A neighbor, I dare say.

Bam! Another lightening strike. This time our power of will went out leaving us in the dark with a horrid cat demon, our Siamese, and a pot roast in the oven.

Now the rain pelted our house again and again as it had not so much for an hour before. This torrid hatred of our little cottage had turned a night of pleasant company into a night of dread for the next clash of gods.

As it were, myself; and a remainder of my friends sheltered ourselves in the den. We were protected from the anger that came upon us tonight.

And what stopped as it began? The noise fell away. We heard nothing for a ten minute or twenty passing. The thundered of clashing giants was gone in just a manner that we felt beholden.

There was still a dinner to serve if the food would heat properly now that we had no fire in the stove. But we heard a foot the neighbour woman.

She was a fine mess alright. Harden lot she was and not a day over thirty, as I was told. Now her banging on the door alarmed me and my friend. We set about opening the entry for her. But not without a little fear, no less. She was known about as a strange woman. A something about the village that no one cared to explain for fear of her.

We stood, both, at the entrance to welcome her "Hello Natasha. What brings you out on such a terrible night?" Almost in echo, I think not.

She hand her basket of meats to my friend "I desired company. It's not a night for me, I'll say that. So move aside and let me in."

We broke ranks and handed her leave. My friend, Josh, had another spell and fell.

"Let him lay, he's a lucky man. We's a a bit busy now, so hurry man. There's a break in the storm. You don't want to have me caught in that business, eh?"

Why did a fat man need pink money?

I shoved the fat guy off me and rolled onto the cement floor.

"Where am I this time?"

The light shining inside my head confused me.

I was not at home in bed. I was not sleeping with my wife. But I wasn't about to let the voices tell me this time was real.

I had a five dollar bill in my left hand.

"What?" Someone stuffed money in my hand?

Why would they do that?

I pushed myself up. The fat man snored, loud, and scratched himself. He had a pocket full of pink money inside his pants. Why did a fat man need pink money? I wasn't asking. He wasn't going to speak for a little longer anyway, so I kicked him for making me buy another night of pitiful pleasures.

What is this? My pocket? I didn't have any pockets when I went to sleep last night. Now I have one. I have something poking me, and it's sharp. I have a knife? What else is in my pocket that I don't have? Is this an olive branch?

What am I doing with and olive branch and a knife? My pocket and a fat man that I have never had or seen now intrigue me.

I dig into my pink pocket and pull out my wife, a bed, and a shower.

Of course, I did. When I woke up in the jail of my dream, made for me again, I knew that no color or object was going to take away from me the truth that lay beside me.

Homeless writers.

I retrieved this essay for discussion because of the previous thread "Can I make a living writing" and I had another chat with a writer today who inspired my remembrance;

My god, I've had a few discussions over the months with writers who are destitute and living in shelters or sharing living arrangements with other people.

I’m sickened by this…

I’ve heard such stories for many years. I closed my ears because I wasn’t one of them.

I wasn’t sickly or poor. I paid no attention to their plight. Why should I? I am of sound financial status, beget a few times when I struggled to find suitable work, but I have a means to support myself. I don’t suffer such angst for this profession that I’d live in a homeless shelter until my work sells. I don’t folly about with a dream of hitting it big as a writer. But such people do, as I now know, and I am ashamed at my cavalier attitude about this preoccupation for writing.

Such is my pain tonight. I grieve for this poor fellow who desires so much more from his craft than I. This homeless man, with such courage and conviction, is worthy of more than I can ever hope to offer.

Yet, I can’t help but feel pity for him and I – who has lost much more than either has ever imagined.

So, I weep tonight for us – poor writers who are without home and love. But I also cherish this gentle spirit which as kept my poor friend warm, happy, and content to live as I had not thought possible.

I write, as true, to myself and others that we never forget those whose sacrifice is inspired by a noble thought.

Good night,

SpookyWriter

Originally posted at Absolute Write on 07-04-2006, 07:28 PM

Dairy of a madman.

I was wondering if anyone would consider reading the story of a mad dairy farmer? I had thought about putting together an outline for this story about Emmit who had issues with strangers who kept coming onto his farm to buy fresh milk. And other things...

See Emmit didn't sell fresh milk and had a sign at the front of his farm that said "We don't sell fresh milk".

But people kept coming by asking to buy fresh milk. At first Emmit didn't mind so much. He would explain that his farm sold to producers. But people didn't understand what he meant by "producers" and just thought he was being silly.

As the years went by Emmit began to lose his cows to issues. He still tried to keep up the farm even though the "producers" required more milk than he could produce.

And people kept bothering him for fresh milk.

His wife left him for a pig farmer. The kids moved to the city and stopped coming by to help with the farm. His crop of corn was eaten by crows. The country music station changed to rock.

Life wasn't going so good for Emmit.

So one day, Emmit snapped. He had enough and shot some poor fool who was stupid enough to as "Do you have any fresh milk?"

Now this story goes on a bit about Emmit hiding the bodies and such. But my question is "Can the dairy of a madman" be considered a memoir?

