Ball-Peen

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21U3hpTGlVNDJaRzg/view?usp=sharing

It was a simple ball-peen hammer. A metal head, a wooden grip, manufactured on the cheap in China for the price conscious in America. The hammer was lined with scrapes here and dents there, some from missed chisels, others from strikes right on the mark, successes and failures, all. It was a whole lot of experience in one little tool. Really, it was good that Fatima was holding something that had its mettle tested by time.

It was all she had, after all.

The Thing shifted in the shop. Slowly it stalked, along the cabinets, around the generator, an awful silhouette in front of the blazing work light. Its form was dark, its shape was slithering, a creature that went bump in the night if any ever had. Of course, Boogie Men never did such damage.

Steven could attest to that. His blood still hadn't run cold, keeping its slow, sticky spread across the concrete floor. He had been a giant in body and heart, big, bearded, more a bear than a man. Steven seemed vital, essential, key to whatever god's grand plan. His chuckle shook houses and his grin grew the hearts of all who saw it. He was larger than life.

He died without a sound. All it had taken was a single swipe of its serrated tail and he had hit the floor, never to laugh again. There would be no more bear hugs from the big man. There would be no goodbyes.

It was a fate that Fatima would share if It found her. Her hand tightened around the tool. The Thing wasn't moving anymore. No, It had better things to do. Its head was sweeping, searching, looking for something -- possibly the one that got away. It surely had seen her, heard her -- Fatima's scream had probably been heard clear to Tulsa, though no help had been forthcoming.

In this neighborhood, help never did come. Which left her alone with It. The creature slowly arced its neck, raising its long snout into the air. Its jaws parted and its nostrils flared, once, twice, a hollow rasp following each time. The sound shook Fatima.

The footfalls terrified her. She hadn't had time to cry, but the emotion was there, if still undefined. Grand, flowing, a great swell held together by a dam composed of silly string and a prayer. Panic combined with that raw emotion, that fresh hurt, swirling and mixing, developing into something more. Fatima didn't have time to be sad. But anger?

Anger she could handle.

The Thing poked its head around the corner.

Consequently, so did her hammer.

It's been a while since I did a recording. I tried to be quick with it -- about three or four takes. The quality isn't what I usually expect, but I'm trying to build up my speed on it.

Here's hoping you enjoy it.

Also, Jesus Christ, it's been forever since I updated this thing. Depression, you silken whore!

Argonne

Audio: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21Z0RQblkxMHFYdzQ/view?usp=sharing

They call it shell shock. There had to be some sorta term for it. You see your buddy ripped to ribbons by a Kraut machine gun and you tend to develop a sort of psychological notion, something more than a tiny twitch. You get bombarded by bombs for up to a week at a time, and you're stuck with a case of insomnia that's gonna last you a little longer than the war. It's a fear of enemy fire, a bit of panic when it comes to pressure, a "shock" to "shells" that fits the bill.

'Cept unlike actual shock, you never really recover. The experience sinks its claws into you, marking up your face, stealing the light from your eyes. There are lines a twenty year old shouldn't have, scars deeper than skin, changing young to old, man to monster. You can laugh and smile, of course, make the same old jokes and tell tired stories, but it's just not the same. They've ultimately lost their luster. They're just lines, rote recitation to pass for something resembling normal. You're just so happy to be home that you figure everything'll be copacetic in the long run.

But you never really left the Continent. Hell, you never made it of Argonne. You're angry and sad, and you hate the world. You wake in a cold sweat by the pop of a muffler in the middle of the night, you dream of ghosts who blame you for not being fast enough, smart enough, good enough, and the authorities have the goddamn temerity to call it shell shock.

Fuck them for that.

Fuck them for sending us there.

Thanks to Katie for helping me out. She read to a few prototypes of this that didn't sound nearly as good. Hopefully with her sound advice, I'll grow as a narrator.

Get it? Sound advice?

Oh, fuck you.