tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66216305387895886772012-02-15T23:45:24.169-08:00Stories by Christopher TaylorChristopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comBlogger361100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-27474200918713045502011-10-03T09:19:00.000-07:002011-10-03T09:22:48.150-07:00

CHAPTER ONE“But why do I have to do all this anyway?” I whined.My instructor then was more patient than I would have been, but then I was only a boy of ten years and new to the guild.“You seem tired.” She said, a small smile playing on her full lips. Instructor Melina, the dreams I had about her even into my teens. Beautiful and brilliant, she was, with hair white as snow despite her young age.

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-82859127356316622022011-07-14T11:06:00.000-07:002011-07-14T11:13:05.051-07:00

For a long time now I've been working toward getting my second book Old Habits published. Well its out there now.Old Habits is available as an e-book on Amazon.Com at this link:OLD HABITS by Christopher TaylorAnd soon I'll have it up as a softcover book on my Lulu store, hopefully next week. The Amazon book is $1.99, and is available for download as a Kindle product. I also plan to have it up

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-41918326115941793072009-11-26T07:04:00.000-08:002009-11-26T07:07:22.150-08:00

My first step was to visit the Gypsy. There were a lot of them working the city, but I had a pretty good idea which one had sent Lysette Coleman to my door, because she’d done it several times in the past with other clients. Madame Sczemasko worked a palmist and crystal ball shop not far from my office. She’d read the tarot cards, consult star charts, read runes and tea leaves: you name it,

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-46605957792679196562009-11-26T07:03:00.001-08:002009-11-26T07:07:45.448-08:00

This is the compilation post for the Coventry Files, just something fun I fool around with. The conceit of this story is to take the world of the Dresden Files series of books and imagine it set in the classic pulp detective fiction era of Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe.Chapter OneChapter Two

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-72615589266176317322009-11-26T07:00:00.000-08:002009-11-26T07:02:37.733-08:00

The match flared as I struck it on my desk lighter, then wavered in the air as I lifted it to her cigarette. I could smell her perfume from this close, a delicate, floral scent that fit her perfectly. Her name was Lysette Coleman, and as she leaned back in the chair set up opposite my desk for clients, her hat covered her face briefly. She was dressed as rich as she looked, from her black

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-33232832638058169332009-02-17T08:32:00.000-08:002009-02-19T13:41:48.616-08:00

Outside, evening was coming on with the sky showing some red of the setting sun. The day was still hot and fireflies had begun to come out to dance in the streets with giggling children. On the main street one of the lanterns flickered into light in response to an old spell, not quite functioning as it should any more. Under the lantern sat Stoce, polishing a knife blade. Stoce looked up at

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-50413371673220219202009-02-16T07:22:00.000-08:002009-02-16T07:23:17.520-08:00

Rey coughed dryly and looked around him. He wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d been riding, it was late afternoon and the lake spread endlessly around him to the wavering, shifting horizon. The lakebed’s white bottom was blinding, it was only in the shadow of this rock he could even open his eyes much. Around Rey could see other scattered dark spots, other rocks or projections the shallow lake

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-48560031636687705342009-02-13T09:30:00.001-08:002009-02-13T09:30:38.120-08:00

This is the chapter compilation of the sailing story in one place to make it easier to find and read.Chapter 1

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-39189480424462906682009-02-13T09:27:00.000-08:002009-02-13T09:29:46.620-08:00

On the sacred quarterdeck of His Royal Majesty’s warship Conquerer stood the tall, lean form of Captain Josiah Blaine. Blaine’s eyes showed signs of the intense weariness he felt, but they were the only indication of a week’s hard work with little sleep to refit and man his ship. To be sure, the effort of gathering a remotely capable crew from what little was available him in Plymouth was

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-4996795662065632482009-02-12T09:35:00.000-08:002009-11-02T07:14:03.907-08:00

Betsy rubbed her face with her hands. The armored man seemed harmless but he just suddenly killed Allen… all the feelings washed over her again, contradictory, dizzying. She felt lighter somehow, but her stomach cramped into a knot, filled with unknowable fears and anxieties. Killed him. With a sword. Killed Allen for... for hitting me?Betsy tried to calm her mind as it darted from image to

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-46264076663781993432009-02-10T07:45:00.000-08:002009-02-12T09:39:58.532-08:00

This is the chapter compilation of the Princess story in one place for easy referenceChapter OneChapter Two

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-1093325521505155592009-02-10T07:44:00.000-08:002009-02-12T09:35:10.947-08:00

The streets were still wet from the earlier rain, and the streetlights shimmered on the blacktop like fallen stars, scattered by the occasional car hurrying its way to some destination. As the stars reformed from a passing taxi, a horse and rider followed in its path, visible as it passed each pool of light on the street but between them only the hollow sound of hooves on the tarmac marked its

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-58049661423707201702009-02-09T07:25:00.000-08:002009-02-09T07:26:17.628-08:00