There lay I, a broken wheel and a spoke, beside the road of trespassers.

The story goes not forth, without time to reflect, while the words remain etched within the confines of my imaginary word-smith friend. But I found an escape, only recently, from the torture that had kept the remaining story from unfolding.

Yes! I am about to embark on the conclusion of this story that I began a fortnight and forty ago. Soon, my work on this tale will finish and nobody can stop me now. So we all have stories to complete, while fugitives from the demons of our own making, and exorcise excuses to finish them. I think so.

But the broken wheel that keeps us from finishing the race is a crutch, I believe. I will not allow the trespassers on my goal to finish this story and keep me from telling what I know. I am going to write whether or not it snows tonight.

What's that noise?

Oh I enjoy suspense in writing and when you have a group of kids there's not much more to say in a scary situation than "What's that noise?".

And so that's how I ended my last chapter because it was a logical break between scenes.

Remember to leave the reader wanting more. So the next chapter should either be an opening for what we want to learn or a continuation of a previous scene that was left hanging, But they all need to tie together so don't hold up the story for suspense if it's not going to move the plot along.

Six months of dry heat.

I'm working on another story while trying to complete Hannigan's Meadow. But the dry heat inside my head is keeping me from completing anything right now. I haven't updated my blog in just as long.

The tormentor fly.

I've killed that fly a dozen times in the past three or so weeks, and yet each time I go outside for a smoke he's there waiting for me.

I'm hot and miserable already. Sweat is dripping off my brow within a few minutes. It's too damn hot for confrontations. But that doesn't seem to matter because the fly buzzes around my head as though I were dead; picking at morsels of flesh and laying eggs in my scalp. I'm sure of it.

I can almost feel them breeding on my dandruff. Each time it lands on me I flinch because I can feel its tongue licking the salt from my body. That instrument leaves traces of fly saliva that I can't seem to wash off no matter how hard I try.

I've killed it a dozen times. I swear it. But each afternoon a replacement approaches from my blind side and begins to work on me, hastily nibbling on me before I take a swat at it, and all the while I'm sitting on the porch in misery and discomfort from the heat.

I can't stand it anymore. What am I going to do? I've become afraid to venture outside for fear that it will tickle my ear with its sickening whispers and foul laughter. The mind of a fly is a corruption that I find insanely jealous. I don't know how much longer I can take the fly's torture. What can I do? I am afraid that soon, I may start a buzz in the community, if I am caught chasing this demon about with a shovel. But I'm in distress from the heat and don't care at the moment. I just need to fly away from my problems and forget what'd I've heard from him.

I've become too disturbed by the tormentor fly to care if I live for his diet or die.

I just saw Jesus in the closet...

As I was leaving the restroom, I happen to peek inside the maintenance closet and that's when I saw the broom Jesus uses leaning against the wall. The broom was clearly marked with his name, Jesus.

I rubbed my eyes and turned to the guy behind me "Did you know Jesus was in the closet?"

He walked around the counter and looked inside, then chuckled "Funny. That's a good one."

Sure enough. The broom Jesus used to clean up was leaning against the wall. But if you don't wear your glasses, like I do once in a while, and come across an obvious sign like that one then it's time to re-evaluate life and ask yourself "What does it mean?"

Now I can take it several ways. I need to forgive someone. Or I am about to be forgiven for something I'm about to do.

Or maybe the message was "Salvation can only come out of the closet if you are prepared to sweep away the cobwebs."

Hmmm...I think I just had a spiritual encounter. What do you think? Has anyone else ever had one of those encounters before?

The Neurotic Cat.

My neighbor just told me about the cat out back last night. He told me that the cat out back kept scratching on my door. He told me this wasn't the first time he's seen this cat hanging around out back. I believed him because I have cats, strays I guess, visiting me every night when I go out for a smoke.

These cats began to appear my very first night here. I didn't think anything of it at first. But after a couple days I noticed how they seem to appear whenever I step out the front door. They don't bother me. They just sit and stare at me.

I've had my share of nature the past few years and have grown used to these events. So I have a neurotic cat now who demands to come inside while I'm asleep at night. Nothing new or exciting about all this, I'm sure.

So the crickets, scorpions, rats, and snails don't bother me now that I have a cat out back watching my back.

Disturbing behavior...

I write horror, suspense, and thrillers so I naturally have this tendency to dig deep inside for disturbing behavior that I can use in my works. I've written prose of extreme horror, death by means most people would cringe, and suspense that would be marked too realism for most.

But all this disturbing behavior of my characters are not me. I don't stalk women, nor do I pray on the innocent -- depraved behavior that drives my antagonistic characters. I'm a nice guy by my nature, so it pains me sometimes to exploit these feelings for my work. I love my writing, to a point I get excited by the dismal failings of humans when suffering, and yet I am troubled that these same thoughts that make my work believable are able to surface so easily.

I've seen dead prostitutes, murdered people, the scabs of humanity that walks silently while taking life without remorse, as I've seen and experienced so much pain in my time here. Now I draw upon these emotions for my work and it disturbs me sometimes.

