**Tap, tap, tap**
Is this thing on? It’s kind of dusty in here. I had to chase the mice away. They had eaten all the leftovers from the last time me and my staff was here.
I know the last time I posted here was way back in June, with a little piece titled The Vickie Special. For my few followers, I apologize for not coming around since then. However, I do have an explanation:
In July I created another blog of sorts, one that I thought would better serve my needs and act as both a website and a blog. I call it Type AJ Negative. I have been quite busy over there. Even with Herbie and Crashman Jack running the place it’s still a lot of work. A new interview series began in July as well titled Blood Donors. You can find them at Type AJ Negative.
Yeah, I know—I could have posted this information way back in July when I did this, but really, I had no intentions of abandoning The Odd Ramblings. Actually, I intended to cross blog between the two and My Myspace page (But, really, who looks at MySpace these days?)
At any rate, as time allows, I’m going to use both The Odd Ramblings and Type AJ Negative to cross blog, both for myself and friends. Certain things, like Blood Donors will remain exclusively at Type AJ Negative, but other things will appear here, as they had in the past.
Thank you for your understanding and I apologize for not informing all 14 of you sooner.
Feel free to head on over to Type AJ Negative and see what’s going on:
Type AJ Negative
For now, I’m AJ and I’m out…
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Vickie Special
There is an office building down on Lady Street in downtown Columbia. It's getting to be an old structure with its brick walls and windows that you can actually open. There are two elevators that hold maybe 6 people at most. In order to get to those elevators you have to go through two glass double doors and stand in a fairly dated foyer and wait for one or the other car to show up for your trip to one of the nine floors above you.
Do you have that image in your head? Okay, good. Now, turn around and look out those double doors and beyond the sidewalk and the small trees that should have grown a little taller in the last twenty years, but haven't. Look beyond the green and red parking meters that still make a whirring sound when you put a dime or nickel in them, that still have little plastic arms that pop up with an arrow on it pointing at lines that represent the minutes a parked vehicle has in that spot before the meter needs to be fed again (and before the dreaded 'meter maids' come by with their little tickets in a box and orange envelopes that tell everyone someone owes the city a couple of bucks). Keep looking across the two lane road and beyond other cars and meters to the cracked sidewalk and a building—much smaller than the one you are standing in. You'll see a gray door almost directly ahead of you. Two your left is the corner of the building, thus the street corner as well with it's myriad of lights and don't walk/walk signs that tick off the seconds you have before the possibility of getting run over grows significantly.
Now, look to the right of that gray door to the small eatery with its black tinted windows and solitary glass entrance. It is within that establishment that I would like to take you. For lack of a better term, it is a mom and pop eatery—not a restaurant, but a cafe dedicated to serving the business people of downtown.
If you step inside, you will see a clean space of not much more than a hundred square feet with a table to the left and one directly in front of the door. Beyond that table by the door is a glass refrigerator like you see in the grocery stores. There are various salads and fruits and the best banana pudding in the world sitting within that little refrigerator. To the far left and in the shape of an L is a counter that stretches maybe ten feet and L's out at about four feet. Behind it are the women—well, most of the time they are women—who work there, preparing orders with smiles and friendly conversation.
It is here, in this little establishment, that I met Vickie and her sister, Evelyn—the owners. Always smiling. Always a good word for people. I was maybe twenty or twenty-one the first time I stepped through the door to get a cup of coffee for my boss at the time. She—my boss, that is—referred to her coffee as if it were a woman. And, honestly, at the time I preferred the same type of women that her coffee was named after.
"How can I help you?" Vickie asked. She was short with light brown hair; a chubby woman with a grandmotherly smile. She was easy to warm up to.
I looked at her, maybe a little leery of what I was supposed to say. "I was told to order a cup of coffee, but to tell you that I want a tall, sweet blond."
Vickie smiled. "This must be for Sheri."
"Yes, Ma'am," I said.
And that was that. My first meeting with Vickie was for a cup of coffee for my boss. Over the next few months I ate there almost everyday. Not really knowing downtown that well, I didn't venture out that much. Besides, the prices were pretty inexpensive.
It was during one of my visits for lunch that I noticed Vickie sitting at one of the two tables. The newspaper was spread out in front of her and, I think, she had been reading the comics section. But, the antics of Garfield and Snoopy and Hagar the Horrible aren't important, just an added detail to the story at hand. In front of her sat an odd looking sandwich, one like I had never seen before. I puzzled over it for a minute, looking at it, but not wanting to get down and inspect the ingredients. After all, how inappropriate would that have been?
"What is that?" I finally asked.
"A Vickie Special," she said, took a bite and chewed. A moment later, she swallowed. "It's my own creation."
"It looks really good."
"Would you like one?" she asked me.
I must have smiled wide. She got up, walked behind the counter and began to prepare me a Vickie Special. She sliced a hoagie down the middle, spread mustard on one half, mayonnaise on the other. She sliced two hotdogs down the center and placed all four pieces on one slice of hoagie. Then came shredded cheese and crumbled bacon, topping it with chilli before putting the other slice of hoagie on top. Honestly, it was nothing more than a hotdog with chili and cheese and sprinkled bacon bits on it. But, in reality, it was so much more. It was a special creation that wasn't on the menu that the creator shared with me, a kid she barely knew.
It also became my favorite sandwich. I only ordered it when no one else was around, mostly because I was being selfish. I wanted the Vickie Special for myself. Over the next couple of years I had it at least three or four times a month. I felt honored that Vickie had allowed me to partake in her own creation, something, as the name of the sandwich implies, was special.
And this is where my story takes a decided turn. Vickie became ill and her trips to the eatery became less and less frequent until she was finally hospitalized. She passed away, Cancer taking her life, her friendliness and her smile away from the world forever. Along with her death went the death of the Vickie Special.
Many folks mourned her passing. As I said, she was a nice woman, a friendly woman, someone anyone could talk to and feel at ease with. Though I still went to the little eatery, I never ordered another Vickie Special. It just didn't feel right.
Eventually, I moved from the office across the street to a building two blocks away. My trips to the little eatery dwindled. I guess that's partly why I am writing this. You see, like most things in life, out of sight, out of mind and I forgot about the Vickie Special.
Until recently.
I was hungry for a hotdog one day and thought to myself, "Self, I think I would like to eat at this place today."
Self said back to me, in his usual dry tone. "You are telling me this, why?"
I shrugged a goofy shrug. It's not like Self really has a say so in this. If I want to go somewhere I do, Self be damned. So I went. Halfway there I remembered… I remembered and my heart kind of sank. Yet, my stomach growled.
Let me stop for a second and explain something to the younger folk out there. I can't expect you to understand how little things trigger memories, but the older you get, the more those little things become apparent and the more the things of your youth come back to you; the more they knock on the doors of your mind and say, "Hey, remember me?"
The little thing that triggered the memory is simple: a woman carrying a tall cup of coffee. There was no lid on the cup and I could see the coffee inside had been creamed down, making it a tall blond (whether it was sweet or not, I'll never know). I stopped on the corner and stared after the woman. Get your minds out of the gutter, she looked nothing like you are thinking and there was no lust involved. Sheesh…
My stomach growled and I immediately thought of Vickie and her special sandwich. My mouth watered. Not that, oh-I can-smell-that-burger type of watering, but that Oh-my-goodness-I-gotta-have-that type of watering.
I made my way passed the gray door and to the black tinted glass one that separated the outside world from the eatery. A woman opened it, stepped out and I grabbed the door before it could close. Inside the temperature was considerably cooler and there were several people in the cramped space that was the patron's side of the counter. The four workers—yes, all ladies—were busy taking orders, making sandwiches and taking money for the meals they served.
Evelyn wasn't there.
The older blond, her cheeks rosy, a smile on her face, spoke. "Hey, it's been a while."
"Yeah. Too long," I responded, taking in the menu on the wall behind her.
"What will you have today?"
"A Vic—" I stopped. We stared at each other for a moment, my mind on shutdown mode until it decided to kick back into gear. "Two chilli-cheese dogs, please. With mustard, if you don't mind."
"Onions?"
"No, thanks," I responded and tried my hand at some witticism, which I am usually quite good at. "I have to drive." Yeah, cheesy, but it was all I could think of at the moment. For those of you who don't get it, well, it just may be an inside joke shared with only a handful of folks.
I paid for my hot dogs and went back to my office, somewhat bummed out. For several minutes, I sat, staring at the deliciousness before me (they had loaded the dog down with chilli and lots of cheese) and thought maybe I should have went ahead and asked for the Vickie Special. Maybe I could have explained it to them and they would have made it. Maybe…
Or maybe I should just let it go.
The next day, I passed by the little café, continued along my way without going inside. My memories tugged at my shirt sleeves, saying to go inside, see if Evelyn was there and talk to her about it. But, the other part of me said to keep going, to just let the Vickie Special fade, to let it die… I stopped, looked back at the entrance, even took a step forward as if I were going to go inside and chat with Evelyn.
"Hey, can you make me a Vickie Special?" I would ask.
And she would cheerfully say, "Sure, I will. Anything for a customer."
Or, maybe, her smile would falter, her eyebrows would raise and she would look at me in shocked disbelief or sadness… or both. And maybe it would bring up old memories of her sister, dead these many years. And how selfish would that be of me?
~sigh~
I turned around, made my way down the block. I haven't been back since.
Some things are better left in the past with only memories to remind you that they were even there to begin with.
Maybe one day I'll go back and have a couple of hot dogs, heavy on the chilli and cheese, please. I may even pick up a coffee, describe it as a tall sweet blond. But, I think the Vickie Special should be just that: special because of who made it and that she shared it with me. And, I think it should remain in the past, buried with its creator…
Do you have that image in your head? Okay, good. Now, turn around and look out those double doors and beyond the sidewalk and the small trees that should have grown a little taller in the last twenty years, but haven't. Look beyond the green and red parking meters that still make a whirring sound when you put a dime or nickel in them, that still have little plastic arms that pop up with an arrow on it pointing at lines that represent the minutes a parked vehicle has in that spot before the meter needs to be fed again (and before the dreaded 'meter maids' come by with their little tickets in a box and orange envelopes that tell everyone someone owes the city a couple of bucks). Keep looking across the two lane road and beyond other cars and meters to the cracked sidewalk and a building—much smaller than the one you are standing in. You'll see a gray door almost directly ahead of you. Two your left is the corner of the building, thus the street corner as well with it's myriad of lights and don't walk/walk signs that tick off the seconds you have before the possibility of getting run over grows significantly.
Now, look to the right of that gray door to the small eatery with its black tinted windows and solitary glass entrance. It is within that establishment that I would like to take you. For lack of a better term, it is a mom and pop eatery—not a restaurant, but a cafe dedicated to serving the business people of downtown.
If you step inside, you will see a clean space of not much more than a hundred square feet with a table to the left and one directly in front of the door. Beyond that table by the door is a glass refrigerator like you see in the grocery stores. There are various salads and fruits and the best banana pudding in the world sitting within that little refrigerator. To the far left and in the shape of an L is a counter that stretches maybe ten feet and L's out at about four feet. Behind it are the women—well, most of the time they are women—who work there, preparing orders with smiles and friendly conversation.
It is here, in this little establishment, that I met Vickie and her sister, Evelyn—the owners. Always smiling. Always a good word for people. I was maybe twenty or twenty-one the first time I stepped through the door to get a cup of coffee for my boss at the time. She—my boss, that is—referred to her coffee as if it were a woman. And, honestly, at the time I preferred the same type of women that her coffee was named after.
"How can I help you?" Vickie asked. She was short with light brown hair; a chubby woman with a grandmotherly smile. She was easy to warm up to.
I looked at her, maybe a little leery of what I was supposed to say. "I was told to order a cup of coffee, but to tell you that I want a tall, sweet blond."
Vickie smiled. "This must be for Sheri."
"Yes, Ma'am," I said.
And that was that. My first meeting with Vickie was for a cup of coffee for my boss. Over the next few months I ate there almost everyday. Not really knowing downtown that well, I didn't venture out that much. Besides, the prices were pretty inexpensive.
It was during one of my visits for lunch that I noticed Vickie sitting at one of the two tables. The newspaper was spread out in front of her and, I think, she had been reading the comics section. But, the antics of Garfield and Snoopy and Hagar the Horrible aren't important, just an added detail to the story at hand. In front of her sat an odd looking sandwich, one like I had never seen before. I puzzled over it for a minute, looking at it, but not wanting to get down and inspect the ingredients. After all, how inappropriate would that have been?
"What is that?" I finally asked.
"A Vickie Special," she said, took a bite and chewed. A moment later, she swallowed. "It's my own creation."
"It looks really good."
"Would you like one?" she asked me.
