just long enough\nfor the face to vanish altogether.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\nslapped her thigh. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\npeeked out the gaps in the wood planks. The rain had lessened to a mist of\nvapor. An orange fox burst from the bushes, through the cemetery and into a\nhole at the base of the hillside. A group of rabbeted short-legged, black and\nwhite hounds was hot on its trail. Reaching the entrance to the den, they pawed\nat the ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Relieved\nthat she hadn’t been discovered, she allowed herself to laugh, and curl her\nspine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\nreturned the book and pencil to the spot beneath the floorboards, gathered her\nclothes, and made her way down the stairs of the bell tower. She had just reached the bottom when she saw\na lone rider on a black pony.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Too\nlate to hide. The boy had seen her. He\nwas pale and frail, with piercing blue eyes beneath a stack of blond spikes. He\nwore a royal blue cloak, tan breeches and shiny black boots.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Good\nevening\u2014” she called out. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The\nboy’s eyes rolled back in his head, leaving him to slouch forward in his\nsaddle. She feared he would fall off. He\nwas a hundred yards away, she judged. She had to try to save him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
She took a deep breath, preparing to kick it into high gear, when other riders broke through the trees. Chewing a knuckle, she fled back up the stairs. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hey guys and girls–h.g.abby here. If you like the story so far, please leave me a comment. This book can be found on Amazon.com. Thanks for reading. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
![\"\"](\"http:\/\/hgabby.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/04\/Untitled.png\")
<\/figure><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"H.G. ABBY Presents a teaser trailer: go to this link to watch. https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/watch?v=0DdeUiSUxB0 The Galaxy Books of Challenge Here’s the first four chapters for your enjoyment . . . Story Knights www.hgabby.com This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author\u2019s imagination and not to be considered […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1022,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":true,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[25],"tags":[26],"class_list":["post-1145","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-coming-soon-books","tag-coming-soon-books"],"views":5079671,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/hgabby.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1145","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/hgabby.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/hgabby.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/hgabby.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/hgabby.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1145"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"http:\/\/hgabby.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1145\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1223,"href":"http:\/\/hgabby.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1145\/revisions\/1223"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/hgabby.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1022"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/hgabby.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1145"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/hgabby.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1145"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/hgabby.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1145"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}