Inspiration Monday – new assignment – part 2

Tags

bekindrewrite, creative writing, Duke of Normandy, flash fiction, George Formby, good short stories, Inspiration Monday, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, King William, new forest, nova foresta, Sir Walter Tyrell, writing ideas, writing prompts

Last month the assignment was to create a list of titles, for inspiration, the way Ray Bradbury did – look back and see my list. This month, part two of the assignment is to write between 100-200 words inspired by one of the other participant’s titles. I found two that inspired. Read on …

From Aku’s list – A Ukelele

He waited at the corner of 42^nd street and 5^th Avenue. He leaned on the lamppost and looked at his watch. She should be there soon. It wasn’t the rendezvous he would have chosen; too much light, too exposed. But that’s the problem with foreign agents, they are too romantic, no sense of danger.

She appeared out of the darkness on the opposite side of 5^th Avenue, next to the wall surrounding Sunset Park, and crossed towards him. The collar on her raincoat was turned up, casting a shadow across her face.

“I wasn’t sure I’d get away, but I managed.” Her French accent was out of place in the middle of NewYork. She handed him the package. It was smaller than he expected.

“What the hell is this?” he growled.

“A ukelele,” she purred, “… a special ukelele.”

He unzipped the case; inside was a cheap plastic uke with coloured strings, a kid’s toy.

“Now look here, little lady … ”

But she was gone, except for the memory of her perfume, and the tip-tap of stiletto heels in the darkness.

From Stephanie’s list – The Forest

Most of Britain was covered in trees, but King William Rufus’ favourite area for hunting was the Nova Foresta, the New Forest. It was an area designated by his father, also King William – the bastard Duke of Normandy who invaded the islands in 1066 – where the deer were protected for the benefit of the king, not the peasants. Taking a deer was punishable by death, and Rufus took great delight in reminding the forest folk how serious he regarded the offence. Rufus was not a popular king.

Late in the summer of 1100, the king’s hunting party was midway between the hamlets of Minstead and Brook, a part of the forest dense with oak trees. The king and a couple of his seconds headed down a slope where the proud buck had last been seen. The rest kept to the higher ground and circled around. One member of the party held back. Sir Walter Tyrell waited near the tall bracken where he could keep watch on Rufus’ progress.

Later that afternoon, Purkis, the local charcoal burner, found the king’s body. His horse was standing nearby. The arrow in the king’s chest bore the fletchings of Sir Walter.

Was it an accident? It is said that Sir Walter’s arrow glanced off a tree and struck the king. Was it murder? Sir Walter was an expert with the long bow, there are doubts that he would have taken such a shot if there was any risk. Why was the body left for an old charcoal burner to discover, and transport to Winchester? Rufus’ brother Henry was keen to be king himself, was there a conspiracy? We’ll never know.

© 2017, K Patrick Moody

Advertisements

Inspiration Monday – new assignment – part 1

Tags

bekindrewrite, creative writing, flash fiction, good short stories, Inspiration Monday, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, old straight path, rusty blade, writing ideas, writing prompts

Last month the assignment was to create a list of titles, for inspiration, the way Ray Bradbury did – look back and see my list. This month, part one of the assignment is to write about 300 words inspired by one of the titles. I had a long list, so I’ve used two of the titles. Read on …

1 – The Rusty Blade

There were only a few houses in the village, back then. Each one stood alone on its own plot, built with the local deep red bricks, two floors, and black slate on the roof. The curtain-less windows, framed with flaking cream paint, stared dark across the long, weedy garden, watching over a black stained, wooden shed.

We were a pair of lads, eight years old, with nothing much to do but be guided by our curiosity and imagination. We hadn’t taken much notice before, but this time the gaping door to the tumble-down workshop seemed to call. Nobody had been to the house since last year. The only sign of visitors was the track through the long grass made by the local cat – or maybe rats.

It took a few minutes for our eyes to get accustomed to the gloom, and as the darkness retreated, a solid wooden bench loomed to our left. The air was stale, damp and musty; the only sound was the autumn breeze scraping the brambles against the wall. A whole mess of rusty hand tools were spread around, most I could name; grandad’s shed had a load just like them. We pulled open the drawers, heavy with nails, screws, more smaller tools, all covered in the dust of time.