Sticks drove his obsidian black H2 like a figure-8 track racer, aggressive but with a keen sense of timing. His eyes were hidden by prescription sunglasses but from the side I could see them dart about with a calm precision watching traffic.I mentioned to Sticks that driving seemed to be the one thing he actually seemed to enjoy and he flashed a bright dentist-perfect smile.“One of two.”Nga

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-33587842359043173642009-02-07T10:05:00.001-08:002009-02-09T07:26:47.415-08:00

This is the chapter compilation for the as yet unnamed detective story I'm working on.Chapter OneChapter Two

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-42122480776076040832009-02-07T10:03:00.000-08:002009-02-12T09:40:16.189-08:00

Some days you just know everything is going to be different, you can feel it in the air like crackling ozone, like a pressure on the back of your neck. That day in August didn’t feel like that, but it should have. I look back over the past year and still feel uneasy, like the world turned out to actually be filmed in black and white but I hadn’t noticed until this morning.People have a lot of

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-40331888476491809742009-02-06T08:43:00.000-08:002009-02-06T08:45:14.774-08:00

Joh unrolled his pack on the flattest part of ground he could find among scores of other soldiers nearby him seeking their own flat, rock-free patch. He’d learned long ago that it was best to grab the nearest spot that remotely seemed tolerable rather than search fruitlessly into the dark for a better area. Hardship and discomfort were part of being a soldier - and a farmer - as Joh knew well,

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-42533010708473740132009-02-05T13:37:00.000-08:002009-02-05T13:38:30.566-08:00

The Bearded Peaks were a small range, but climbed to dizzying heights over two miles at the highest peaks and many of the proud rocky crags still had their namesake beard of snow and ice from the last rainy season. Almost at the timberline where the proud pines of these mountains finally gave way to harsher conditions was the Vaedhasway, the pass to a High Elven settlement. Originally a set of

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-63032454990087473362009-02-04T09:31:00.000-08:002009-02-06T08:45:58.738-08:00

This is the compilation of chapters for Edaincal, the story behind how the Elven wars in Morien were eventually won by humans. This is a huge story, probably told in three parts.Chapter OneChapter TwoChapter Three

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-62706977113064807722009-02-04T09:30:00.000-08:002009-02-04T09:31:39.640-08:00

A tattered flag whipped in the wind over the torn remains of a battlefield, the dull cracking sound mingled with that of crows and other scavengers already active on the bodies. The survivors and wives picked their way over the bodies, looking for any still living in the scattered forms of their fellow soldiers, someone still clinging to the spark of life that a healer could fan into full flame

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-88272729744322887642009-02-03T08:43:00.001-08:002009-02-03T08:43:50.420-08:00

The Senator was a loss. The building was a charred skeleton barely three stories high at the tallest stack of rubble and what remained of the north wall. Through some freak of physics and events, one room was almost completely untouched on the second floor, a bathroom that still had a dog-eared old copy of Maltese Falcon sitting by the toilet. Some curls of smoke still rose from isolated

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-58493833354699702742009-02-02T09:41:00.001-08:002009-02-03T08:44:12.780-08:00

This is the compilation of the as yet unnamed Superhero story as I post chapters, so that they can be found in one location.Chapter 1Chapter 2

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-67191949987938564822009-02-02T09:36:00.000-08:002009-02-02T09:39:21.194-08:00

The Colby Warehouse Fire started at 3:14 AM when a fusebox installed in the year 1953 blew a fuse and sparks from the malfunction ignited old newspapers stacked nearby. The homeless who lived in the building managed to awaken in time and drag themselves reluctantly out into the bitter dry cold of the starless December night, but the building’s old dry timbers and dusty paper, crates, and

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-61493978203326099562009-01-29T12:51:00.000-08:002009-01-29T12:56:39.212-08:00

Aniela stared at the form of Cezar, the flickering candle barely lighting him across the room. He seemed larger than before, a massive presence in the dark corner in rough spun clothes back by where she hung her coat and scarf. She shrank against the wall holding her blouse, arms crossed over her bra with an overwhelming sense of vulnerability and that naughty feeling of having been caught

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-59248177233897897652009-01-28T08:44:00.000-08:002009-01-28T08:54:19.954-08:00

Following the trail of the monster became more difficult as the creature's passions faded and the dominance of the beast in Cezar Alexandru lessened. Yet at the same time, Vladimir Czerny found it easier to find the spiritual residue of its passage because the path he took was uncluttered by other people. Czerny was loathe to explain his work and his learning to anyone because it was obscure,

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-38134678517664175692009-01-27T08:57:00.000-08:002009-01-27T09:03:46.730-08:00

Burning the decyphered paper, Aniela watched the little fire on her desk as the paper blackened and curled. Her mind was elsewhere, split between Cezar's amazing eyes and the demands of the paper. Gone was the fear of capture, gone was the worry that someone had overheard the conversation in Romani at the market, save for one thought: had she responded in Polish or Romani? It was only one word,