How do people manage to remain sane when writing about insanity, chaos, death, or any form of humility at the hands of an antagonistic character?

I'm at a loss within myself to be the nice guy and the same man who will gladly open a wound to see my own suffering as a writer.

Any thoughts about the anguish of writing a genre that is so disturbing that it also affects your mental health?

P.S. I am writing a short story now about a young man who drags a dead uncle into Walmart (generic store) to cash the uncle's social security check. So, I must feel and think as this boy which bothers me a little.

When it thunders, my earth shakes, and so begins...

...another night of abject darkness, where I may be lost without light; without electric I can't communicate and so my world will be a void until the storm passes. I hear the storm approaching, and make preparations for an evening of solace. This is the first thunder storm we've encountered in a bit, so maybe the hot spell is over? I can't wait until it cools again so I can wear my sweater and cover up at night with a quilt.

Dead Cricket Disposal Expert Needed!

I admit I killed him. I watched him crawl off and die. I won’t lie to you, I actually enjoyed it. But now I feel guilty. I didn’t when he first appeared at the entrance to my bedroom. I didn’t when I rushed outside and grabbed a can of bug spray. I didn’t as he wiggled, crawled on his back legs helplessly about the carpet, and flopped over on his back in a final death throe.

I watched in awe. Black flag death reigns supreme. I watched the last moments of Mr. Cricket as he lay on the bathroom tile, withering in pain from the chemicals I had introduced to him. I paused a moment to think. “Who is going to pick him up and dispose of the body?”

I was at a loss. I hadn’t thought about that part of my murder plan. I was easily excited by the demise of a chirped invader, but alas! What to do with the remains? How can I, me of such gentle nature and befriend of nature, dispose of my murdered pest?

The day passed in silence as I pondered and wondered what to do about my little problem in the bathroom. I scooted past it (I say it because I don’t know his name) several times during my regular routines. But I couldn’t help and stare at the lifeless corpse that stood between me and the toilet. I was perplexed, distraught, and nearly grabbed a cloth to cover up my murderous act. But I couldn’t face him, or it, as I was too ashamed to acknowledge my crime.

I hadn’t thought of it, him, as such until later in the day. I needed refreshment after a grueling schedule. I needed time to relax and think of something pleasant. The mood of my afternoon became merry and I thought of a song to hymn while making a refreshing drink.

A noise? A chirp?

I listened and then I heard it again. My glass shattered on the floor. I had not forgotten my victim, but had not thought to hear him begin the banter of harmony that chilled my bones. I paled behind a ghostly thought. “Do crickets become ghosts if wronged in this life?”

I didn’t know the answer and really didn’t want to know if it was true. I only knew one thing and that was somebody had to get rid of the cricket or I would never get any rest.

There would be no sleep tonight until I found someone to dispose of my victim. But who? Who could I count on to keep my secret? I paced back and forth pondering my options. Should I call the police? Should I ask the animal control people to pick up the remains of my brief foray into murder? Who? Who can I trust?

The door to my apartment opens, as I suspected it would when my son returned from his scheduled afternoon adventures. I took him aside and explain the situation, careful to omit my glee while the cricket twitched in agony, while describing the events as best as I could recall under the circumstances. He listened, shook his head and politely replied “But dad, it’s just a cricket. Why can’t you do it yourself?”

He didn’t understand. How could I expect him to know of my guilt? How was he supposed to understand the torment I felt by enjoying the murder and death of a living creature? What could I say to explain my repulsion by the excitement I experienced for those few minutes while my victim clung to life, and expelled his last breath on this earth?

I begged him because of my weakened state of mind. I explained to him how I had not felt well since it happened. I was vague to the manner of my murder, but I think he understood somehow because he did what I could not. He packaged the cricket into a paper tissue and disposed of him just like an expert. I was in the kitchen, waiting patiently, and hoping he could forgive me.

The dead went quietly into my toilet without fanfare or family to bid him a safe journey. So I had imagined, and so had I hoped, until the chirp returned. I clearly heard the unmistaken rubbing of angry wings together while I lay in bed. I knew somehow that my crime would not go unpunished. I had thought no less than my own death at the hand of someone who would spray me with chemicals. I fancied the idea about in my head. The tick-tock in anguish became too much for me and I was exhausted from my schedule to remain awake.

But sleep was not so easy as I heard what I believe to be the chirp of another cricket. Or maybe it wasn’t?

{complete the rest later for publication}

Live astronauts capture zombie in outer space

NASA has declined an interview from this unreporter but don't deny that their top two astronauts are discussing how to return with the living dead without causing a panic. Rumor has it that the zombie was clinging to the Hubble trying to spy on people.



Originally posted on Absolute Write

Tales from the Crips -- Blood brothers (The Story)

"Got that right brother." -- Tookie the day after his execution.

How do you critique a pregnant woman?

Besides the critique I provided for Sara Lee tonight, I can't recall ever giving a critique to a woman expecting before.