In the far corner, covered with old potato sacks, was a shape. It hunched about waist high. Resting on the top of the sacks was a tool I had not seen before. Forged from iron bar, it had a loop handle – big enough for a man’s hand. The shaft ended in a long spike, like a shark’s tooth, curving slightly back towards the handle. I know now it was a logging hook, but then, this fearsome weapon, with its evil point, blood red with rust, set the hairs on my neck a-tingle.

I reached for the handle. My foot caught on the sacking. The shape lurched at me, and sent me sprawling backwards – the spike clattered between my feet. The log pile rattled across the floor. Then silence.

2 – The Old Straight Path

The path ran down from the edge of the village straight to the white bridge, and over the river where we used to swim in the summer. Farther on it reached the next village across the water meadows.

The path was old, very old, dipping down below the level of the fields either side, and the trees meeting over the top, formed a tunnel.

Most times we walked the path in a group, laughing and playing, with our bathing trunks rolled in a towel. But later in the year, when it wasn’t warm enough to swim, and I was alone, the path had a darker feel; long shadows, chill breezes rushed between the branches, chasing the fallen leaves.

As I looked into the slow running water below the bridge, shapes would drift past behind my reflection – but when I spun round only the branches stirred overhead.

Now that I have found out about ley lines, funeral, straight, and coffin paths, I understand why such a path endured centuries of foot traffic. It lead directly from a village with no church, to ours, where their local dead could be could be carried along a ceremonial route, to be buried in the consecrated ground. This route crossed the river, and ensured that when the funeral party returned to their village, the spirit of the deceased could not follow.

The path is gone now, buried beneath a sprawling industrial estate. The white bridge is still there, and the river swirls under it … and the path on to the distant village can be made out crossing the meadow.

I wonder, how many lonely and confused souls still wait at the bank, unable to return?

© 2017. K Patrick Moody

 

 

Inspiration Monday – a new assignment

Tags

bekindrewrite, creative writing, Farenheit 451, flash fiction, inmon, Inspiration Monday, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, Ray Bradbury, writing ideas, writing prompts

I follow Stephanie Orges’ blog – Bekindrewrite – and each month she sets a writing challenge, Inspiration Monday. This month we are trying something different, using ideas from two of her wring heroes; Miss Judy, her writing teacher, and writer, Ray Bradbury, of Fahrenheit 451 fame.

We will list headings, phrases, or potential book titles that come from our own experience. Something that has been lurking since we were children, waiting to be brought out in to the light. We’ll compare lists, then next month – using something from the list – write a piece to fit.

Here is my list:

The Open Window
The Old Straight Path
Home Alone
The Pressing Crowd
The Disappearing Parent
The Rusty Blade
Dead Dog’s Eye
The Darkness Beyond
The Pit
Quicksand
The White Bridge
Hall of Mirrors
The Solitary Chair
Face Paint
The Clown
Old Saint Nick
Martin’s Garden
Grandma and Vera (Giles cartoons)
Fester Bestertester (Don Martin character, Mad Magazine)

Inspiration Monday – Dying Art

Tags

bekindrewrite, burglary, creative writing, crime, Dying art, flash fiction, Inspiration Monday, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, old bill, police, rozzer, writing ideas, writing prompts

Christmastide at Steph’s InMon! I’ve missed a few Inspirational Mondays lately, but here is my seasonal flash fiction offering …

***

T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring  … except for the creaking of floorboards from down in the hall.

That’s the trouble with old houses, they have real wood floors. They swell and shrink with the weather; when it’s dry you have to tippy-toe carefully because they make enough noise to wake the dead.

It’s a dying art, y’ know – a’burglin’. Back in the day you’d be in and out and they’d hardly know you had been there – ‘cept their valuables had gone, of course. You’d look for a window that was ajar, or may be a door that was unlocked. Sometimes you’d have to resort to the ‘tools’ – perhaps a little light work with a jemmy, or may be a few moments with the skeleton keys, but you was soon in.

The idea was to disturb as little as possible. After all, it was someone’s house you was in and you didn’t want to mess it all up. You knew where to look. Creatures of habit is humans. Sometimes they would surprise you, like a roll of tenners in the sock drawer, or a nice diamond ring in the medicine cabinet. But usually the same old stash in the tea caddy, nice watch on the dressing table, necklace in the knicker drawer.