I must have smiled wide. She got up, walked behind the counter and began to prepare me a Vickie Special. She sliced a hoagie down the middle, spread mustard on one half, mayonnaise on the other. She sliced two hotdogs down the center and placed all four pieces on one slice of hoagie. Then came shredded cheese and crumbled bacon, topping it with chilli before putting the other slice of hoagie on top. Honestly, it was nothing more than a hotdog with chili and cheese and sprinkled bacon bits on it. But, in reality, it was so much more. It was a special creation that wasn't on the menu that the creator shared with me, a kid she barely knew.
It also became my favorite sandwich. I only ordered it when no one else was around, mostly because I was being selfish. I wanted the Vickie Special for myself. Over the next couple of years I had it at least three or four times a month. I felt honored that Vickie had allowed me to partake in her own creation, something, as the name of the sandwich implies, was special.
And this is where my story takes a decided turn. Vickie became ill and her trips to the eatery became less and less frequent until she was finally hospitalized. She passed away, Cancer taking her life, her friendliness and her smile away from the world forever. Along with her death went the death of the Vickie Special.
Many folks mourned her passing. As I said, she was a nice woman, a friendly woman, someone anyone could talk to and feel at ease with. Though I still went to the little eatery, I never ordered another Vickie Special. It just didn't feel right.
Eventually, I moved from the office across the street to a building two blocks away. My trips to the little eatery dwindled. I guess that's partly why I am writing this. You see, like most things in life, out of sight, out of mind and I forgot about the Vickie Special.
Until recently.
I was hungry for a hotdog one day and thought to myself, "Self, I think I would like to eat at this place today."
Self said back to me, in his usual dry tone. "You are telling me this, why?"
I shrugged a goofy shrug. It's not like Self really has a say so in this. If I want to go somewhere I do, Self be damned. So I went. Halfway there I remembered… I remembered and my heart kind of sank. Yet, my stomach growled.
Let me stop for a second and explain something to the younger folk out there. I can't expect you to understand how little things trigger memories, but the older you get, the more those little things become apparent and the more the things of your youth come back to you; the more they knock on the doors of your mind and say, "Hey, remember me?"
The little thing that triggered the memory is simple: a woman carrying a tall cup of coffee. There was no lid on the cup and I could see the coffee inside had been creamed down, making it a tall blond (whether it was sweet or not, I'll never know). I stopped on the corner and stared after the woman. Get your minds out of the gutter, she looked nothing like you are thinking and there was no lust involved. Sheesh…
My stomach growled and I immediately thought of Vickie and her special sandwich. My mouth watered. Not that, oh-I can-smell-that-burger type of watering, but that Oh-my-goodness-I-gotta-have-that type of watering.
I made my way passed the gray door and to the black tinted glass one that separated the outside world from the eatery. A woman opened it, stepped out and I grabbed the door before it could close. Inside the temperature was considerably cooler and there were several people in the cramped space that was the patron's side of the counter. The four workers—yes, all ladies—were busy taking orders, making sandwiches and taking money for the meals they served.
Evelyn wasn't there.
The older blond, her cheeks rosy, a smile on her face, spoke. "Hey, it's been a while."
"Yeah. Too long," I responded, taking in the menu on the wall behind her.
"What will you have today?"
"A Vic—" I stopped. We stared at each other for a moment, my mind on shutdown mode until it decided to kick back into gear. "Two chilli-cheese dogs, please. With mustard, if you don't mind."
"Onions?"
"No, thanks," I responded and tried my hand at some witticism, which I am usually quite good at. "I have to drive." Yeah, cheesy, but it was all I could think of at the moment. For those of you who don't get it, well, it just may be an inside joke shared with only a handful of folks.
I paid for my hot dogs and went back to my office, somewhat bummed out. For several minutes, I sat, staring at the deliciousness before me (they had loaded the dog down with chilli and lots of cheese) and thought maybe I should have went ahead and asked for the Vickie Special. Maybe I could have explained it to them and they would have made it. Maybe…
Or maybe I should just let it go.
The next day, I passed by the little café, continued along my way without going inside. My memories tugged at my shirt sleeves, saying to go inside, see if Evelyn was there and talk to her about it. But, the other part of me said to keep going, to just let the Vickie Special fade, to let it die… I stopped, looked back at the entrance, even took a step forward as if I were going to go inside and chat with Evelyn.
"Hey, can you make me a Vickie Special?" I would ask.
And she would cheerfully say, "Sure, I will. Anything for a customer."
Or, maybe, her smile would falter, her eyebrows would raise and she would look at me in shocked disbelief or sadness… or both. And maybe it would bring up old memories of her sister, dead these many years. And how selfish would that be of me?
~sigh~
I turned around, made my way down the block. I haven't been back since.
Some things are better left in the past with only memories to remind you that they were even there to begin with.
Maybe one day I'll go back and have a couple of hot dogs, heavy on the chilli and cheese, please. I may even pick up a coffee, describe it as a tall sweet blond. But, I think the Vickie Special should be just that: special because of who made it and that she shared it with me. And, I think it should remain in the past, buried with its creator…
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Zombie Luv Contest: At the End
We met by the merry-go-round when we were both five, she a month older than I. Her brown hair was in pigtails, white socks rolled down, pink dress that went below her knees. She had rosy cheeks. Tamela had lost her grip when Bill Breathington pushed the merry-go-round just a little too fast. She spun off, her feet connecting with the ground first, breaking both ankles. I remember her scream, even now, so many years later and with many… of life's events long gone. I held her hands as Mrs. Marjorie ran inside and called emergency... and I never let go.
Not even now, as we both rot away, the heat of the summer sun cooking our decaying flesh.
Tamela walked with a limp long before she became a zombie. Even after setting her ankles, the limp was there, her feet pointing inward like a pigeon's. I guess that is one of those things that endeared her to me, that crooked hobble that was more graceful than most could ever know.
Sadly, we died before we could marry, the sickness claiming our bodies, but not our lives, our souls. You see, we zombies still feel, both physically and emotionally. I can still think, can still hurt; I still have memories, like the first time I kissed Tamela under the wisteria in her mom's yard. Those moans, that isn't hunger surfacing, it's our begging for someone to understand that we're trapped in our bodies, no escape, except for maybe a bullet to the head or possibly an axe or bat or…
Through death and resurrection, we remained together, my Tamela and I, two lovers having not been apart for more than a day or two at a time since we… since we met that day when she broke her ankles.
Hunger burns worse than anything. Well, almost and Tamela was hungry. It's not that she meant to attack that kid, but he was there and we could smell the blood flowing through his veins, could sense the fear exuding from his pores. I tried to stop her, but she was quick—faster than the living may have thought us zombies could be—and she latched onto that boy and sunk her yellowing teeth into his cheek before he could react, let alone scream. She tore into him and before he stopped squirming, he had attracted all the wrong type of attention.
I shambled out of the shadows, hands outstretched, not for food, which my stomach grumbled for, but for Tamela, to pull her away before…
The others left the sanctity of shadows—the one thing the living feared more than us were the shadows we could lurk in—and swarmed in on the kid.
Gun shots rang out through the air and I saw Tamela drop. She just crumpled forward, her body landing on the kid's as the other zombies lurched forward. There were so many of us—no way they would be able to save the kid, but they took out as many of us as they could before the resistance gave way to panicked running.
You ever hear a zombie scream? Well, I did… as loud as I could. My stiff joints made it difficult to pull the other undead off of her, their bodies heavy and void of life, just as I knew Tamela's was. At the bottom of the pile lay Tamela and her last meal, still ripe with plenty of flesh for the hungry. My mouth watered and my stomach bellowed, knotted, but Tamela…
The bullet went in just above her right eye, exited behind her ear. It was a neat little hole that left her skull intact while doing enough damage to kill her once and for all. Her once brown eyes stared into nothing. I tried to close them, but the lids just popped open.
It was a struggle, but I bent, and eventually lifted her in my arms, her body less still than before, as if the bullet had rendered the tissues soft again, at least for a while. Then I disappeared back into the shadows, Tamela dead, me heart broken. I cried… I still do, even now…
Just ahead sits a brick school building, the children long gone. Around the back is a playground complete with a slide and swings and monkey bars and… a merry-go-round. The sun is hot and I'm not sure I can make it much further, but I have to.
The merry-go-round comes into view and my heart—yes, it still works, even if it doesn't pump blood—quickens. Thank goodness the gate is still open. Not like anyone would have thought to close it when the world went to hell. I shuffle through and stop near the rusted out merry-go-round, its reds and blues and greens replaced with weather worn metal and rust. Gently, I lay Tamela on its hot surface, her brown hair, though brittle and dirty, forming a halo around her head. Her feet still point inward.
I sit down and heat rises through my tattered pants. Lying back, I place my head next to hers. My feet dangle off the merry-go-round, one of them touching the ground. I try hard to push off with the one foot until finally, the merry-go-round is moving slightly. The sky above us is blue with white cotton ball clouds blowing by with the wind. I fancy one of them to be a heart.
I smell the blood—someone living is near by. I hear the click and long to close my eyes. A shadow falls over me. I reach for Tamela's hand for comfort and await the gunshot that will end this whole mess…
***
Guidelines:
Word count: maximum 1.000
The story must be a romance between two zombies. Make it as horrific as you like. ;)
Stories containing animal cruelty, torture, graphic sex or violence, any form of exaltation of violence, racism or other forms of prejudice will be immediately disqualified.
Post your entry on your own blog, with a title resembling this:
Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest: Story Title
Leave your story title and a link to the story entry post as a comment at mari's randomities: http://marisrandomities.blogspot.com
Copy and paste the contest logo and the guidelines at the end of your entry post.
Not even now, as we both rot away, the heat of the summer sun cooking our decaying flesh.
Tamela walked with a limp long before she became a zombie. Even after setting her ankles, the limp was there, her feet pointing inward like a pigeon's. I guess that is one of those things that endeared her to me, that crooked hobble that was more graceful than most could ever know.
Sadly, we died before we could marry, the sickness claiming our bodies, but not our lives, our souls. You see, we zombies still feel, both physically and emotionally. I can still think, can still hurt; I still have memories, like the first time I kissed Tamela under the wisteria in her mom's yard. Those moans, that isn't hunger surfacing, it's our begging for someone to understand that we're trapped in our bodies, no escape, except for maybe a bullet to the head or possibly an axe or bat or…
Through death and resurrection, we remained together, my Tamela and I, two lovers having not been apart for more than a day or two at a time since we… since we met that day when she broke her ankles.
Hunger burns worse than anything. Well, almost and Tamela was hungry. It's not that she meant to attack that kid, but he was there and we could smell the blood flowing through his veins, could sense the fear exuding from his pores. I tried to stop her, but she was quick—faster than the living may have thought us zombies could be—and she latched onto that boy and sunk her yellowing teeth into his cheek before he could react, let alone scream. She tore into him and before he stopped squirming, he had attracted all the wrong type of attention.
I shambled out of the shadows, hands outstretched, not for food, which my stomach grumbled for, but for Tamela, to pull her away before…
The others left the sanctity of shadows—the one thing the living feared more than us were the shadows we could lurk in—and swarmed in on the kid.
Gun shots rang out through the air and I saw Tamela drop. She just crumpled forward, her body landing on the kid's as the other zombies lurched forward. There were so many of us—no way they would be able to save the kid, but they took out as many of us as they could before the resistance gave way to panicked running.
You ever hear a zombie scream? Well, I did… as loud as I could. My stiff joints made it difficult to pull the other undead off of her, their bodies heavy and void of life, just as I knew Tamela's was. At the bottom of the pile lay Tamela and her last meal, still ripe with plenty of flesh for the hungry. My mouth watered and my stomach bellowed, knotted, but Tamela…
The bullet went in just above her right eye, exited behind her ear. It was a neat little hole that left her skull intact while doing enough damage to kill her once and for all. Her once brown eyes stared into nothing. I tried to close them, but the lids just popped open.
It was a struggle, but I bent, and eventually lifted her in my arms, her body less still than before, as if the bullet had rendered the tissues soft again, at least for a while. Then I disappeared back into the shadows, Tamela dead, me heart broken. I cried… I still do, even now…
Just ahead sits a brick school building, the children long gone. Around the back is a playground complete with a slide and swings and monkey bars and… a merry-go-round. The sun is hot and I'm not sure I can make it much further, but I have to.
The merry-go-round comes into view and my heart—yes, it still works, even if it doesn't pump blood—quickens. Thank goodness the gate is still open. Not like anyone would have thought to close it when the world went to hell. I shuffle through and stop near the rusted out merry-go-round, its reds and blues and greens replaced with weather worn metal and rust. Gently, I lay Tamela on its hot surface, her brown hair, though brittle and dirty, forming a halo around her head. Her feet still point inward.
I sit down and heat rises through my tattered pants. Lying back, I place my head next to hers. My feet dangle off the merry-go-round, one of them touching the ground. I try hard to push off with the one foot until finally, the merry-go-round is moving slightly. The sky above us is blue with white cotton ball clouds blowing by with the wind. I fancy one of them to be a heart.