What do you say? "Uh, nice shoes lady."

"Excuse me, but that's my pickle you just grabbed."

"I think chocolate looks good on you. But the mustard is hiding your chin."

I need more practice incase I stumble across a pregnant woman in need of a quickie critique.

Beta Reader Comments (Dead Dreams)

Dead Dreams

I have finished rereading Dead Dreams. I really loved it. Still more than last time. And where I got lost the first time it was OK this time. So you needn’t worry and change any of the contents for the ending. It is very clear. I don’t know why I reacted in this way the first time.

First I’ll tell you where I think your story is very good.

The premise is excellent. Original I can’t say as I am not used to reading horror, maybe it’s been used before, I don’t know. But I liked this intrusion into a bizarre world between life and death. I think it serves as an excellent basis for a story.

The content is excellent. The story has all the ingredients to make it thrilling: the good opposed to the bad; inexplicable murders; chases; the hero’s beloved in danger; the hero in a constant threat for his life; déjà vu situations; a friend who turns out to be a fiend, etc…A love story; although I think that it lacks passion, and I’d definitely add a sex scene at the end of chapter 32 and put together into one all three chapters 31, 32 and 33.

Now what I didn’t like too much.

The paragraphing: when you make a new paragraph at each sentence or quite, I think it breaks the rhythm and the telling doesn’t flow. I’d bring together more sentences to make longer paragraphs, reserving shorter ones to put the stress on an idea or a feeling or something. However I have noticed that a lot of the excerpts which are posted on WN have that same “flaw”, so I wonder whether it is the American way.

Nominal sentences (without a verb) should be used parsimoniously, when you want to insist on something. But I’ve already told you that, and I know that you don’t agree.

Don’t use question marks at the end of statements to give them an interrogative meaning.

For example:

In the middle of chapter 17: “I don’t know what else I can do to help?”
should be: “I don’t know what else I can do to help.”
Or: “I don’t know what else I can do to help. Do you?”

Or again at the beginning of chapter 22: “He didn’t know what the future held for him, but it couldn’t be worse than what he witnessed daily?”
Should be: “…. but it couldn’t be worse than what he witnessed daily.”
Or: “…but it couldn’t be worse than what he witnessed daily, could it?”
I know it is commonly done, but it isn’t correct. There are several occurrences in your book.

Now I’ll make a few comments on some chapters.

Chapter 17: I never knew where the actions took place: kitchen? Bedroom? Bathroom?

Chapter 21: perhaps too many details, which made it hard to follow.

Chapter 30: Jenny doesn’t show enough terror. She looks quite cool when she talks to Jimmy. For example, when she bumps into the desk, she rubs her thigh, as if she had no other concern. She is calm enough to lie to him. I’d make her more terrified. It’s thrilling though.

Chapter 37: wouldn’t Linda rather try to leave the gallery knowing that Jimmy is there, and not go back to the attic? I know she’s got to stay, but I’d make her try to escape and fail. She doesn’t look terrified enough either.

And to finish, there are two things I didn’t understand:

Who is the woman in the photo that Jimmy has lost?
Does the last sentence mean that someone is trying to kill him?

I have already told you that I find the prologue a bit long. I have made a few cuttings. Would you like to see them?

Well, it's just my opinion, and of course it's not gospel truth. But I repeat, I think on the whole it's very good and very enjoyable. I was sorry when I had to stop reading. You put it down because you have to, because you have other urgent things to do, not because you've had enough. So that's what matters, isn't it?

I'll be looking forward to your email. Don't exhaust yourself and get some rest.

Bye for now.

On the job training at the Fulton County Morgue

He pulled at the crotch of his trousers with his one good hand and shuffled, past the fire place, between brown leather chairs and slumped into his seat. Avery sat with the heels of his feet against the chair, leaning forward, listening to the fire crackle. On either side of him were friends, almost his age, whispering among themselves in small groups of two and three. The parlor bathed of leather from the thick comfortable chairs and an overstuffed sofa. Big game trophies mounted on the wall eyed the gathering with undying interest.

At seventy two, he started to decline. He missed his teeth and hair and only one appendage on his right hand still worked half well, but not without a slight twitch. His hand wavered slightly as he raised the glass to his lips, filling his mouth with brandy, and forcing the muscles in his throat to swallow.

The liquor cleared his throat of phlegm. A droplet rolled down his chin and onto his lap. He waited for everyone to settle back into their chairs before he would begin. Tonight he would tell his small gathering a story that had remained untold for almost forty years.

His voice was somber and full as though to set the tone for his story. "I've never told anyone this story. Not a one. I dared not tell what happened to me that night," he said.

He paused and took another sip from the glass. Shadows from the fire danced above the men while they waited for Avery to continue. The room filled with each others thoughts of what story their friend would tell. They gathered around in a semi-circle, as they had for the better part of twenty years, and listened as Avery took them wherever his mind wandered. Many a night, they gasped at tales of hideous creatures, some living close by, and other horrors that most people never heard of before. Nine men waited patiently to learn where he would take them on this moon-filled night.