Of course, you always wore gloves. Only a complete divvy would leave finger prints. But nowadays there is no skill, no finesse. Smash a window, rip a door off its hinges. Then once they’re in they blunder about like a chimp at a tea party. The place looks like it’s been hit by a tornado. And they aren’t fussy about what they take, neither. Anything that they think the pawnshop will give them a couple of bob for, they’ll have.

No pride in their work, that’s the trouble with the youth of today. Once upon a time they used to learn the trade proper – like an apprenticeship – but now they thinks they know it all, and just won’t listen.

Like getting nabbed by the Old Bill. We’d always say, “It’s a fair cop, guv.” Give ’em a bit of banter down the nick, and get off with a warning, but these youngsters gotta put up a fight, and struggle, and bleat. Then they are surprised when they wake up in the cell, with bruises. They don’t realise the rozzers is only doing their job – just like us.

It’s a dying art, y’know.

***
© 2016, K Patrick Moody

Inspiration Monday – Written Radio

Tags

bekindrewrite, cats whisker, creative writing, flash fiction, H G Wells, Inspiration Monday, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, radio, steampunk, writing ideas, writing prompts

Crystal radio using cat’s whisker technology

Another late entry for InMon! When will I learn? Anyway, from this week’s list of words, ‘written radio’ grabbed my imagination.

(‘Bertie’ was the name his friends and family called H G Wells)

***

There was a gentle tap on the door of Smythe’s workshop.

“You in there, Sam?”

“Yes, come on in. You’re just in time.”

Sam indicated a knot of electrical wiring and other pieces of equipment on his bench.

Joshua knew he need not ask …

“I’ve been interested in this radio phenomenon for a while, and I think it has great potential.”

Joshua nodded, technology wasn’t really his forte.

Sam continued, “The work of that chap Morse in the United States fascinates me. Listen.”

He held up the headphones and Joshua put them to his ear.

“All I hear is blips, Sam. It is meaningless.”

“They are not just ordinary blips, there are short ones and long ones – it is a code – and messages are being sent – it is transmitted information.”

“I can’t see there is a future in it.”

“But what about this, Joshua … ?” Sam twiddled and adjusted the tiny wire touching the small piece of crystal, “ … listen again!”

Joshua held the apparatus to his ear.

“Tell me what you hear!” Sam was almost bursting with excitement..

“Just crackling …” Sam fiddle again with the device he called a cat’s whisker.

“Now what can you hear?”

“Is it a voice? It’s got a strange tone – and it’s not a language I recognise.” Joshua was non-plussed with the whole thing. All this was playing with dangerous, new fangled, electricity. The stuff was unpredictable – you couldn’t see it, unless it was leaping across the bench as a blue flash; you couldn’t smell it, until it set fire to Sam’s wires. At least you knew what was going on with gas lamps and candles.

“That’s just it!” Sam was waving his arms about – he was about to launch himself in to another project that would cost Joshua dearly. “I don’t know where the voice is coming from. Nobody is transmitting anything other than the telegraph signals!”

Joshua was getting a vague interest now there was some mystery mixed in.

Sam continued, “Oh, I’m sure it will happen in time – but there is years of research needed yet.”

“Right, let’s keep it logical.” Joshua tried to keep the matter grounded, “Who is likely to want to get ahead of the Americans?”

“Well, I know the Tzar has a whole range of scientists at work – but the voice is not Russian.”

“Pretty much likely to be them, I reckon.” Joshua looked smug, and rocked on his heels as he lit his bent briar.

“But …” Sam gave a dramatic pause, “ … what if Bertie Wells’ story about Martians isn’t a work of fiction – what if he was trying to warn us? These blighters would have technology far superior to ours.”

“Nonsense!”

“No! We must locate the source of these emanations! It is of national importance, Joshua! I need your assistance, and that of your colleagues at the Ministry!”

Joshua hid his face in his hands – here we go again, he thought.

***

© 2016, K Patrick Moody

Inspiration Monday – Insecurity System

Tags

bekindrewrite, creative writing, flash fiction, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, writing ideas, writing prompts

It’s Monday, I’m late. Here is my offering for Steph’s Inmon challenge. This week I chose ‘Insecurity System’ as my prompt, for no other reason than to give my Steampunk pair a bit of an airing.