I smell the blood—someone living is near by. I hear the click and long to close my eyes. A shadow falls over me. I reach for Tamela's hand for comfort and await the gunshot that will end this whole mess…
***
Guidelines:
Word count: maximum 1.000
The story must be a romance between two zombies. Make it as horrific as you like. ;)
Stories containing animal cruelty, torture, graphic sex or violence, any form of exaltation of violence, racism or other forms of prejudice will be immediately disqualified.
Post your entry on your own blog, with a title resembling this:
Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest: Story Title
Leave your story title and a link to the story entry post as a comment at mari's randomities: http://marisrandomities.blogspot.com
Copy and paste the contest logo and the guidelines at the end of your entry post.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Real Life
I want to talk about real life for a minute, not this game we call writing, this world of make believe that many of us writers live in. I want to talk about real life. Can you bear with me for a few minutes and let me ramble about something that's on my mind?
In his collection, Just After Sunset, Stephen King writes in the story, Rest Stop, these words (and I hope this is not copyright infringement since I am not selling this to a publication or making any money off of it):
"Had he thought there was no place for the Dog out in the big empty of the American heartland? That was narrow thinking wasn't it? Because, under the right circumstances, anyone could end up anywhere, doing anything."
This brings me to reality. I read that Friday evening, after leaving the courthouse where a married couple in their sixties was in a hearing to adopt one of their children's children. Let me see if I can paint a picture for you.
The courtroom was small, with the viewing gallery just as you enter the wooden double doors. The gallery itself was made up of long benches, much like church pews but not as comfortable. The plaintiff's and defendant's tables sat up front, near the judge's chair, or throne, as I like to call it. To the left was a table where the Guardian Ad Litem sat, a nice young woman, blond hair cut short, dressed in one of those nice dress suits that women wear to such gatherings. The court reporter was an elderly woman, who moved a little faster than a turtle but not so much. To her, this was probably a mundane, everyday process, a ho-hum experience, if you will.
At the plaintiff's table sat the grandparents of the children in question, he with the silver hair and worried eyes, she with the dyed brown hair with hints of gray peeking through. She wore nice slacks and a top, maybe a church outfit at one time, which she may not wear again because of the association with the event at hand. An attorney—an older gentleman, who I later found out is blind—sat to their immediate right. Behind those three were three other folks, a woman, who was the attorney's wife and eternal right hand woman, and two other folks, younger, maybe even a couple. I have no idea the relationship between attorney and the couple but I'm gathering they were part of the same practice.
The defendants' seats were empty. The parents weren't there. There was no attorney. There was nobody at all in those seats. If there were ever a chance for tumbleweeds to roll by, this was it.
In the viewing gallery behind the six folks at the plaintiff's table, sat a slew of folks, maybe twelve, maybe fifteen. Maybe less. I was smack dab in the middle of these folks, mostly older church goers, a family of God there to support and bear witness for the grandparents if need be.
The judge, a gray haired gentleman with glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose, sat in his chair (remember, I like to call it his throne). He shuffled some papers and then began with the proceedings, going through the same old same old for him, but every word he said was critical to the plaintiffs, to their case for adoption of their three grandchildren. His voice was easily a southern drawl laced in monotone dryness. He seemed like he was in no hurry, and for all involved, I'm not sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. I guess it just depends on how you are looking at it. Me, I like to look at things with my eyes open. To the plaintiffs every word probably echoed in their ears, every ticking second probably like minutes.
At one point the judge stated, maybe not so clearly at first, that the parents had signed away their parental rights to the children.
Stop there for a second.
As a person with two kids of my own, this struck me. Hard. My stomach sank. But me, with my writer's mind, could picture the couple, the mom and dad of three children, sitting there, a shark of an attorney by their side, maybe a slick talker with a way with words and an ace up his sleeve. Ah, but again, that was just my writer's imagination working.
At any rate, the parents had signed away their rights. Why? Does it matter, really? Maybe they didn't want the kids any longer. Maybe they owed a ton of money in child support and would have been in a world of trouble if they didn't. Maybe, one or both of the parents realized that the best thing for these three kids, all ten years of age and younger, would be to let someone have them that could take care of them, provide for them, love them. Maybe the father cared about his kids just enough to say, 'this is what is best for them,' and maybe he convinced the mother of the same thing and maybe . . . yeah, I'm hoping here that last part is true. Even if it isn't, it is my hope that it is.
With my stomach suddenly hanging around my thighs (if this were a story, my stomach would have been hanging around something else in the general vicinity), the judge continued on, asking if the plaintiffs were there. They each acknowledged and he acknowledged their attendance, for the record, I guess.
Then he asked if the mother of the three children were there. He looked up, said 'No,' and proceeded to ask the same of the father. Again, he looked up, said, 'No." This time, my heart jumped into my throat, joining my stomach in trying to occupy a place it didn't belong. I bit my bottom lip and stared, not at the judge or the plaintiffs, but at the empty seats where Mom and Dad Defendant should have been, the parents of these three children. I admit now, this saddened me.
Maybe it was just me, but the judge seemed, I don't know, disgusted, maybe. Maybe that's not even the right word. Maybe, he felt disappointed. I know I did, but only briefly. Maybe, and this could be more true than I think it is, maybe the judge was a little disheartened by the lack of the parents being there to defend their actions, to fight for their children. But, then again, they had signed their parental rights away. So, why would they be there? Possibly, to be held accountable for their actions.
Onward.
I listened as the grandmother was called to answer questions on her behalf. The grandfather was next. The Guardian Ad Litem followed, her words rehearsed, as if she had done this a thousand times. I venture to think she has.
I'm paraphrasing here, but I think you'll get the gist of her statements:
"Your honor, I visited the home (I can't recall the date at the moment, but that doesn't matter for this) of Mr. and Mrs. Goodparent and what I found was a spacious home where each child had their own beds, plenty of child appropriate toys and child appropriate clothing. The house was clean and, most importantly, your Honor, I saw three happy children. In my opinion, it is in the best interest for these three children to be awarded custody to Mr. and Mrs. Goodparent."
With that, she sat down, folded her hands one on top of the other.
The judge looked over several more pieces of paper. He spoke some words I didn't catch, but the ones I did were simple and to the point. "I find it is in the best interest for this adoption to be granted." He addressed the grandparents, his eyes noticeably softer than they had been for all of the ten minutes it took to hear the case and he said, "Now, go home and do what you've been doing and take care of those grandbabies."
Court was adjourned, but everyone sat still, quiet, possibly not even sure of what had just happened. Was it finally over for them? Were the children, after several years of living with the grandparents, finally a permanent fixture of their home? Yes and yes.
Outside the courtroom, hugs were given, a tear or two shed, out of relief and sadness all the same.
The grandparents went on their way, going to do what the judge told them to do and go take care of them grandbabies. In their early sixties, the time of their life where it should be he and she and the open road to travel, dreams that were put off for years while they raised their own children realized, yet once again, they were parents to young children.
It was a bittersweet verdict.
I sat at my desk that night, a long day having passed, my children in bed, my feet propped up by the keyboard, the thoughts of the day rumbling, bumbling, stumbling through my head. I had just finished up King's story, Rest Stop, and that passage ran through my head over and over and over again.
"…under the right circumstances, anyone could end up anywhere, doing anything."
My mind also kept coming back to the absentee parents at the courthouse. A quick note here and why this is so personal. I grew up with the father of the three children. He was a bright kid, intelligence beyond intelligence. Girls loved him. He rarely cracked a textbook, simply because he absorbed everything. He was the king of BS also. Someone whose charm could make you believe the most outlandish lie, even if you absolutely knew he wasn't telling you the truth. He should have amounted to just a little more than what he did. I guess, knowing someone for so long, you never see this type of thing coming. And, if you do, you pretend it's not real or you pretend that things will get better, though, deep down inside, you know they never will.
What can you do? Well, you can pray if you have faith in God. If you don't, then you harbor those angered feelings until it becomes resentment and then hate and loathing. Not exactly good for you, if you know what I mean. Or, you just let it go, chalk it up to life getting the best of someone and move on. That's just a little tougher to do.
If this were a story, a work of fiction, we would be nearing what some would consider to be a happy ending. I've left out a lot of this—it's not necessary to dwell on the entirety of this story. Only the plight of the children matters and the resolution to the plot was the adoption by the grandparents. Thus, the story book ending would be the celebration in the courthouse, or maybe the kids running up to the grandparents, jumping in their arms, smiles on their youthful faces. Someone go ahead and stamp The End on the back page for me and close the book.
However, this is no book, but real life. And, in real life, there isn't always a happy ending to the story. No, in real life, there are still struggles and pain and the all too real prospect of time slipping by; slipping through the fingers. The reality of this is simple: In ten, maybe fifteen years when the parents of these three kids are alone, probably no longer together due to their differences, they will want their children to come and see them. Come see your Ma, why don't yah? Come and pay a visit to your old man, please. Do you know what I believe will happen? Do you even want to know? Probably not, but I'm going to tell you anyway. After all, I'm the one telling this story, aren't I?
Harry Chapin once sang about Cats and Cradles and Silver Spoons in a song some years ago about a man too busy to spend time with his son. It's about how the child came into the world and lived his life while the father was away. Each part of the song, one many of you no doubt have heard, is about how the boy grows up while the father is busy tending to his own affairs. In the end, the boy is a man with his own family and he has no time to visit the father… the father who was never around when the boy was a child.
When you comin' home dad?
I don't know when, but we'll get together then son
You know we'll have a good time then
--Harry Chapin
Cats and the Cradle.
Yeah, that's what's going to happen. When you think about real life, that is exactly what's going to happen. This has stayed with me since that day, sitting in the courtroom, a witness for the plaintiffs if needed. My heart sinks, even to this minute, knowing that on down the line—because in real life, there is always an on down the line—the parents are going to be alone, sad and wishing their children wanted to spend time with them, something they weren't willing to do for their children.
They say reality is often stranger than fiction. Reality is often times quite a bit sadder than fiction also. And, here we have come to the end of my story, which is not really a story at all, but real life, a reality check, if you will. But, I don't want to end this on a downer. I truly don't, so I'll end it with another tidbit from another song.
The Beatles sang some years ago about the sun coming, little darling. I tend to think, to hope that part of those lyrics can hold true to even this story of great sadness.
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right
Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right
Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right
Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right
It's all right
For now, this is me and I'm out…
In his collection, Just After Sunset, Stephen King writes in the story, Rest Stop, these words (and I hope this is not copyright infringement since I am not selling this to a publication or making any money off of it):
"Had he thought there was no place for the Dog out in the big empty of the American heartland? That was narrow thinking wasn't it? Because, under the right circumstances, anyone could end up anywhere, doing anything."
This brings me to reality. I read that Friday evening, after leaving the courthouse where a married couple in their sixties was in a hearing to adopt one of their children's children. Let me see if I can paint a picture for you.
The courtroom was small, with the viewing gallery just as you enter the wooden double doors. The gallery itself was made up of long benches, much like church pews but not as comfortable. The plaintiff's and defendant's tables sat up front, near the judge's chair, or throne, as I like to call it. To the left was a table where the Guardian Ad Litem sat, a nice young woman, blond hair cut short, dressed in one of those nice dress suits that women wear to such gatherings. The court reporter was an elderly woman, who moved a little faster than a turtle but not so much. To her, this was probably a mundane, everyday process, a ho-hum experience, if you will.
At the plaintiff's table sat the grandparents of the children in question, he with the silver hair and worried eyes, she with the dyed brown hair with hints of gray peeking through. She wore nice slacks and a top, maybe a church outfit at one time, which she may not wear again because of the association with the event at hand. An attorney—an older gentleman, who I later found out is blind—sat to their immediate right. Behind those three were three other folks, a woman, who was the attorney's wife and eternal right hand woman, and two other folks, younger, maybe even a couple. I have no idea the relationship between attorney and the couple but I'm gathering they were part of the same practice.
The defendants' seats were empty. The parents weren't there. There was no attorney. There was nobody at all in those seats. If there were ever a chance for tumbleweeds to roll by, this was it.
In the viewing gallery behind the six folks at the plaintiff's table, sat a slew of folks, maybe twelve, maybe fifteen. Maybe less. I was smack dab in the middle of these folks, mostly older church goers, a family of God there to support and bear witness for the grandparents if need be.
The judge, a gray haired gentleman with glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose, sat in his chair (remember, I like to call it his throne). He shuffled some papers and then began with the proceedings, going through the same old same old for him, but every word he said was critical to the plaintiffs, to their case for adoption of their three grandchildren. His voice was easily a southern drawl laced in monotone dryness. He seemed like he was in no hurry, and for all involved, I'm not sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. I guess it just depends on how you are looking at it. Me, I like to look at things with my eyes open. To the plaintiffs every word probably echoed in their ears, every ticking second probably like minutes.
At one point the judge stated, maybe not so clearly at first, that the parents had signed away their parental rights to the children.