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-73106366981361394822009-01-26T08:32:00.000-08:002009-01-26T08:37:51.209-08:00

Shopping was always an adventure in Krakow these days. Aniela Wisniewski dreaded running out of supplies, but supplies always seemed to be low. Her work at the factory sewing uniforms was regular and had a steady paycheck, but it didn't pay very much and everything cost so much in the market. They said the Great Depression had ended, but there was little sign of it here in Poland.She put on her

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-15056742062785842922009-01-24T15:18:00.000-08:002009-01-24T15:21:45.553-08:00

The snow was becoming thicker, but the flakes were larger as the temperature began to rise again. The man known as Cezar Alexandru ran through the snowy fields with tireless, powerful strides, moving toward Krakow. While it was true the city had a very large German army presence, it also had a lot more people and a lot more places to hide. Cezar wasn't afraid of being caught, he was afraid of

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-64117205882177947142009-01-23T09:14:00.000-08:002009-01-23T09:17:39.865-08:00

Aniela Wisniewski was a pianist. She knew how to play the piano, but it was a different sort of keys that gave her this name, and a different song that she played. She had a device that was the size of a heavy typewriter that she could type messages into, coding them with garbled nonsense which would be decoded in England. What they did with her little reports, she didn't know, but Aniela hoped

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-50772458495006726862009-01-23T09:10:00.000-08:002009-01-23T09:18:55.273-08:00

The morning sun came through the windows onto Doctor Stoffel's bed, gleaming off of the brass and illuminating the bodies of the doctor and lovely young Helga. Doctor Konrad Stoffel looked down at Helga's face, beautiful even with her hair tangled and her lipstick smeared. She would be upset that he let her sleep this long, but it was paradise to have her in his arms. She even smelled wonderful

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-25804078746152074142009-01-22T08:43:00.000-08:002009-01-22T20:26:02.280-08:00

Feeling somewhat weary from the loud, lurching military flight from Berlin to Krakow, Vladimir Czerny stepped out of the gleaming staff car as snowflakes began to fall from a low, leaden sky over the camp. He had been briefed on the drive over by commandant Rudolf Höss; Auschwitz was divided into two camps, the second more properly known as Birkenau. Auschwitz had been built on a Polish military

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-15756774498734114792009-01-21T08:52:00.000-08:002009-01-22T08:48:20.155-08:00

Oberleutnant Sigfried Koenig sat in the back seat of the old Mercedes, bouncing with the rough road. With more rank and status he could get a nice modern auto, but this ten year old rattle trap was the best he could get from his seniors. The soldiers sat petulantly around him sharing unhappy looks, still angry that the Oberleutnant forced them to give up their booty taken from the farmer. It was

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-18683638178914985352009-01-20T08:08:00.000-08:002009-01-20T08:10:14.797-08:00

A simple man with a simple life, Ival Petrovsky lived on a small farm at the edge of woods that had seen history unfold for millenia. He still ploughed walking behind oxen, he still got water from his well, and he still rode a horse, even though he had a car under a tarp in the barn. He’d gotten the car right after the great war; fresh out of the military with some gems he and his friends had

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-66457506358915493812009-01-19T10:01:00.000-08:002009-01-19T10:02:41.482-08:00

Spring in Berlin was still snowy, the clouds low and heavy, which made the city relax more. Those long-range British bombers could not bomb what they could not see, and today they would have a reprieve. The snow was old and dirty, piled up beside the roads to slowly melt and it was warm enough that water stood between the cobblestones rather than ice.The flags over the Reichstag were barely

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-70501542448643508922009-01-18T07:59:00.001-08:002009-01-18T07:59:44.710-08:00

Hauptmann Jogl Venderben looked at the carnage in the Shower, the guards standing around him with rifles at the ready.In the heat the blood was already dried, caked and flaking on the walls, thick like pudding on the floor in puddles with flies swarming. The stench of the chamber was making him uncomfortable, queasy, but as a good German officer he could show no weakness in front of the men. He

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-66600263533931659032009-01-17T11:19:00.000-08:002009-01-29T12:57:25.436-08:00

As chapters of Swastika Moon are posted, I'll keep track of them in this post so that they can all be reached easily at one location.Chapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6621630538789588677.post-41560194110411096532009-01-17T10:37:00.000-08:002009-01-17T10:55:47.712-08:00

Outside the sky was bright and sunny, one of those clear days that made Poland seem even more green and alive than an ordinary spring day. Under that sky the flowers bloomed, the birds sang, and the grass grew like had happened for thousands of years before, unchanged by man’s doings and struggles. Another train rolled across the rusty metal of its tracks making the rhythmic chant of the steel

Christopher Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03104605722684911443noreply@blogger.com