* * *

INSECURITY SYSTEM

“Stone the crows, guv’nor!” The cabby flipped open the hatch above the occupants of the hansom cab, “A bloke could get lawst comin’ dahn all them alleys!”

“Nonsense!” Fortesque new the fellow was fishing for a bigger tip, “But there’s an extra florin for you if you wait here for us.”

“Well, Sunday nights is busy, y’know.” He rolled has hands together and blew into them for warmth, “Can’t afford to waste time just ‘anging abaht.”

“I’ll make it half a crown, and expect to find you here at ten thirty.”

Fortesque didn’t wait for a reply; he and his colleague got out and vanished into the darkness beyond a pair of black iron gates.

At the house Fortesque pulled the brass handle to the right of the door. There was no sound, but a few moments after the door opened, slowly, just wide enough for the butler’s face to appear in the gap.

“We’re here for the meeting.”

“Meeting, sir?”

“Yes, Sir Oswald Pickersgate is expecting us; Dr Joshua Fortesque,” and he indicated to his colleague, “Mr Samuel Smythe.”

“Ah, that meeting. Of course, sir. Do come in.”

He took their hats and top coats and led them to the drawing room. The door opened and they were greeted by a fug of billowing cigar smoke, and a glass of port.

“Made it then!” Sir Oswald thrust out his hand, “Shame you missed dinner, rather good salmon tonight, I thought.”

With introductions complete the meeting began.

By a quarter past ten a conclusion was reached. The only way to defeat the enemy’s infiltration of the security system, would be to give them access to ‘the insecurity system’, as Sir Oswald called it.

“I know just the man,” Fortesque twisted his moustache and smiled. “A man to whom money is more important than his meagre life.”

Fortesque and Smythe climbed into the hansom and the hatch above them opened.

“Where to, guv’nor?”

“How would you like to turn the half crown into a guinea?”

“I thinks that sounds like a job where I don’t ask no questions.”

“I think you are quite correct. Drop us at St Paul’s. When we are gone you will find an envelope on the seat. It would be rather convenient if it was to end up at the German embassy, for the attention of the Kaiser.”

“But what about me payment?”

Smythe cut in, “It will be delivered to your house at noon tomorrow, by a street urchin called Arthur.”

“How do you know where I live?”

“The same way that we will know you if you have delivered the envelope.”

Alone next to a solitary gas lamp outside the cathedral, the cabby ran his finger over the envelope’s seal. Moments later the cab disappeared in to the dark side street. At noon the next day, as promised, Arthur knocked on the cabby’s door. There was no reply.

* * *

© 2016, K Patrick Moody

More poetry?

Tags

creative writing, enough, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, One Word Challenge, Pam Ayres, poetry, proper poetry, William Topaz Mcgonagall, writing, writing ideas, writing prompts

The poetry submissions for July’s OWC (One Word Challenge) were a little thin on the ground, so I thought I would help out again.

I’m sure any regular readers will know my mantra for verse – ‘If it don’t rhyme, it ain’t poetry’ – and I class this as proper poetry, somewhere between that of William Topaz McGonagall and Pam Ayres.

So without further ado … ‘Enough’.

***

Oh dear, I feel unsteady, and wobbly on my feet.
Thought I’d meet a nice young blonde, and save her from the street.

I ordered extra drinks from the barman over there,
I had to drink them all myself, ‘cos she don’t seem to care.

The first round wasn’t too bad, I thought that life was tough,
Now I’ve done it three more times, I feel a little rough.

‘Set ‘em up again, Joe, she’ll be here pretty soon,’
He said ‘Ya shouldn’t bother – more chance getting to the moon.’

I said I’d dressed up special, put gold links in me cuff,
He snatched away the empty glass, said, ‘Mate, you’ve had enough.’

I settled for a cola’d Coke, it fizzled in the glass.
I tripped upon the curly mat, and fell upon me arse.

‘Right! That’s it! You gotta leave, you’re a nuisance in this place.’
But as he whisked me through the bar, I saw her lovely face.

‘Oi!’ I said, as he pushed me, right out through the door,
‘You were s’posed to be with me! – I woulda loved you more!’