Stop there for a second.
As a person with two kids of my own, this struck me. Hard. My stomach sank. But me, with my writer's mind, could picture the couple, the mom and dad of three children, sitting there, a shark of an attorney by their side, maybe a slick talker with a way with words and an ace up his sleeve. Ah, but again, that was just my writer's imagination working.
At any rate, the parents had signed away their rights. Why? Does it matter, really? Maybe they didn't want the kids any longer. Maybe they owed a ton of money in child support and would have been in a world of trouble if they didn't. Maybe, one or both of the parents realized that the best thing for these three kids, all ten years of age and younger, would be to let someone have them that could take care of them, provide for them, love them. Maybe the father cared about his kids just enough to say, 'this is what is best for them,' and maybe he convinced the mother of the same thing and maybe . . . yeah, I'm hoping here that last part is true. Even if it isn't, it is my hope that it is.
With my stomach suddenly hanging around my thighs (if this were a story, my stomach would have been hanging around something else in the general vicinity), the judge continued on, asking if the plaintiffs were there. They each acknowledged and he acknowledged their attendance, for the record, I guess.
Then he asked if the mother of the three children were there. He looked up, said 'No,' and proceeded to ask the same of the father. Again, he looked up, said, 'No." This time, my heart jumped into my throat, joining my stomach in trying to occupy a place it didn't belong. I bit my bottom lip and stared, not at the judge or the plaintiffs, but at the empty seats where Mom and Dad Defendant should have been, the parents of these three children. I admit now, this saddened me.
Maybe it was just me, but the judge seemed, I don't know, disgusted, maybe. Maybe that's not even the right word. Maybe, he felt disappointed. I know I did, but only briefly. Maybe, and this could be more true than I think it is, maybe the judge was a little disheartened by the lack of the parents being there to defend their actions, to fight for their children. But, then again, they had signed their parental rights away. So, why would they be there? Possibly, to be held accountable for their actions.
Onward.
I listened as the grandmother was called to answer questions on her behalf. The grandfather was next. The Guardian Ad Litem followed, her words rehearsed, as if she had done this a thousand times. I venture to think she has.
I'm paraphrasing here, but I think you'll get the gist of her statements:
"Your honor, I visited the home (I can't recall the date at the moment, but that doesn't matter for this) of Mr. and Mrs. Goodparent and what I found was a spacious home where each child had their own beds, plenty of child appropriate toys and child appropriate clothing. The house was clean and, most importantly, your Honor, I saw three happy children. In my opinion, it is in the best interest for these three children to be awarded custody to Mr. and Mrs. Goodparent."
With that, she sat down, folded her hands one on top of the other.
The judge looked over several more pieces of paper. He spoke some words I didn't catch, but the ones I did were simple and to the point. "I find it is in the best interest for this adoption to be granted." He addressed the grandparents, his eyes noticeably softer than they had been for all of the ten minutes it took to hear the case and he said, "Now, go home and do what you've been doing and take care of those grandbabies."
Court was adjourned, but everyone sat still, quiet, possibly not even sure of what had just happened. Was it finally over for them? Were the children, after several years of living with the grandparents, finally a permanent fixture of their home? Yes and yes.
Outside the courtroom, hugs were given, a tear or two shed, out of relief and sadness all the same.
The grandparents went on their way, going to do what the judge told them to do and go take care of them grandbabies. In their early sixties, the time of their life where it should be he and she and the open road to travel, dreams that were put off for years while they raised their own children realized, yet once again, they were parents to young children.
It was a bittersweet verdict.
I sat at my desk that night, a long day having passed, my children in bed, my feet propped up by the keyboard, the thoughts of the day rumbling, bumbling, stumbling through my head. I had just finished up King's story, Rest Stop, and that passage ran through my head over and over and over again.
"…under the right circumstances, anyone could end up anywhere, doing anything."
My mind also kept coming back to the absentee parents at the courthouse. A quick note here and why this is so personal. I grew up with the father of the three children. He was a bright kid, intelligence beyond intelligence. Girls loved him. He rarely cracked a textbook, simply because he absorbed everything. He was the king of BS also. Someone whose charm could make you believe the most outlandish lie, even if you absolutely knew he wasn't telling you the truth. He should have amounted to just a little more than what he did. I guess, knowing someone for so long, you never see this type of thing coming. And, if you do, you pretend it's not real or you pretend that things will get better, though, deep down inside, you know they never will.
What can you do? Well, you can pray if you have faith in God. If you don't, then you harbor those angered feelings until it becomes resentment and then hate and loathing. Not exactly good for you, if you know what I mean. Or, you just let it go, chalk it up to life getting the best of someone and move on. That's just a little tougher to do.
If this were a story, a work of fiction, we would be nearing what some would consider to be a happy ending. I've left out a lot of this—it's not necessary to dwell on the entirety of this story. Only the plight of the children matters and the resolution to the plot was the adoption by the grandparents. Thus, the story book ending would be the celebration in the courthouse, or maybe the kids running up to the grandparents, jumping in their arms, smiles on their youthful faces. Someone go ahead and stamp The End on the back page for me and close the book.
However, this is no book, but real life. And, in real life, there isn't always a happy ending to the story. No, in real life, there are still struggles and pain and the all too real prospect of time slipping by; slipping through the fingers. The reality of this is simple: In ten, maybe fifteen years when the parents of these three kids are alone, probably no longer together due to their differences, they will want their children to come and see them. Come see your Ma, why don't yah? Come and pay a visit to your old man, please. Do you know what I believe will happen? Do you even want to know? Probably not, but I'm going to tell you anyway. After all, I'm the one telling this story, aren't I?
Harry Chapin once sang about Cats and Cradles and Silver Spoons in a song some years ago about a man too busy to spend time with his son. It's about how the child came into the world and lived his life while the father was away. Each part of the song, one many of you no doubt have heard, is about how the boy grows up while the father is busy tending to his own affairs. In the end, the boy is a man with his own family and he has no time to visit the father… the father who was never around when the boy was a child.
When you comin' home dad?
I don't know when, but we'll get together then son
You know we'll have a good time then
--Harry Chapin
Cats and the Cradle.
Yeah, that's what's going to happen. When you think about real life, that is exactly what's going to happen. This has stayed with me since that day, sitting in the courtroom, a witness for the plaintiffs if needed. My heart sinks, even to this minute, knowing that on down the line—because in real life, there is always an on down the line—the parents are going to be alone, sad and wishing their children wanted to spend time with them, something they weren't willing to do for their children.
They say reality is often stranger than fiction. Reality is often times quite a bit sadder than fiction also. And, here we have come to the end of my story, which is not really a story at all, but real life, a reality check, if you will. But, I don't want to end this on a downer. I truly don't, so I'll end it with another tidbit from another song.
The Beatles sang some years ago about the sun coming, little darling. I tend to think, to hope that part of those lyrics can hold true to even this story of great sadness.
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right
Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right
Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right
Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right
It's all right
For now, this is me and I'm out…
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Focus . . . errr. . . Refocus
Focus: a central point, as of attraction, attention, or activity.
I have a hard time focusing sometimes. Okay, okay. A lot of times. It’s always been a problem for me. Focusing, keeping my attention on things. I’ve become better at it over the years, being able to maintain my thoughts on tasks much easier than in the past. The problem, though, is that I often forget about other things that I should be doing because my mind is set on the goal at hand. And, that is just one of the problems.
In the perfect world I could sit at my computer for four hours straight and just write. Since I can pound out a good 2000 to 2500 words in an hour, that would give me between 8 and 10 thousand words in a four-hour period. An hour for lunch and goofing off would be followed by another four hours of disciplined writing, giving me anywhere from 16 to 20 thousands words of writing in a day.
In reality, my mind wanders, more often than not, something like every five or six minutes, I find myself stopping, checking the internet, getting a glass of water or something, anything to get me away from the story for about 2 minutes. If you figure there are 60 minutes in an hour and I stop every five minutes for a two-minute break, that’s about 16 minutes of wasted time, per hour.
But, it gets worse. After an hour of writing, I often find that I am getting up for a good ten or fifteen minutes. Let’s just call it twelve minutes and add it to hour previous total of 16. That puts me at 28 minutes per hour of wasted writing time, which significantly cuts down on productivity.
There’s more, though. Remember earlier when I said my mind tends to wander? When I say that, I am talking about wandering toward other story ideas and characters and settings, not necessarily if I fed the dog that morning or if I made sure the kids were dressed before they went to school. Often times, this mind wandering will lead me to stop the current story and start another one. And, herein lies my biggest problem as a writer.
I think Catherine put it best while we were talking earlier. She said something to the effect of: “I couldn’t write a story with all these other ones running around in my head.”
“Exactly!” I yelled (yes, yelled, but not in an angry tone). “That is exactly my problem. I have all these ideas running through my head and they get jumbled up in there and then I get bored with a longer project, and stop on it so I can write a shorter story.” I even waved my hands over my head in terrific dramatic form.
There you have it, my issue with writing is I cannot focus on any single story at hand before a thousand other, cooler ideas pop up in my head. What do I do when I have a cool idea in your head? That’s right. I stop and write on one of them for a while. It’s a bad, bad habit.
It’s such a bad habit that I pulled out a memory stick that has a bunch of stories on it and slapped it in the computer. Then I opened up a folder labeled, “Unfinished Stories.” I counted the file names and would you like to know what I came up with? A rather large number: 165 unfinished pieces, some of them upwards to 26, 000 words in. One of them, a novel I started, was sitting at just over 50,000 words.
My wife’s eyes grew wide, but that’s not the worse part. That was just on the memory stick. That’s not included stories I have on two different computers that I have started that are NOT on the memory stick. Add those stories together and the 165 number probably quadruples. Chew on that for a minute. 165 times 4 equals how many? In excess of 650 unfinished pieces, which is not as many finished stories as I have, but still, that’s a huge number.
This brings me to a HUGE problem. You know it’s big if I use all capital letters. I have an issue with discipline. If I were disciplined better, then I could focus better. I had this issue in school as well. Funny, it didn’t seem to hinder my ability to learn how to draw or play sports, but when it came time to do my studies, I had the hardest time focusing. It would take me two hours to do a twenty-minute homework assignment. Granted, I would stay with the books in front of me until I was finished, but I often wandered away, my mind and I traipsing through the fields of wars or championship games where, you guessed it, I was the hero.
Can you tell that school was hard for me?
I sit here in front of my computer, typing this, with more words of wisdom spouted from my wife’s mouth dancing through the pea that is my brain. When I said I have a hard time focusing, that I lose interest with stories too easily and start on something else, she just kind of frowned her wife’s frown and shook her head. She held out a story of mine that she had been reading—one that needs significant editing—and said, “If you want to get anywhere at this, then you’re going to have to focus on ONE thing at a time.”
One thing at a time. This is not easy to do with a person whose mind tends to speed up when thoughts enter in and then slow down to a near stop when the thoughts are added to others, making so many things near impossible to decipher.
Sadly, Catherine is right, like she so often is. If I want to get anywhere at writing, whether it’s in the short story market or the world of novels, I’m going to have to put blinders on and seriously focus on the story at hand; to not let my mind wander and take over, leading my hands to open a new document and add a number to the ever growing Unfinished Stories folder.
This is going to hurt. I can just feel the ideas rapping on the inside of my skull, calling to me, begging me to write them next, their little lettered hands raised in the air, their bottoms coming from their seats. “Ooo Ooo. Pick me! Pick Me!”
::Sigh::
As tough as it may be, it is what it is and I have to teach myself to focus, to be disciplined. As I embark on this treacherous road of ignorance and loneliness, I beg the fledgling stories that spin and twirl on the dance floor of my mind, to forgive me, but I must do what I must do, if any of THEM wish to be heard and not just live on my hard drive….
I have a hard time focusing sometimes. Okay, okay. A lot of times. It’s always been a problem for me. Focusing, keeping my attention on things. I’ve become better at it over the years, being able to maintain my thoughts on tasks much easier than in the past. The problem, though, is that I often forget about other things that I should be doing because my mind is set on the goal at hand. And, that is just one of the problems.
In the perfect world I could sit at my computer for four hours straight and just write. Since I can pound out a good 2000 to 2500 words in an hour, that would give me between 8 and 10 thousand words in a four-hour period. An hour for lunch and goofing off would be followed by another four hours of disciplined writing, giving me anywhere from 16 to 20 thousands words of writing in a day.
In reality, my mind wanders, more often than not, something like every five or six minutes, I find myself stopping, checking the internet, getting a glass of water or something, anything to get me away from the story for about 2 minutes. If you figure there are 60 minutes in an hour and I stop every five minutes for a two-minute break, that’s about 16 minutes of wasted time, per hour.
But, it gets worse. After an hour of writing, I often find that I am getting up for a good ten or fifteen minutes. Let’s just call it twelve minutes and add it to hour previous total of 16. That puts me at 28 minutes per hour of wasted writing time, which significantly cuts down on productivity.