Avery straightened himself in the chair and stared at each of them in turn. His eyes seemed to pry into each soul in search of a story until he settled on Ben, his friend of better than thirty years and the closest to a son he ever had, and bemoaned a sigh of regret. As though, looking into their eyes, he found which tale would be told.

"There are times when I wonder where they came from," his voice barely carried above the crackle of the fire.

Avery settled back in the chair, the glass of brandy resting neatly on his knee, and he began to speak again. This time he wouldn’t stop until the story was finished.

To this very day I wonder if I haven’t dreamt it all. If not but for those few minutes, startled as I was, I’m almost sure it was all a very real dream. On nights such as this, when there is a restless moon and demons play with lost souls, I can recall a visit by two travelers.

These two weren't your ordinary bump in the night strangers. No, they were something to keep you awake all night if you happened to meet upon them the way I did. I can't recall when it started, but I suspect it had to do with all those bodies. They were a pitiful lot, they were. Most of them were burned to the bone. Oh, it was a sad day alright.

My first day on the job and here I was up to my elbows in work and frightened. Oh was I frightened to be sure, but I was mostly scared I'd make a mistake. In some ways I was also scared to be alone with them. Don't ask me why, I can't quite remember why, but I felt so alone and so helpless. I couldn't do anything but watch as their twisted remains were stacked along side the wall. I wanted to do something for them, those poor souls, the lot of them, but it was beyond my power to help.

My, was I something back then; full of lofty ambitions and false pride. I never lost my pride, even after they visited me that night, though I'm sure there were times when I had to swallow it.

Now only a few tidbits remain, and even if I could remember, I think my first day on the job really didn't happen. At least not the way I would like to remember. I was young, ambitious, and had foolishly thought I would be the best pathologist in the county or even the state someday.

Oh, I know, there are all those expectations of starting a new job, especially on the first day, but now I can't remember how I felt. I can only guess what it was like at that particular moment in time. That dreadful night had a hold of my memories and wouldn't let me forget for many years.

As I remember, it all started around four that afternoon when I was told about the plane crash. Nearly a hundred and ten bodies, young and old alike, were scattered over the old ballpark.

Volunteers from all over came to help. We had to try and identify what remained of as many people as possible from the wreckage. It was a sad, grim, task that we were asked to perform that day. There was little time to question why it happened. We were all very busy trying to piece together enough so they could be identified by their relatives. We didn’t have time to even think about why it happened. There would be time for that later.

The last arrivals of the evening were little more than charred mannequins, their arms wrapped around each other. I can't tell how it came about that I was left alone with those two. They probably never expected to share death when it happened. Heck, tell you the truth, I don't even remember if I ever found out who those two were or where they came from.

Two hours later I finished separating the couple from the death grip which held them together. I guess they were probably in their early thirties, but I'm not sure about that. They must have embraced each other as a last desperate act of love to face death. I can tell you this much, I was deeply moved by the sight. Their deaths brought a deep sorrow where earlier I had felt horror.

I had done as much for them as I could and placed them in the vault while I went to my desk to fill out their death certificates.

It wasn’t long before my stamina mistook the momentary tranquillity for a chance to put my head down on the desk and get a few minutes of sleep. The hour was late and by two-thirty I was drained of emotion and strength. The night crept away slowly. While the morning began waking all manner of creatures, I drifted aimlessly in slumber. My head was tucked into the corner of my arm.

Suddenly, I was awakened by a coldness touching my face. I had a scare coming to me, sure enough. Still I wasn't ready for it. My eyes snapped open and I confronted a child, blankly staring at me while he held onto a woman's hand.

Never before or since had I seen such a child as him. The lad, not more than seven or eight at best, was neatly dressed in a black suit with wide lapels. His shirt was the whitest I have ever seen, crisp and wrinkle free, as though he had only dressed moments earlier. I followed the boy's hand up to the woman, but my neck stiffened in that awkward position and made it difficult to look above the desk lamp. The soft lighting from the hallway filtered into the room and her outline emerged to fill the doorway.

She was hidden by shadows that floated in front of my face. She too was dressed in black, tall and slender; her hands were covered with pressed white gloves. I uttered what I thought was surprise, but only a faint whisper escaped me as trapped air leaked between teeth clenched in fear. I must admit my feeble attempt at courage was something quite incoherent to the human ear. I tried to push myself away from the desk so I could get a better look. I don't remember if fear ever knew a better person to pick on that evening, but I was a good choice. My heart pressed itself against the walls of my chest, insisting I flee the room.

"Shhh, it's only a dream," the boy whispered.

Nervously, I went around the desk, my confidence returning. My thoughts were more directed and cleared of the momentary fright I experienced by their sudden appearance.

"Can I help you with something?"

I realized that what I said sounded awful and tried another approach. "I'm sorry, but we don't allow visitors in here."

That sounded more official and manly like I was expected to say something important. Yet, they remained silent as though they were expecting me to show them a body like we do for members of the family.