As I hit the footpath, I bumped in to Old Bill,
‘Accompany me to my van – or come against your will.’

I spent the night in chokey, the cell room floor was hard,
Breakfast wasn’t up to much, just toast all smeared with lard.

Straight in front the beak I went, of course he got me done,
Stung me for a pony, but I’m glad it weren’t a ton.

The moral of this story is, once in the nitty gritty,
When you get to sixty five, young blondes don’t think you’re pretty.

***

(c) 2016, K Patrick Moody

One Word – Jeopardy

Tags

creative writing, flash fiction, jeopardy, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, One Word Anthology, One Word Challenge, Talkback, writing magazine, writing prompts

April’s prompt in the Talkback, One Word Challenge was Jeopardy. This was another well chosen, but difficult to write for word. The poets found it a struggle as shown by the number of entries, but enough flash fiction stories made it before the deadline to make it a worthy challenge.

Here is my entry.

* * *

THE LAST DANCE

“So! You insist on this folly. You force me to come down to this god-forsaken room, just because you refuse to tell the truth.” He pushed the steel door shut with a gentle, well oiled click. “I thought that just being here would be enough, but you have to make my suffering worse.”

The fluorescent tubes flickered into yellow life, chasing the shadows deep in the damp crevices of the room. He checked the tightness of the ropes around her wrists.

“We don’t have to continue with this little game, I’d rather be with my other friends in the ballroom.” He slid out of his tuxedo and hooked it on a nail protruding from the breeze block wall. In exchange he put on the heavy rubber apron and matching gloves.

“Now, my dear, tell me his name and we can both leave this awful place.” He paused. She said nothing. He stroked her cheek with the foul-smelling rubber glove. “We could be back in time for the last waltz.” Her spittle ran down his cheek. He sighed.

“Then it will have to be a fandango.” He brought the bare ends of the jump-leads together in a shower of yellow-blue sparks.

* * *

© 2016 KPatrick Moody

 

Inspiration Monday – Sketchy Artist

Tags

bekindrewrite, creative writing, flash fiction, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, writing help, writing ideas, writing prompts

It’s been so long! But I have another story, inspired by Steph’s trusty Bekindrewrite site. Of the prompts available Sketchy Artist struck a chord …

***

“This is the life, Samuel.” Joshua Fortesque stood back from the easel and puffed contentedly on his bent briar. “The greens in spring are so fresh.”

“Well you’ve certainly captured the essence of the scene.” Sam Smythe took a pace back from the billowing tobacco smoke. He considered carefully the colours and shapes daubed on the canvas. “Tell me, Joshua, how long have you painted abstracts?”

“Samuel, please. It is after Monet’s impressionist style,” he huffed. Sam considered it carefully for some moments before replying.

“Do people really like this stuff?” He dodged another cloud from the briar. “Would they sell if we could produce them ‘en masse’?”

“I’m sure they would, if I could paint fast enough.” Joshua chuckled at the thought. He watched Sam, deep in thought, wander back towards the workshop.

The late afternoon sun dipped behind the trees and Joshua packed away his paints and easel, and headed off to the workshop, trailing pipe smoke in his wake. He pushed open the door and peeked round the edge to see what Sam was up to.

“Just in time, old boy!” Sam’s brown dust coat was splattered in every colour available in Joshua’s pallet. “What do you think of this?”

On the bench was a wooden frame, and in it was what appeared to be a large stencil. It looked like an old silk shirt was stretched across it, too.

Joshua pocketed his pipe and went in.

The bench was scattered with jars and dishes of paints mixed to different consistencies, some almost like water, others like thick cream. Propped against the walls and cupboards were boards covered in paint; some colours fixed to the surface, others dribbled down and pooled on the floor.

“I’m nearly there! The theory is good!” As usual Sam’s enthusiasm for concocting machines to do man’s work blinded him to any impracticalities. “Out there you were dabbing on your colours here and there – bit of yellow, bit of blue – making a greeny colour.” He pointed to the canvas Joshua carried. “Not very efficient I thought.”

“It isn’t supposed to be efficient – it’s artistic – a pleasure, to be consumed slowly, and savoured.” Joshua assumed the haughty air of one who knows, unlike an engineer who just wouldn’t understand.