There’s more, though. Remember earlier when I said my mind tends to wander? When I say that, I am talking about wandering toward other story ideas and characters and settings, not necessarily if I fed the dog that morning or if I made sure the kids were dressed before they went to school. Often times, this mind wandering will lead me to stop the current story and start another one. And, herein lies my biggest problem as a writer.
I think Catherine put it best while we were talking earlier. She said something to the effect of: “I couldn’t write a story with all these other ones running around in my head.”
“Exactly!” I yelled (yes, yelled, but not in an angry tone). “That is exactly my problem. I have all these ideas running through my head and they get jumbled up in there and then I get bored with a longer project, and stop on it so I can write a shorter story.” I even waved my hands over my head in terrific dramatic form.
There you have it, my issue with writing is I cannot focus on any single story at hand before a thousand other, cooler ideas pop up in my head. What do I do when I have a cool idea in your head? That’s right. I stop and write on one of them for a while. It’s a bad, bad habit.
It’s such a bad habit that I pulled out a memory stick that has a bunch of stories on it and slapped it in the computer. Then I opened up a folder labeled, “Unfinished Stories.” I counted the file names and would you like to know what I came up with? A rather large number: 165 unfinished pieces, some of them upwards to 26, 000 words in. One of them, a novel I started, was sitting at just over 50,000 words.
My wife’s eyes grew wide, but that’s not the worse part. That was just on the memory stick. That’s not included stories I have on two different computers that I have started that are NOT on the memory stick. Add those stories together and the 165 number probably quadruples. Chew on that for a minute. 165 times 4 equals how many? In excess of 650 unfinished pieces, which is not as many finished stories as I have, but still, that’s a huge number.
This brings me to a HUGE problem. You know it’s big if I use all capital letters. I have an issue with discipline. If I were disciplined better, then I could focus better. I had this issue in school as well. Funny, it didn’t seem to hinder my ability to learn how to draw or play sports, but when it came time to do my studies, I had the hardest time focusing. It would take me two hours to do a twenty-minute homework assignment. Granted, I would stay with the books in front of me until I was finished, but I often wandered away, my mind and I traipsing through the fields of wars or championship games where, you guessed it, I was the hero.
Can you tell that school was hard for me?
I sit here in front of my computer, typing this, with more words of wisdom spouted from my wife’s mouth dancing through the pea that is my brain. When I said I have a hard time focusing, that I lose interest with stories too easily and start on something else, she just kind of frowned her wife’s frown and shook her head. She held out a story of mine that she had been reading—one that needs significant editing—and said, “If you want to get anywhere at this, then you’re going to have to focus on ONE thing at a time.”
One thing at a time. This is not easy to do with a person whose mind tends to speed up when thoughts enter in and then slow down to a near stop when the thoughts are added to others, making so many things near impossible to decipher.
Sadly, Catherine is right, like she so often is. If I want to get anywhere at writing, whether it’s in the short story market or the world of novels, I’m going to have to put blinders on and seriously focus on the story at hand; to not let my mind wander and take over, leading my hands to open a new document and add a number to the ever growing Unfinished Stories folder.
This is going to hurt. I can just feel the ideas rapping on the inside of my skull, calling to me, begging me to write them next, their little lettered hands raised in the air, their bottoms coming from their seats. “Ooo Ooo. Pick me! Pick Me!”
::Sigh::
As tough as it may be, it is what it is and I have to teach myself to focus, to be disciplined. As I embark on this treacherous road of ignorance and loneliness, I beg the fledgling stories that spin and twirl on the dance floor of my mind, to forgive me, but I must do what I must do, if any of THEM wish to be heard and not just live on my hard drive….
Saturday, January 23, 2010
The Vampire Flick
“The Vampire Flick” is an online story, which will hopefully be written by many authors.
The idea is that you write your contribution based on reading only the preceding part, and at the end we will have an interesting (and strange!) story.
If you are interested in taking up the challenge and want to write the next part, then read Part 6 ONLY below and post the next part on your blog/website with a link to my part (#6). Also, post a comment at the the source (or @necol66 on Twitter, since he seems to know what's going on) if you are taking up the challenge to contribute to this story.
Here is Part 6 (it’s short, but a good set up, I think):
“No, thank you,” Scarlett said. She stood, her legs shaking. A rush of nausea swept through her and the world spun.
“Are you okay?” Sasha asked, steadied Scarlett with a hand gripping her sister’s elbow.
Scarlett nodded, jerked her arm free. “I’m fine. Why don’t you go ahead and get the humiliation over with, okay?”
A laugh tore from Sasha and she threw back her head. She calmed, level her stare at her sister, a smile tracing across her thin lips. “You’re not getting off that easy. I’ve got you right where I want you.”
Scarlett watched as her sister walked off, a hum trailing behind, a song from their younger days, when the animosity wasn’t so strong, the anger wasn’t so damning. Clenching her teeth, Scarlett went the other way, hands balled into fists.
“I need to kill,” she said and sniffed the air. Food stirred in the not so far away distance.
The idea is that you write your contribution based on reading only the preceding part, and at the end we will have an interesting (and strange!) story.
If you are interested in taking up the challenge and want to write the next part, then read Part 6 ONLY below and post the next part on your blog/website with a link to my part (#6). Also, post a comment at the the source (or @necol66 on Twitter, since he seems to know what's going on) if you are taking up the challenge to contribute to this story.
Here is Part 6 (it’s short, but a good set up, I think):
“No, thank you,” Scarlett said. She stood, her legs shaking. A rush of nausea swept through her and the world spun.
“Are you okay?” Sasha asked, steadied Scarlett with a hand gripping her sister’s elbow.
Scarlett nodded, jerked her arm free. “I’m fine. Why don’t you go ahead and get the humiliation over with, okay?”
A laugh tore from Sasha and she threw back her head. She calmed, level her stare at her sister, a smile tracing across her thin lips. “You’re not getting off that easy. I’ve got you right where I want you.”
Scarlett watched as her sister walked off, a hum trailing behind, a song from their younger days, when the animosity wasn’t so strong, the anger wasn’t so damning. Clenching her teeth, Scarlett went the other way, hands balled into fists.
“I need to kill,” she said and sniffed the air. Food stirred in the not so far away distance.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Living With Primary Colors
Brrrrrrr…
It's cold outside. You know it's so if I say it's so. Cold air doesn't normally bother me. I prefer cooler temperatures over heat any day. Record lows stretch across America and it's no different here in the south, where frigid temperatures have walloped us. And they are calling for possible snow and ice in a few days. I have mixed feelings about this. Snow would be nice—my kids would love it. Ice is a different story. Ice is bad. Bad, I say. I don't want ice.
That is a few days away, so for now I want to talk diets. Uggh… diets. Who came up with this word? It's appropriate: Diet, because you are dying to eat.
Catherine and I started a diet on New Year's Day. Yeah, I know, what was I thinking, right? That maybe it was time I got back into shape and . . . gasps . . . started eating a little healthier. I love cow and chicken and pig—they are just so delicious in all their variables, especially the nugget, finger and burger style. They're just not that healthy for you and I'm 39 so maybe my health should be looked at a little differently now.
Catherine spent the morning figuring out the 'points' I'm allowed to use for food. Wow, points… Seriously? Yeah, seriously. There are a certain number of points I am allowed and I'm not supposed to go over it. Interestingly enough, Diet Coke has zero points and I've seen a lot of women drinking it like it's going out of style. Can that really help your diet?
Imagine Linus Van Pelt saying the word "Doomed" over and over and you have my expression and feelings just before starting this diet. We started the diet and after four days I have done pretty well. Laying in bed last night I started thinking and then I started speaking.
"Hey, Honey, if I don't use up all the points I have for each week, can I roll them over into the next week?"
This is the way the man's mind works. If I had leftover points I could roll them over into the next week and eat more of the stuff I like.
"No," she said sharply. "These are not like rollover minutes—you can't carry them over. Once the day is gone, the points are gone."
"Well, why not?"
"You just can't. It defeats the purpose."
No rollover points. Okay, does that mean I can't splurge on Superbowl Sunday and have a pizza?
[Deep sigh.] It was worth the effort, eh?
Interestingly enough, I haven't really been all that hungry since starting the diet. I've stuck with it, for the most part, and I haven't starved like I thought I would. We'll see how it works out. I'll keep you posted.
On to the main focus of this article. Recently I've been toying with the basics of writing. No, not nouns and verbs and the differences of to, too, and two. The actual basics of writing.
NOTE: Before reading any further, please understand that these thoughts are purely my opinion. Not fact. I have not researched this in any way shape or form. This is just the way I see writing in its most basic form.
Writing, in its simplest form, is like the primary colors and the two neutral colors. Let me see if I can explain this the way I see it in my head. Hold on a second…
"Hey, Charlie, are you up there?"
[Checks watch]
"Charlie?"
"Ummm . . . yeah, whatta yah need?"
"Do you still have that film on primary colors?"
"Uh . . . yeah, right here."
"Can you roll it?"
"Sure."
"Thanks."
Charlie. He's such a good guy, but he often falls asleep on the job.
As you can see, all colors are based on one or more of the three primary colors of Red, Yellow and Blue. Primary colors are your most basic colors and without them you can't make other colors.
I look at writing in its most basic form kind of like the Primary Colors. Without the basics you can't write. The basics, in this case, would be words and putting them into sentences. The See Spot books are a great example of basic writing and a good place to start when learning.
See Spot run.
Basic. Red, blue and yellow.
Keep this in mind.
From the Primary Colors you can form the Secondary Colors of Orange, Purple and Green. I probably don't need to break it down but I will:
Red + Yellow = Orange
Blue + Red = Purple
Yellow + Blue = Green
By mixing primaries you take them out of their most basic form and create a different color. It's basically like expanding on the two colors, or in writing, expanding on a basic sentence.
Spot ran across the yard.
Not only do we see spot run, we now know where he is running. It is no longer a basic sentence, but one that begins to paint a picture. Pun intended.
From the secondary colors you can create Tertiary Colors. These colors are formed when mixing a primary color with a secondary color. They include colors such as Blue-Green and Yellow-Orange. It's a little more complex than just mixing two Primaries together. The same goes for writing. When you start mixing in details, sentences become stronger.
Now, let's change that sentence just a tad, giving it a little more detail as to what Spot is really doing:
Spot chased the ball across the yard.
The original sentence has now morphed from seeing Spot run into not only seeing him run, but also knowing that he is chasing a ball and he is doing it in a yard. We've just given Spot a reason to run. The sentence is morphing, a story is forming.
There's more.
Throw in your two main neutrals of Black and White. By mixing colors with black and white they can become richer or blander. It's really up to you. Add some White to the Red and you have Pink. Go the other way and instead of adding White, add Black and you form more or a Brick Red color. The variations are practically limitless. Writing, in my opinion, is the same way. By adding or taking away from sentences you can strengthen your writing.
Spot chased the soccer ball across the tall grass.
We've just described the ball in its most basic form (a soccer ball) and the yard Spot is running in (grassy). It is still very basic in the sentence structure but slight descriptions have been added and we know what Spot is doing. You can add to this or subtract from it and make the sentence pop or fizzle. Or you could stick with the basics—sometimes that works best.
Don't go away yet. Sit back down. Keep sipping that coffee or water or whatever it is you are drinking.
The basics are important but there is one other thing that takes the basics even further and, in my opinion, is the most important part of the entire Primary Colors Writing Philosophy.
Harmony.
In order to become better writers, we must understand Harmony. In essence, it is a pleasing effect produced by an arrangement of things, parts, or colors, according to the dictionary. In color schemes Harmony produces interest in a piece. It is not bland and it is not 'too busy.' It is visually pleasing to the eye, engaging, gives off a sense of order. Harmony, in art, is easy to view, pleasing to the eyes. It holds your attention longer than a chaotic blend of colors.
We, as writers, need to find the Harmony in our words. It's not just writing the words to a story that counts; it's writing the perfect words and putting them in the perfect spots. An almost perfect word in an almost perfect spot doesn't have the same effect. Finding the right spot for each word creates the Harmony you want when penning a story.
One of my favorite writers is a guy named John Mantooth. I've often thought he is a master of word placement, or word Harmony. If you've never read him, you should look him up. Brilliant writer. Brilliant.
Like colors, there are schemes and contrasts and textures that go with writing. By adding descriptions and emotions you can layer your stories, make them come alive, make the characters believable. But, it all starts with the basics. See Spot run. Go with it. What do you have to lose?
Again, these are just my opinions and I am in no way, shape or form a master at writing. This is what I have used to help me grow as a writer. Maybe it can help you as well.
For now, I'm AJ and I'm out….
It's cold outside. You know it's so if I say it's so. Cold air doesn't normally bother me. I prefer cooler temperatures over heat any day. Record lows stretch across America and it's no different here in the south, where frigid temperatures have walloped us. And they are calling for possible snow and ice in a few days. I have mixed feelings about this. Snow would be nice—my kids would love it. Ice is a different story. Ice is bad. Bad, I say. I don't want ice.