The woman stepped closer and grabbed my shoulders. I struggled vainly to escape her grasp, but she held me by the strength of her weight on my shoulders. The more I tried, the harder she held me until I was resigned to stop and try a different approach. I tried not to look into her eyes for fear something waited for my soul behind those hollow sockets. In the dark recesses, I could see nothing but emptiness and sorrow. There was no pain or remorse in those eyes. Nothing. But a deep sadness crept into my soul nevertheless. I knew of her sorrow as though it was part of me.

“Who are you?” I demanded bravely. “What are you doing here at this hour of night?"

A murmur escaped her lips as she pushed me backwards on to the desk. I tried to protest, but her gaze entranced my spirit and I had no hope of escaping. My God, I begged her to release me from her grasp, but she held me firmly and nearly touched her lips upon mine.

The veil couldn't shield the fire swelling from her hollow eye-sockets. They blazed as though her soul spit forth through those portals. I tried to cast her spell from my heart, but she whispered into my ear and I couldn't stop her words. Her cold breath on the back of my neck chilled my soul.

“Help us.”

That’s all she said. But a power as I had never felt before or since swept over me. I squeezed my eyes shut. The weight on my shoulder was lifted and I fell to the floor, free of her. My head began to spin, clouded by haze and I returned to the sanctuary of dreams and fools.

I was awaken hours later by the hand lying on top of my head and jumped from the stool to escape. I stumbled away from the table that had supported my head and tipped the stool over.

The hollow ring of metal on the granite floor echoed throughout the room. Startled, I waited for her to reach out from behind and touch me. Instead, a faint memory of her plea, a waif misery; beckoned me to pursue a terrible thought.

What if?

No, it was impossible. How could anyone survive such a terrible crash? We had all the bodies. Everyone was counted. There couldn’t possibly be anyone left?

But how could I be sure?

I had to know for myself. I gathered my jacket and ran for the door. It was a short distance to the field where all those bodies laid just hours earlier. I didn’t have any problem finding a few remaining personal affects scattered around the infield. I covered my eyes for a moment and tried to visualize how those people must have felt as their plane screamed toward the earth. It broke me and I knelt down to the ground in despair. I had not experience such grief before. Their voices seemed to ring true as I swiped a tear away. Then I imagined a faint whisper and the thought stuck me.

What if someone had really survived?

I knew it wasn’t likely. But I scanned the field anyway, hoping someone would come out of the shadows. I searched the edge until my sight focused on the field across from the ballpark. At first, I hadn’t thought of the cemetery but it made so much sense.

The woman and child I saw in my dream were dressed in all black as if to attend a funeral. But who’s? I hadn’t heard of a recent death since the previous week and I knew they had already buried Martha two days ago.

I rose from the ground and made my way to the cemetery. The dew made it slippery and each step was an effort. But I found the entrance and turned toward the ballpark where it all began. I used what light remained from the failing, silver moon to search between each row for a sign of life. It must have seemed ironic to look for a living soul among the deceased. But I kept at it for awhile until I approached the last row.

Scattered on the ground was a small bushel of carnations. I stepped to the side and glanced at the marker of a man roughly my age when he died. When I returned my attention to the path, I noticed a shoe sticking out from a row or bushes.

Hidden in the underbrush was a body I dreaded finding. I pushed away the foliage and saw her for the second time that night. A three-inch piece of metal protruded from her breastplate.

She clung to a boy. A sliver of moonlight illuminated her face. A single tear was stuck in the corner of her eye as though she were both sad and happy of my discovery. I reached down to touch her and the boy sprang up on one knee.

Startled, I fell back a step. I reached for a branch and steadied myself.

He whispered: “Are you my daddy? Momma always told me you’d come back for us.”

I took a deep breath and shuddered. The boy glanced back at his mother. He touched her cheek and then turned to smile at me for some reason. I beckoned him with the only comfort I knew at the moment.

"Yes, son. It’s ok. There’s nothing to worry about, I’m here now."

Old rejections

This post is for those who are planning to send something to
Amazing Stories in the near future. I just received a rejection :-(
from them with a note that they have all the stories planned and
purchased for the year and are not accepting unsolicited materials.

Now, this could be a slip rejection of a really bad story or
one that doesn't fit their needs or it could be sincere and they
are all booked for the year. I don't know which is the case, but
I hope it is the latter. I would hate to think my story was
terrible. Anyway, this brings up an interesting point.

I want to send the story to more than one editor, but I
tend to have patience and have waited for a reply before sending
it somewhere else. Because I have a half dozen short stories and
a near complete novel, this could take some time and I'm not getting
any younger (so I'm told). Should I send this story and others to
several different editors and let them know or should I continue
to submit to one editor at a time? Here is something else, I will
be finished with my novel by the end of June and want to send it
out right away. Yet, a part of me wants to wait until December
when I finish my second novel and send them out as a set or
individually to several publishers.