“Yes, yes. I know all that.” Sam waved the idea away. “With this machine I can replicate your art quicker, and more easily, by applying the individual colours one at a time to the whole picture in one swipe – look!”

He mixed paints, sloshed them into the frame, dragging a rubber blade across each time he changed colour. He swapped the stencils around, too. After ten minutes frenzied activity he held up a board for Joshua to see.

“I get the idea.” A faint wisp of smoke rose from his pocket. “The blending of the primary colours is producing the secondaries. I’m sure this can work, I’m warming to it.”

“Will you work with me on developing it, Joshua?” Sam paused and sniffed. “I’ll need your arty advice to get the colours just right – what’s that smell? Something burning?”

The pocket on Joshua’s jacket now had a black patch, just beginning to glow red. Joshua flapped his hand at it, but before it became a conflagration Sam grabbed a pot of water, with paint brushes still propped up in it, and drenched the seat of the fire.

“It’s best you only bring your pipe when we are working ‘en pleine air ‘methinks.” Sam covered his mouth in a failed effort to subdue his laugh.

Joshua turned and left the workshop, “My favourite tweed, y’know … and I suppose that’s my shirt in your infernal machine.”

***

© K Patrick Moody, 2016

Inspiration Monday – Inorganic life

Tags

bekindrewrite, Captain Fawcett's, creative writing, flash fiction, Inspiration Monday, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, steampunk, writer, writing ideas, writing prompts

Steph, the name behind InMon and the Bekindrewite site has, due to seasonal befuddlement, extended the deadline for the current submissions. This can only be a good thing for me, as I’m always too late to make a contribution. But now, with an extra week …

Here is my contribution. I’ve used the prompt, Inorganic life, and my old steampunk intrepids have come to join in.

***

“Joshua!” The Bunsen burner flickered, alone at the end of the bench, “Joshua! Where are you?”

Samuel Smythe slammed the door and marched back to the main house. With perfect timing, the front door opened on his approach. The butler took a pace backwards to give the flapping overcoat enough space.

“James, have you seen Fortescue? I said I’d meet him in the workshop so he could explain the stuff in the jar.”

“Mr Fortescue left a note, sir.”

A white glove indicated a sealed envelope on the hall stand. Sam picked it up, on the reverse a single cursive F flowed across the seal.

“Sam,

Sorry, old chap, bit of a problem – not sure what’s in the jar – thought it was inorganic – not so sure now – have taken it to family crypt – bring heavy gauntlets

Best

F”

“James, I need …” The butler held out Sam’s motorcycling gloves, and a pair of heavy boots. “… er, thanks.”

As Sam was tying the laces on the boots James coughed, Sam looked up and James handed him a lantern.

Suitably armed for a situation he knew nothing about, Sam strode off, in the direction of the crypt. (He refused to run, that was a sure sign of panic, and not becoming of a gentleman.)

The crypt door was ajar. The amber glow of a candle flickered on the sandstone walls. How many shadows wavered there? Sam pushed his way through the gap.

“Joshua?” His voice sounded tiny, lost in the dark corners.

“Sam! Thank the gods you are here!” He turned to face his friend. Joshua’s face was a mass of blood and green pus; it took all Sam’s effort not to turn and abandon Joshua to his fate – whatever it was. “Please – get it off me!”

As Sam looked closer, he saw that the oozing mess was not Joshua’s face, but some life form spreading over it. He took the candle from the lantern.

“Hold still, and close your eyes, this may hurt.” He raised the flame to Joshua’s face. He paused, “Oh, you’ll probably have to re-grow your moustache, too.”

The green slime sizzled and steamed as Sam worked his way around Joshua’s face. After only a few minutes of careful treatment, just a crisp crust remained. Joshua sat on the sarcophagus and picked it off.

“Damned shame about the old whiskers, Sam.” He fingered his naked top lip, “Just got ‘em
comfortable.”

“I’ll treat you to a new tin of wax for Christmas. You should need it by then.”

They headed back to the house.

“Pity we’ll never find out what that stuff was,” said Sam.

“Don’t think we’ve seen the last of it.” said Joshua, picking a lingering flake from his shrivelled sideburn.

***

(c) 2015, K Patrick Moody