That is a few days away, so for now I want to talk diets. Uggh… diets. Who came up with this word? It's appropriate: Diet, because you are dying to eat.
Catherine and I started a diet on New Year's Day. Yeah, I know, what was I thinking, right? That maybe it was time I got back into shape and . . . gasps . . . started eating a little healthier. I love cow and chicken and pig—they are just so delicious in all their variables, especially the nugget, finger and burger style. They're just not that healthy for you and I'm 39 so maybe my health should be looked at a little differently now.
Catherine spent the morning figuring out the 'points' I'm allowed to use for food. Wow, points… Seriously? Yeah, seriously. There are a certain number of points I am allowed and I'm not supposed to go over it. Interestingly enough, Diet Coke has zero points and I've seen a lot of women drinking it like it's going out of style. Can that really help your diet?
Imagine Linus Van Pelt saying the word "Doomed" over and over and you have my expression and feelings just before starting this diet. We started the diet and after four days I have done pretty well. Laying in bed last night I started thinking and then I started speaking.
"Hey, Honey, if I don't use up all the points I have for each week, can I roll them over into the next week?"
This is the way the man's mind works. If I had leftover points I could roll them over into the next week and eat more of the stuff I like.
"No," she said sharply. "These are not like rollover minutes—you can't carry them over. Once the day is gone, the points are gone."
"Well, why not?"
"You just can't. It defeats the purpose."
No rollover points. Okay, does that mean I can't splurge on Superbowl Sunday and have a pizza?
[Deep sigh.] It was worth the effort, eh?
Interestingly enough, I haven't really been all that hungry since starting the diet. I've stuck with it, for the most part, and I haven't starved like I thought I would. We'll see how it works out. I'll keep you posted.
On to the main focus of this article. Recently I've been toying with the basics of writing. No, not nouns and verbs and the differences of to, too, and two. The actual basics of writing.
NOTE: Before reading any further, please understand that these thoughts are purely my opinion. Not fact. I have not researched this in any way shape or form. This is just the way I see writing in its most basic form.
Writing, in its simplest form, is like the primary colors and the two neutral colors. Let me see if I can explain this the way I see it in my head. Hold on a second…
"Hey, Charlie, are you up there?"
[Checks watch]
"Charlie?"
"Ummm . . . yeah, whatta yah need?"
"Do you still have that film on primary colors?"
"Uh . . . yeah, right here."
"Can you roll it?"
"Sure."
"Thanks."
Charlie. He's such a good guy, but he often falls asleep on the job.
As you can see, all colors are based on one or more of the three primary colors of Red, Yellow and Blue. Primary colors are your most basic colors and without them you can't make other colors.
I look at writing in its most basic form kind of like the Primary Colors. Without the basics you can't write. The basics, in this case, would be words and putting them into sentences. The See Spot books are a great example of basic writing and a good place to start when learning.
See Spot run.
Basic. Red, blue and yellow.
Keep this in mind.
From the Primary Colors you can form the Secondary Colors of Orange, Purple and Green. I probably don't need to break it down but I will:
Red + Yellow = Orange
Blue + Red = Purple
Yellow + Blue = Green
By mixing primaries you take them out of their most basic form and create a different color. It's basically like expanding on the two colors, or in writing, expanding on a basic sentence.
Spot ran across the yard.
Not only do we see spot run, we now know where he is running. It is no longer a basic sentence, but one that begins to paint a picture. Pun intended.
From the secondary colors you can create Tertiary Colors. These colors are formed when mixing a primary color with a secondary color. They include colors such as Blue-Green and Yellow-Orange. It's a little more complex than just mixing two Primaries together. The same goes for writing. When you start mixing in details, sentences become stronger.
Now, let's change that sentence just a tad, giving it a little more detail as to what Spot is really doing:
Spot chased the ball across the yard.
The original sentence has now morphed from seeing Spot run into not only seeing him run, but also knowing that he is chasing a ball and he is doing it in a yard. We've just given Spot a reason to run. The sentence is morphing, a story is forming.
There's more.
Throw in your two main neutrals of Black and White. By mixing colors with black and white they can become richer or blander. It's really up to you. Add some White to the Red and you have Pink. Go the other way and instead of adding White, add Black and you form more or a Brick Red color. The variations are practically limitless. Writing, in my opinion, is the same way. By adding or taking away from sentences you can strengthen your writing.
Spot chased the soccer ball across the tall grass.
We've just described the ball in its most basic form (a soccer ball) and the yard Spot is running in (grassy). It is still very basic in the sentence structure but slight descriptions have been added and we know what Spot is doing. You can add to this or subtract from it and make the sentence pop or fizzle. Or you could stick with the basics—sometimes that works best.
Don't go away yet. Sit back down. Keep sipping that coffee or water or whatever it is you are drinking.
The basics are important but there is one other thing that takes the basics even further and, in my opinion, is the most important part of the entire Primary Colors Writing Philosophy.
Harmony.
In order to become better writers, we must understand Harmony. In essence, it is a pleasing effect produced by an arrangement of things, parts, or colors, according to the dictionary. In color schemes Harmony produces interest in a piece. It is not bland and it is not 'too busy.' It is visually pleasing to the eye, engaging, gives off a sense of order. Harmony, in art, is easy to view, pleasing to the eyes. It holds your attention longer than a chaotic blend of colors.
We, as writers, need to find the Harmony in our words. It's not just writing the words to a story that counts; it's writing the perfect words and putting them in the perfect spots. An almost perfect word in an almost perfect spot doesn't have the same effect. Finding the right spot for each word creates the Harmony you want when penning a story.
One of my favorite writers is a guy named John Mantooth. I've often thought he is a master of word placement, or word Harmony. If you've never read him, you should look him up. Brilliant writer. Brilliant.
Like colors, there are schemes and contrasts and textures that go with writing. By adding descriptions and emotions you can layer your stories, make them come alive, make the characters believable. But, it all starts with the basics. See Spot run. Go with it. What do you have to lose?
Again, these are just my opinions and I am in no way, shape or form a master at writing. This is what I have used to help me grow as a writer. Maybe it can help you as well.
For now, I'm AJ and I'm out….
Friday, January 1, 2010
A New Beginning
How about some pimpage? Is that even a word? According to spell check it’s not. It doesn't matter. People make up new words all the time and I think someone else coined the word well before I used it.
Anyway...
First off, Happy New Year. We are eleven hours in and so far, so good. Things are always scheduled to change.
Before we completely say good bye to 2009, I want to say a couple of thing. Well, probably more than a couple. I want to talk, so sit down, grab your coffee and read. Okay? Thanks. Please, don’t read while intoxicated…
2009 GOALS:
I reached one of my goals from last year. I did manage to write 1000 words a day and nearly 400,000 words on the year. I have no clue, yet, as to how many stories I wrote. I’ll figure that out next week some time.
I didn’t reach a few of the goals. Most notably: I wanted to receive 50 acceptances from publications. I came close: 48.
I also wanted to break into the pro markets. Again, I came close, getting short-listed six times but, eventually, not getting in on all six submissions. I did, however, make quite a few semi-pro sales. It’s only the beginning, folks. Only the beginning.
The novel did not get finished. I started it. Actually, a couple of novels were started. I’m just not in full novel writing mode yet. I wrote two novellas, which I think will help me gear up for that novel writing experience and the discipline to stick with it.
So, with writing, I came close…
2010 GOALS:
Do I have to do this again?
Okay, fine. I will stick with one goal that I set for myself every year and I achieved it last year: 1000 words a day, minimum.
The second one is still to break into the pro markets.
I’m not setting my sights on a high number of publications this year—I don’t plan on submitting as much as I did last year: 156 Submissions. 48 acceptances, 11 pending, 6 withdrawals. Instead, I want to focus on something that I really thought hard about last year and worked on, especially in the last half of 2009: To make every story my best story.
I think, as writers, a lot of times we get set in our ways and we just write, either to get the words on paper or get them out of the way so we can start on something else. I am guilty of the latter. That’s not really fair to the readers or to the editors and slush readers, for that matter. Or to myself.
Something along these lines came up recently in a web forum I frequent. I was taking a poll about short stories. Why do you read them? Why do you write them? Questions like that. (For those who don’t know, I want to change the way folks view the short story. For those who write them, you know how hard it can be to come up with a complete story in less the 5000 words. For those who read them, I want to give you an experience you can remember.) Then, this statement was made by John Miller:
I hate that writers try to write a good story and submit it. I think writers should try to write the best story of their life each and every single time.
Yup, that’s right. And then there was this statement:
I don't want another good story; I want a GREAT story. I don't want to read a good hook; I want a GREAT hook. I think writers must try to write each story to be better than their competitors, better than their friends, better, better, better than what they wrote for their last story.
Mmhmmm…
But, wait. There is more:
I think a story should pull the reader in, dragging the reader all the way through. Whether they get straight to the action or use a slow buildup, I don't give a rat's ass. I want to be pulled INTO the story. Whether its plot, language or strong characters, I don't care.
Did you read that last blurb? Read it again. If you are a writer, let it sink in. We should be pulling our readers in and not letting them go. It doesn’t really matter HOW we pull them in as long as we hook ‘em and hold ‘em. This is what you should be doing every time you sit down to pen a story. No, it’s not what you should be doing; it is your DUTY. Your responsibility. You should want to give your readers everything you have with every piece you write.
End of story . . . yeah, pun intended.
So, that is my biggest goal this year. To make every story better than the previous one. It’s only fair, not only for the slush readers, editors and, hopefully the readers who see my story and look at it, but for me, as well. I want you to walk away saying ‘Wow’ or ‘I need a smoke.’
A couple of things before I move on to the pimpage…
There are over 350 shopping days left until Christmas. What? Are you serious? You’re tired of hearing this crap? Me too. I want holidays to go back to being fun. I want there to be Halloween items on the shelf right up until November 1st. I want to see hearts and cupids and boxed candies and conversation hearts on the shelves until after Valentines Day. The same with Easter and St. Patrick’s Day. And, folks, I don’t want to see the first thing about shopping for Christmas until AFTER Thanksgiving. Seriously.
At the rate we are going retailers are going to find a reason to build up every day of the year as a big shopping day. As it stands we have President’s Day Sales and July 4th Sales and Martin Luther King Day Sales. Come on, folks. Do we really want it to come to The 5th Amendment Day Sale? Or having a sale for the day the Redsox finally clinched a world series? I like the Sox, but come on, man…
With Christmas in mind…
This Christmas we did something a little different. My wife’s grandmother wanted to see the parade in early December. For one reason or other she was not able to get there. She told my mom-in-law, Beth, that she wanted to see one more parade before she died. This made us all pause. We don’t think about our loved ones dying, but in truth, it will happen, especially as we grow older.
Beth and her husband, Lon, came up with a wonderful idea. She approached Catherine and I about it. Then several of us approached other members in the family.
What is it we did? Well, we wanted to give her a parade. Sadly, we could only get five cars rounded up and just enough family members so we could put on a mini-parade for them. We met up at the church a couple of blocks from their home on the lake. We decorated our cars with foam snowflakes and lights and posters. My wife dubbed our daughter Junior Miss Snowflake 2009 and she sat on the driver’s side door (with my arm around her) and waved like a princess as we drove by their house.
Trans Siberian Orchestra played loud from Lon’s truck, which had Beth and a few others, my son included, sitting in the bed next to a lit up Christmas tree.
“This is one of the best presents I’ve ever received.” That is what Catherine’s grandmother said.
It’s a memory that those of us who participated will remember for the rest of our lives. It’s something I wouldn’t let my children miss out on.
During the Christmas season so many folks are all about spending money for the best presents and, sadly, many folks like to be recognized for what they give. It’s an ego thing.
Maybe, just maybe, the best present isn’t one you can buy in a store. Maybe, just maybe, the best present can sometimes be the gift of your time. It’s something that you can never get back and it is one of the greatest gifts of all.
For those who participated in this gift of love and time, thank you. Thank you all. I, for one, would like to see this become a family tradition…
Okay, now for one more goal for 2010:
To be better at networking, blogging and putting myself out there. I hate doing it—it sounds so much like bragging. But, truth be told, if I want to make a name for myself, then I need to network better, to reach out more.
How about that for a segue?
Now for the pimpage.
My short story, ‘Dead Characters’ has been picked up by SNM Horror Magazine. It’s in January’s Issue #1. Also, my friend Suzie Bradshaw has a story in there as well. It is the story of the month and appears in Issue 2. It is titled ‘Devil In Cowboy Pajamas.’ After you read ‘Dead Characters,’ take a look at Suzie’s stories (and the others as well). Leave a comment in the guest book, let Steve Marshall know how much you like the new edition.