After December, I will be starting on my third novel and will
not have the time to track the previous two novels progress without
distracting my writing. At the pace I am writing, I will have a
novel completed and ready to go every six months and at some point,
I will have to stop and start marketing what I've written. So,
from one point of view, I am thinking of submitting directly to
book publishers, but on the other hand, I would like to have an
agent do the work for me. Either way I will have to stop and do
some marketing. As for the short stories I've kept to myself for
the past year or so, should I treat them any differently and send
them as a group or individually?

J.L. Campbell --- A troubling childhood is no excuse for entering
politics.

Originally posted May 9 1994, 10:36 am

What is in a name?

Here's a short story I wrote in 1991 and just now pulled it from the resting place I stored it for so many years. Now, I need to dust it off, and edit it once or twice and see if the story is of any interest to a magazine.

---
What is in a name. Evil by any other name is still evil. Case in
point. Brian, the name of our first born son, was what most people
thought of as the perfect child. Good, happy, easy to care for and
above all, loving. That word, loving, has a different meaning today
then it had five years ago. Back then it meant a son who loved his
family, and cared deeply for his sisters. It meant that I could spend
my time with him, holding him when he needed to be held, and just
loving him as I would all my children. I don't think of loving the
same today as I once did. I couldn't possibly, not after I found out
what it meant to him. How he embraced that word as if it was his own,
delivered to him from a dictionary of distorted and perverted words.
Where the meaning of nouns, adjectives, pronouns took shape from a
world of vocabulary vile and horrific descriptions.

The child, my only son, was conceived on Christmas day, 1985. As
if the act of loving conception was deliberately guided to that day
for a purpose, I, as human, could not understand or grasp. A child
of Christmas, the gift of gods, was born nine months later during
an eclipse of heaven and earth. Taking what light, soul, and love
existed that day away with the passing of the darkness. The first
scream of breath echoed a death of my wife, as her life was given
to provide a soul for one who was never born, but rather pushed
from the womb of a woman.

In time, I came to accept her death as my son's breath spilled out
into the night and I was lost to the time of his first years. Three
years passed since his, her shared births, and I had almost forgotten
the loving she had given. He had replaced that feeling with a want,
a need, to fill my hours caring for him. My other children came into
my life to feed my inspiration as I struggled to survive the loneliness
and coldness of my world as it had become. But even their love could
not survive long in a house that had become a temple for my son.

In time, as with age and eventual death, my other children became
a pawn of my son, turning their love for me into a hatred of all life
and withdrawing inward to serve a new life. I tried not to see what
had become of my family, as I tried, I lost touch of my own desires.

Another year had passed and my son had begun to develop a sense of
what life could offer, or rather what he could take away and began to
play with life. Corrupting my other children, he enjoyed the loving
that they gave him. Still, I had not seen what was happening. Not
until months later when I too became infected by his corruption. A
feeling of disgust swept through me as I lay on the bed, gasping for
breath as my wife had five years earlier, tempted to end the torment
that had i had been going through since her death. But it was not to
be, as if my son knew of my renewed strength, he straddled my attempt
to end the misery with his dictionary of perverted words that had new
meaning. Forcing me to listen as he spread his gospel through my mind
with his voice, quietly whispering his thoughts, repeating the same
sentences, never relenting until I was submissive to his needs.

He kept at it daily, feeding what was left of my mind and soul with
his thoughts, commanding me to obey, focusing on my weaknesses with
the skill of a preacher. Compelling me to listen by his voice, as I
heard the wail of a child masked behind the spirit and determination
of an adult.

I knew it would have to end. He was my son, and I still loved him,
but I couldn't take it any longer. A determination, a force of will
gave me strength as I plotted and planned on the eventual confrontation.
Not knowing the outcome, I only knew that it had to stop, that I had
to put an end to it once and for all. I decided I would wait for the
right moment and strike when he was distracted. Take control of my
destiny. Free myself of the power he had over me and my other children.

I spent the next several days waiting for my chance, but he must have
had sense my change, my unwillingness to give as easily. He had been
quiet, almost withdrawn, as I waited for the right moment. But I was
patient and waited, watching his every move with a keen sense of
parental suspicion, knowing that he would make a mistake and let his
guard down long enough for me to act. It might take a little longer
than I anticipated, but I knew it would happen soon. It always did.

The afternoon sun darkened as clouds laden with moisture passed
across the sky and filled the air with a sense of foreboding. Soon,
the first drops of rain patterned the dry surface of the cement from
our driveway with faces of imaginary creatures. Following the droplets
was the sound of thunder as it echoed off distant structures, vibrating
waves passing through the valley, touching the ears of children and
sending them indoors to escape the fury of gods. As the rumbling
crept across the house, I began to prepare knowing that my son would
be coming inside to parade his misfortune for everyone. Loud and
boisterous, he would announce his arrival expecting everyone to
stop and pay tribute. But he wouldn't expect a challenge to his
authority, and I would be waiting, watching for the right moment
when I would be there to strike.