Dead Characters at SNM Horror Magazine
‘Sarah’s Playground’ is in the anthology Bonded By Blood II: A Romance In Red, put out by SNM Horror Magazine. This is a beautiful book. The cover is amazing and the forward is by Wendy Brewer. Details on purchasing can be found here:
Bonded By Blood II A Romance In Red
Liquid Imagination has just released their first anthology. It is the Static Movement Special Edition Print Volume II. For the most part this is a best of collection of the online magazine, Static Movement, owned and operated by Chris Bartholomew. Along with the best stories, you get quite a few poems. Each story is accompanied by illustrations.
My story, ‘Broken Hearted Savior,’ appears in this special edition collection and is illustrated by Kyle Naden. His illustration captures the story in a unique way. Thank you, Kyle, for the wonderful artwork for ‘Broken Hearted Savior.’
You can pick up the collection at a relatively inexpensive price of $10.00. First off, you can check out Chris’ Static Movement here:
Static Movement
Now, you can order the special edition print collection here:
Static Movement Special Edition Print Volume II
My flash story, ‘The Crimson Spider’ was picked up in December by The New Flesh. It’s a reprint but rewritten completely before I sent it in. You can check it out here:
The Crimson Spider at The New Flesh Magazine
Leave a howl if you will.
Okay, I’m done being longwinded. Please, if you have any questions, feel free to contact me. Feel free, also, to leave comments.
For now, I’m AJ and I’m out…
Anyway...
First off, Happy New Year. We are eleven hours in and so far, so good. Things are always scheduled to change.
Before we completely say good bye to 2009, I want to say a couple of thing. Well, probably more than a couple. I want to talk, so sit down, grab your coffee and read. Okay? Thanks. Please, don’t read while intoxicated…
2009 GOALS:
I reached one of my goals from last year. I did manage to write 1000 words a day and nearly 400,000 words on the year. I have no clue, yet, as to how many stories I wrote. I’ll figure that out next week some time.
I didn’t reach a few of the goals. Most notably: I wanted to receive 50 acceptances from publications. I came close: 48.
I also wanted to break into the pro markets. Again, I came close, getting short-listed six times but, eventually, not getting in on all six submissions. I did, however, make quite a few semi-pro sales. It’s only the beginning, folks. Only the beginning.
The novel did not get finished. I started it. Actually, a couple of novels were started. I’m just not in full novel writing mode yet. I wrote two novellas, which I think will help me gear up for that novel writing experience and the discipline to stick with it.
So, with writing, I came close…
2010 GOALS:
Do I have to do this again?
Okay, fine. I will stick with one goal that I set for myself every year and I achieved it last year: 1000 words a day, minimum.
The second one is still to break into the pro markets.
I’m not setting my sights on a high number of publications this year—I don’t plan on submitting as much as I did last year: 156 Submissions. 48 acceptances, 11 pending, 6 withdrawals. Instead, I want to focus on something that I really thought hard about last year and worked on, especially in the last half of 2009: To make every story my best story.
I think, as writers, a lot of times we get set in our ways and we just write, either to get the words on paper or get them out of the way so we can start on something else. I am guilty of the latter. That’s not really fair to the readers or to the editors and slush readers, for that matter. Or to myself.
Something along these lines came up recently in a web forum I frequent. I was taking a poll about short stories. Why do you read them? Why do you write them? Questions like that. (For those who don’t know, I want to change the way folks view the short story. For those who write them, you know how hard it can be to come up with a complete story in less the 5000 words. For those who read them, I want to give you an experience you can remember.) Then, this statement was made by John Miller:
I hate that writers try to write a good story and submit it. I think writers should try to write the best story of their life each and every single time.
Yup, that’s right. And then there was this statement:
I don't want another good story; I want a GREAT story. I don't want to read a good hook; I want a GREAT hook. I think writers must try to write each story to be better than their competitors, better than their friends, better, better, better than what they wrote for their last story.
Mmhmmm…
But, wait. There is more:
I think a story should pull the reader in, dragging the reader all the way through. Whether they get straight to the action or use a slow buildup, I don't give a rat's ass. I want to be pulled INTO the story. Whether its plot, language or strong characters, I don't care.
Did you read that last blurb? Read it again. If you are a writer, let it sink in. We should be pulling our readers in and not letting them go. It doesn’t really matter HOW we pull them in as long as we hook ‘em and hold ‘em. This is what you should be doing every time you sit down to pen a story. No, it’s not what you should be doing; it is your DUTY. Your responsibility. You should want to give your readers everything you have with every piece you write.
End of story . . . yeah, pun intended.
So, that is my biggest goal this year. To make every story better than the previous one. It’s only fair, not only for the slush readers, editors and, hopefully the readers who see my story and look at it, but for me, as well. I want you to walk away saying ‘Wow’ or ‘I need a smoke.’
A couple of things before I move on to the pimpage…
There are over 350 shopping days left until Christmas. What? Are you serious? You’re tired of hearing this crap? Me too. I want holidays to go back to being fun. I want there to be Halloween items on the shelf right up until November 1st. I want to see hearts and cupids and boxed candies and conversation hearts on the shelves until after Valentines Day. The same with Easter and St. Patrick’s Day. And, folks, I don’t want to see the first thing about shopping for Christmas until AFTER Thanksgiving. Seriously.
At the rate we are going retailers are going to find a reason to build up every day of the year as a big shopping day. As it stands we have President’s Day Sales and July 4th Sales and Martin Luther King Day Sales. Come on, folks. Do we really want it to come to The 5th Amendment Day Sale? Or having a sale for the day the Redsox finally clinched a world series? I like the Sox, but come on, man…
With Christmas in mind…
This Christmas we did something a little different. My wife’s grandmother wanted to see the parade in early December. For one reason or other she was not able to get there. She told my mom-in-law, Beth, that she wanted to see one more parade before she died. This made us all pause. We don’t think about our loved ones dying, but in truth, it will happen, especially as we grow older.
Beth and her husband, Lon, came up with a wonderful idea. She approached Catherine and I about it. Then several of us approached other members in the family.
What is it we did? Well, we wanted to give her a parade. Sadly, we could only get five cars rounded up and just enough family members so we could put on a mini-parade for them. We met up at the church a couple of blocks from their home on the lake. We decorated our cars with foam snowflakes and lights and posters. My wife dubbed our daughter Junior Miss Snowflake 2009 and she sat on the driver’s side door (with my arm around her) and waved like a princess as we drove by their house.
Trans Siberian Orchestra played loud from Lon’s truck, which had Beth and a few others, my son included, sitting in the bed next to a lit up Christmas tree.
“This is one of the best presents I’ve ever received.” That is what Catherine’s grandmother said.
It’s a memory that those of us who participated will remember for the rest of our lives. It’s something I wouldn’t let my children miss out on.
During the Christmas season so many folks are all about spending money for the best presents and, sadly, many folks like to be recognized for what they give. It’s an ego thing.
Maybe, just maybe, the best present isn’t one you can buy in a store. Maybe, just maybe, the best present can sometimes be the gift of your time. It’s something that you can never get back and it is one of the greatest gifts of all.
For those who participated in this gift of love and time, thank you. Thank you all. I, for one, would like to see this become a family tradition…
Okay, now for one more goal for 2010:
To be better at networking, blogging and putting myself out there. I hate doing it—it sounds so much like bragging. But, truth be told, if I want to make a name for myself, then I need to network better, to reach out more.
How about that for a segue?
Now for the pimpage.
My short story, ‘Dead Characters’ has been picked up by SNM Horror Magazine. It’s in January’s Issue #1. Also, my friend Suzie Bradshaw has a story in there as well. It is the story of the month and appears in Issue 2. It is titled ‘Devil In Cowboy Pajamas.’ After you read ‘Dead Characters,’ take a look at Suzie’s stories (and the others as well). Leave a comment in the guest book, let Steve Marshall know how much you like the new edition.
Dead Characters at SNM Horror Magazine
‘Sarah’s Playground’ is in the anthology Bonded By Blood II: A Romance In Red, put out by SNM Horror Magazine. This is a beautiful book. The cover is amazing and the forward is by Wendy Brewer. Details on purchasing can be found here:
Bonded By Blood II A Romance In Red
Liquid Imagination has just released their first anthology. It is the Static Movement Special Edition Print Volume II. For the most part this is a best of collection of the online magazine, Static Movement, owned and operated by Chris Bartholomew. Along with the best stories, you get quite a few poems. Each story is accompanied by illustrations.
My story, ‘Broken Hearted Savior,’ appears in this special edition collection and is illustrated by Kyle Naden. His illustration captures the story in a unique way. Thank you, Kyle, for the wonderful artwork for ‘Broken Hearted Savior.’
You can pick up the collection at a relatively inexpensive price of $10.00. First off, you can check out Chris’ Static Movement here:
Static Movement
Now, you can order the special edition print collection here:
Static Movement Special Edition Print Volume II
My flash story, ‘The Crimson Spider’ was picked up in December by The New Flesh. It’s a reprint but rewritten completely before I sent it in. You can check it out here:
The Crimson Spider at The New Flesh Magazine
Leave a howl if you will.
Okay, I’m done being longwinded. Please, if you have any questions, feel free to contact me. Feel free, also, to leave comments.
For now, I’m AJ and I’m out…
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Static Movement Special Print Edition 2
Check out the recently released Static Movement Special Print Edition Volume 2. My story, 'Broken Hearted Savior' appears there within. Read on for a blurb and contributors.
I would like to thank Kyle Naden for providing the image for my story—he is a brilliant young artist in his mid-teens. Kyle has inspired several of my short stories and his illustration for 'Broken Hearted Savior' catches the story in a unique light.
Editor Chris Bartholomew created the ezine Static Movement in order to publish stories readers get lost in. The ezine Static Movement has been around for years, a starting point for new writers and a test of mettle for seasoned pros. The stories in this anthology come directly from the ezine, ranging from speculative to literary fiction, written by some of the most well-known up-and-coming writers out there such as Eric S. Brown, John Klawitter and P.S. Gifford. Illustrations and artwork enhance each story. Prices for similar products in bookstores target around $20.00, but you can purchase Static Movement Print Special No. 2 for $10.00.
Stories
Waiting-by Ken Head
Expiry-by Mo Irvine
Down the Corridors of Life Purloined-by Anthony G. Bernstein
See Mouse Fly-by John Klawitter
Me & MB-by John Klawitter
The Collector-by Sarah Frost Mellor
Whispering through the Veil-by J.T. Evans
Hands of Mercy-by John “JAM” Arthur Miller
The Herbs of Andali-by James P. Wagner
Those Left Behind-by Kevin Wallis
Scary Story-by Leonardo “Leo” John Miller
The Nightmare-by Vincent “Vinnie” Logan Miller
The Disappearance of Alice P. Liddell-by Michael Hanson
Stealing Skyward (creative nonfiction)-by Joshua Michael Johnson
The Wikid Pedia: A Reminder, A Warning, A Short History-by James A. Stewart
Falling Away-by T.L. Bodine
Awaken to a Nightmare-by Brian Barnett
Dinnertime-by Rick McQuiston
The Cull-by John Irvine
Earth Bound-Elliot Richard Dorfman
Walking the Winds at Dawn (Falling through the Clouds at Night)-by Justin Curtis
Work at Home Job-James P. Wagner
Broken Hearted Savior-by A.J. Brown
Emotion Eaters-by Scott Wilson
Taedium Mortis-by Louise Norlie
The Call-by John Stanton
At the Seaside , by the Sea-by Florence Stanton
FETCH!-by Ken Goldman
Swan Maiden-by Tala Bar
She-by Shelly Muir
Ill Met in Turquoise Sunset-by Glen Held
The Chest (a tribute to Edgar Allen Poe's “The Gold Bug”)-by S. Copperstone
Static Movement-by John “JAM” Arthur Miller
Silent Delivery-by Jamie K. Schmidt
Behind Closed Doors-by Charlotte Emma Gledson
The Wranglers-by Eric S. Brown
The Dentist Visit-by P.S. Gifford
Poetry by:
Lee Kuruganti
William Wolford
Ken Head
Jonathan Crider
John C. Mannone
Michael H. Hanson
Brandon L. Rucker
Deborah Walker
P.S. Gifford
Illustrators
Shane McKenzie
Lucas Pederson
John Stanton
Jack S. Rogers
Lee Kuruganti
Kyle Naden
You can go here for the purchasing information:
Static Movement
I would like to thank Kyle Naden for providing the image for my story—he is a brilliant young artist in his mid-teens. Kyle has inspired several of my short stories and his illustration for 'Broken Hearted Savior' catches the story in a unique light.
Editor Chris Bartholomew created the ezine Static Movement in order to publish stories readers get lost in. The ezine Static Movement has been around for years, a starting point for new writers and a test of mettle for seasoned pros. The stories in this anthology come directly from the ezine, ranging from speculative to literary fiction, written by some of the most well-known up-and-coming writers out there such as Eric S. Brown, John Klawitter and P.S. Gifford. Illustrations and artwork enhance each story. Prices for similar products in bookstores target around $20.00, but you can purchase Static Movement Print Special No. 2 for $10.00.