Stepping into the hallway, I took the weapon and placed it behind
my back and drew a breath. Letting the air trap my accelerated
heartbeats in still time, I practiced the words I found in a dusty
book. Whispering them to myself and waiting. Seconds ticked away
and were replaced by minutes, still he had not exoduses from the
storm and I was becoming more worried almost forgetting what I was
waiting for. As I was about to leave my hiding place, I heard a
door slammed shut downstairs and released the trapped air from my
lungs.

Loud noises followed by silence, and then more noises coming from
the kitchen. Still clutching my weapon, I waited for him to come
up stairs knowing that he would start voicing himself once he failed
to find what he was looking for in the kitchen. Following his normal
routine, he started to climb the stairs, feeding the spaces with
his voice. Loudly proclaiming his arrival to mankind, and expecting
his servants to usher from their rooms to service his needs. As he
continued to climb, his voice became more intolerable as I listened
from my hiding place. I could tell from the sound of his voice that
he was only a few steps away from the top, and I prepared myself to
confront him as soon as he stepped around the corner.

Another step brought him closer. My body began to tense as I waited
holding the weapon more tightly then before. I could feel the strain
of my task bearing on my feelings for my son, yet I was resolved to
end the torment, regardless of my inner fears. One more step to go.
A board in the flooring gave away his presence and I leaped out from
behind the corner, holding the knife in my hand, I prepared to strike
downward at the menacing form before me. As my hand clinched tightly
on the weapon I felt a sudden sharp pain come from my lower back and
gasped for a breath of air. The knife in my hand loosened slightly as I
staggered forward struggling to keep my balance. Another sharp pain,
this time in my side, and I could feel the knife blade piercing my
lungs. Tearing flesh as it was pushed further inside me until the
hilt of the blade rested against my side. Then I could feel hands
on my back as someone began to push me forward.

A rush of air escaped from my side as I tried to scream. Looking
about wildly, I turned to see my other children staring at me, smiling
as I fell forward against the wall. Then they started giggling while
holding their blood stained hands to their faces as if hiding the
laughter behind a blood shield. With the knife in my hand still, I
lurched at them falling face first onto the carpet. At the same time
I could feel the knife being pulled from my side.

Turning on my side, I could see my son holding the knife in his
hands as he studied the blood on the blade. Looking at his reflection
in the shiny blood stained blade, he began to smile broadly exposing
his missing front teeth. As he studied himself, I started to back crawl
away from him hoping to avoid death as long as possible. At least
until I could leave a message for the police to find knowing they
would have to eventually come to the house when I don't show up for
work on Monday. By then it might be to late for me, but at least I
could make sure that someone knows what I found out to late to prevent.

Licking my lips, I turned my head in time to see my daughters walk
away from their bedrooms mechanically advancing to where I lay on the
carpet. As I watched them step closer, I could feel a hand clasp my
ankle and kicked my leg instinctively trying to free myself from what
had taken hold of me. Not wanting to turn my attention away from my
approaching daughters, I kept kicking blindly with my feet until I
felt the knife penetrate my calf and I stopped and turned to see my
son holding the knife firmly in my leg with both hands. Enough air
remained in my punctured lungs for a scream to escape my throat as I
reached for the knife. Seeing my efforts to extract the knife, my
son let go momentarily allowing me to kick at him with the knife
still protruding from my calf, hitting him on the chin with the butt
of the handle and sending him backwards.

Pain shot up through my leg as I tried to stand. Crippled from
the injuries, I fell back on the carpet still kicking madly. My
second attempt to stand was more successful and I braced myself
against the wall holding my side as I did so. As if my daughters
sensed my death near. They both started to laugh loudly while clapping
their hands as if cheering for a winner in a television contest. Their
laughter distracted me from my son long enough for him to reach out
from where he lay and extract the knife from my leg. In doing so, he
let out a laugh that startled me as I felt the pang of fear mix with
the pain of my injuries and staggered backward. Holding my knife,
I swung it at my daughters as a diversion then turned with one
motion and ran at my son.

The suddenness of my attack had taken him by surprise as he stood
near the stairs staring blankly as I plunged the knife into his chest.
Looking down at the blade as it pierced his heart, he was pushed back
by the same force that drove the blade deep inside and he fell down
the stairs with a smile on his face. As he fell backwards down the
stairs, I slumped to my knees half expecting my daughters to push me
after my son. Instead, they both stopped laughing and a hushed
silence fell over the hallway as I watched my son roll down the stairs
in slow motion. Tumbling end-over-end, he continued to laugh until
he reached the bottom stair and I lost sight of him and the sound of
his laughter.

Staring down blankly, I imagined my son crawling back up the steps
holding the knife in his small hands, grinning as he crept up each
step until he was directly below me. As I continued to stare, lost
in my own thoughts, I had forgotten my two daughters behind me until
I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped at the touch. Bracing for
the pain I knew was coming, I was surprised to hear my daughter
speak for the first time in days: "It's okay daddy, he's gone now!"
was all she said. Then blackness became my day, filling my mind
with an emptiness as I slumped against the wall.