Stories
Waiting-by Ken Head
Expiry-by Mo Irvine
Down the Corridors of Life Purloined-by Anthony G. Bernstein
See Mouse Fly-by John Klawitter
Me & MB-by John Klawitter
The Collector-by Sarah Frost Mellor
Whispering through the Veil-by J.T. Evans
Hands of Mercy-by John “JAM” Arthur Miller
The Herbs of Andali-by James P. Wagner
Those Left Behind-by Kevin Wallis
Scary Story-by Leonardo “Leo” John Miller
The Nightmare-by Vincent “Vinnie” Logan Miller
The Disappearance of Alice P. Liddell-by Michael Hanson
Stealing Skyward (creative nonfiction)-by Joshua Michael Johnson
The Wikid Pedia: A Reminder, A Warning, A Short History-by James A. Stewart
Falling Away-by T.L. Bodine
Awaken to a Nightmare-by Brian Barnett
Dinnertime-by Rick McQuiston
The Cull-by John Irvine
Earth Bound-Elliot Richard Dorfman
Walking the Winds at Dawn (Falling through the Clouds at Night)-by Justin Curtis
Work at Home Job-James P. Wagner
Broken Hearted Savior-by A.J. Brown
Emotion Eaters-by Scott Wilson
Taedium Mortis-by Louise Norlie
The Call-by John Stanton
At the Seaside , by the Sea-by Florence Stanton
FETCH!-by Ken Goldman
Swan Maiden-by Tala Bar
She-by Shelly Muir
Ill Met in Turquoise Sunset-by Glen Held
The Chest (a tribute to Edgar Allen Poe's “The Gold Bug”)-by S. Copperstone
Static Movement-by John “JAM” Arthur Miller
Silent Delivery-by Jamie K. Schmidt
Behind Closed Doors-by Charlotte Emma Gledson
The Wranglers-by Eric S. Brown
The Dentist Visit-by P.S. Gifford
Poetry by:
Lee Kuruganti
William Wolford
Ken Head
Jonathan Crider
John C. Mannone
Michael H. Hanson
Brandon L. Rucker
Deborah Walker
P.S. Gifford
Illustrators
Shane McKenzie
Lucas Pederson
John Stanton
Jack S. Rogers
Lee Kuruganti
Kyle Naden
You can go here for the purchasing information:
Static Movement
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Bonded By Blood II: A Romance In Red
Welcome, ye dark visceral explorers, to the second-born anthology of SNM Horror Magazine, featuring 20 of the darkest short stories published and brought to you exclusively from SNM Horror Mag. These are the new voices of horror today and our next generation of tomorrow’s pioneers. We finally unleash them back upon the Earth to haunt the sleep of the living and wake the Dead from their slumber. Yes, Bonded by Blood II!
SNM Horror Mag is honored to showcase them in this crypt we call our best of anthology. It features only the SOTM over 18 months. Also included are 2 bonus tracks from the Chief Editor; one of which is a collaborative story with SNM author Joel Peterson. We have built this hallowed Mausoleum from the grave on up and have brought it into daylight by way of darkness. We hope you welcome and embrace it. We have exhumed only the very darkest from our blackened crypt. If you like cerebral, suggestive horror that isn’t afraid to cross new thresholds in shocking the reader and making them think twice, then look no further.
We have finally been rated the #1 Online Horror Magazine of 2009! Thank you for your kind support of the featured writers herein as they are paid royalties for every sale. We really took our time to do this one right and have featured the best 20 stories of over 800 submissions from the last 18 months! We hope it reflects your highest standards. Please recommend us and support our endeavor.
We know you will discover some dark talent and enjoy the featured stories. The best way to show your support to the authors is to buy their books and visit their websites posted at the bottom of each story and in their bios. We have both new male and female horror authors for you to choose from. We hope that you find it disturbing. May it darken your daydreams…and illuminate your nightmares!
Here is the lineup in order for Bonded By Blood II:
James Cheetham - Bumper Shine
Dianna Street - Making Of A Monster
James Woodcock - The Suffering
Jen Conley - Old Hag's Syndrome
Allison Rogers - Gravedigger
Elizadeth Hetherington - Immortal Stone
A.J. Brown - Sarah's Playground
J.C. Lira - A Head Full Of Bad Animals
Jack Burton - The Gambler
Suzie Bradshaw - Wagging Tongues
Steven Marshall - I Dream of Death
A.R. Braun - The Interloper
Brett Graham - Dr. Spindle's House
Daniel Fabiani -Grave Offerings
Adrian Ludens - Cold Feet
Stacy Bolli - Behind Dark Corners
Liz Strange- Night of Stolen Dreams
Kerry Morgan - Blood Brothers
Brian Johnpeer - The Pen
SNM & Joel Peterson - Love Gently Bleeds
20 short stories, 250 pages, 94,000 words. Retail Price: $15.95 + S&H
In closing, we leave you with the foreword written by Wendy Brewer, Copy Editor for Edward Lee and Editor of the Dark Hart anthologies.
“Many years ago, I took on the arduous task of editor for a “For the Luv” horror ezine called The Murder Hole. There was no monetary gratification for myself, for the woman who hosted the website, or for any of the contributors. Yet month after month I was overwhelmed with submissions and I still managed to put forth issues highlighting some of the best dark fiction out there. From well-established writers to semi-established writers working their way to the top, to newbies, I’ve watched over the years as many of the authors I published moved on to become award-winning novelists, mass-market novelists, even publishers and editors. It’s kind of like watching your babies growing up to be successful in doing what they love and do best: writing.
That being said, I completely understand what Steven N. Marshall puts into his ezine each and every month. It takes a lot of dedication. It takes a lot of hard work. It requires enthusiasm and unconstrained loyalty to his chosen path, even in the face of adversity; perseverance overcoming animosity. And Steve manages to pull it off, putting out a new issue every month with style and flair, overwhelmingly denoting the true reasons he continues.
It’s all about “for the love of.”
The authors published by SNM every month demonstrate that same love and dedication. Reading the stories in this anthology, you can’t help but see the love these writers have for their craft of writing. Their best efforts shine through brilliantly in every story, adding new twists to old plots, bending rules, breaking out of the proverbial ‘box’, showing the readers that not only do they love to write, but they write for a simple reason: They want to entertain you, the reader.
This yearly crowning achievement published by SNM is a work of love, devotion and commitment by the authors and editors for those who enjoy and appreciate the efforts put forth by all involved. It is an extraordinary accomplishment, packed with compelling horror and dark fiction that will keep you turning the pages long after you should have turned the lights out and gone to bed.
I was truly honored when Steve had approached me about doing the introduction for this anthology. The anthologies he puts out prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the writing and creating of stories and the genuine objective to entertain isn’t all about money. It’s about literary achievement in the horror community and becoming known. It doesn’t happen overnight!
The editors know this.
The contributors know this.
Now the readers know this.
It’s all about telling a story.
And, most importantly…
It’s all about “for the love of.”
I was very impressed by this anthology. The consistency of quality writing, they way that each story stands apart from one another, the literary prose, the haunting residual in the mind, makes this a perfect masterpiece of fiction. It is comprised of the Stories of the Month for a year and a half, over careful consideration and selection from a top-rated magazine that publishes cerebral, psychological horror; horror that isn’t afraid to cross taboo thresholds, yet suggest something so menacing that the reader is grateful it’s kept offstage. Let these brave pioneers of the next Poe and Lovecraft generation whisper their dark secrets into your soul and haunt you in the most eerie, personal way: through the power of suggestion and the art of horrific eloquence. My favorite type of reading!”
Wendy Brewer, Copy Editor for Edward Lee.
Order your copy of Bonded By Blood II today or die trying!
Thank you for your loyalty and support to SNM Horror Mag.
www.createspace.com/3417084
The SNM Mausoleum is now built…and the Dead have been ripped from the Crypt and exhumed from the Tomb!
Darkest Wishes,
Steven Nicholas Marshall
Senior Editor / Moderator
SNM Horror Magazine
www.snmhorrormag.com
SNM Horror Mag is honored to showcase them in this crypt we call our best of anthology. It features only the SOTM over 18 months. Also included are 2 bonus tracks from the Chief Editor; one of which is a collaborative story with SNM author Joel Peterson. We have built this hallowed Mausoleum from the grave on up and have brought it into daylight by way of darkness. We hope you welcome and embrace it. We have exhumed only the very darkest from our blackened crypt. If you like cerebral, suggestive horror that isn’t afraid to cross new thresholds in shocking the reader and making them think twice, then look no further.
We have finally been rated the #1 Online Horror Magazine of 2009! Thank you for your kind support of the featured writers herein as they are paid royalties for every sale. We really took our time to do this one right and have featured the best 20 stories of over 800 submissions from the last 18 months! We hope it reflects your highest standards. Please recommend us and support our endeavor.
We know you will discover some dark talent and enjoy the featured stories. The best way to show your support to the authors is to buy their books and visit their websites posted at the bottom of each story and in their bios. We have both new male and female horror authors for you to choose from. We hope that you find it disturbing. May it darken your daydreams…and illuminate your nightmares!
Here is the lineup in order for Bonded By Blood II:
James Cheetham - Bumper Shine
Dianna Street - Making Of A Monster
James Woodcock - The Suffering
Jen Conley - Old Hag's Syndrome
Allison Rogers - Gravedigger
Elizadeth Hetherington - Immortal Stone
A.J. Brown - Sarah's Playground
J.C. Lira - A Head Full Of Bad Animals
Jack Burton - The Gambler
Suzie Bradshaw - Wagging Tongues
Steven Marshall - I Dream of Death
A.R. Braun - The Interloper
Brett Graham - Dr. Spindle's House
Daniel Fabiani -Grave Offerings
Adrian Ludens - Cold Feet
Stacy Bolli - Behind Dark Corners
Liz Strange- Night of Stolen Dreams
Kerry Morgan - Blood Brothers
Brian Johnpeer - The Pen
SNM & Joel Peterson - Love Gently Bleeds
20 short stories, 250 pages, 94,000 words. Retail Price: $15.95 + S&H
In closing, we leave you with the foreword written by Wendy Brewer, Copy Editor for Edward Lee and Editor of the Dark Hart anthologies.
“Many years ago, I took on the arduous task of editor for a “For the Luv” horror ezine called The Murder Hole. There was no monetary gratification for myself, for the woman who hosted the website, or for any of the contributors. Yet month after month I was overwhelmed with submissions and I still managed to put forth issues highlighting some of the best dark fiction out there. From well-established writers to semi-established writers working their way to the top, to newbies, I’ve watched over the years as many of the authors I published moved on to become award-winning novelists, mass-market novelists, even publishers and editors. It’s kind of like watching your babies growing up to be successful in doing what they love and do best: writing.
That being said, I completely understand what Steven N. Marshall puts into his ezine each and every month. It takes a lot of dedication. It takes a lot of hard work. It requires enthusiasm and unconstrained loyalty to his chosen path, even in the face of adversity; perseverance overcoming animosity. And Steve manages to pull it off, putting out a new issue every month with style and flair, overwhelmingly denoting the true reasons he continues.
It’s all about “for the love of.”
The authors published by SNM every month demonstrate that same love and dedication. Reading the stories in this anthology, you can’t help but see the love these writers have for their craft of writing. Their best efforts shine through brilliantly in every story, adding new twists to old plots, bending rules, breaking out of the proverbial ‘box’, showing the readers that not only do they love to write, but they write for a simple reason: They want to entertain you, the reader.
This yearly crowning achievement published by SNM is a work of love, devotion and commitment by the authors and editors for those who enjoy and appreciate the efforts put forth by all involved. It is an extraordinary accomplishment, packed with compelling horror and dark fiction that will keep you turning the pages long after you should have turned the lights out and gone to bed.
I was truly honored when Steve had approached me about doing the introduction for this anthology. The anthologies he puts out prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the writing and creating of stories and the genuine objective to entertain isn’t all about money. It’s about literary achievement in the horror community and becoming known. It doesn’t happen overnight!
The editors know this.
The contributors know this.
Now the readers know this.
It’s all about telling a story.
And, most importantly…
It’s all about “for the love of.”
I was very impressed by this anthology. The consistency of quality writing, they way that each story stands apart from one another, the literary prose, the haunting residual in the mind, makes this a perfect masterpiece of fiction. It is comprised of the Stories of the Month for a year and a half, over careful consideration and selection from a top-rated magazine that publishes cerebral, psychological horror; horror that isn’t afraid to cross taboo thresholds, yet suggest something so menacing that the reader is grateful it’s kept offstage. Let these brave pioneers of the next Poe and Lovecraft generation whisper their dark secrets into your soul and haunt you in the most eerie, personal way: through the power of suggestion and the art of horrific eloquence. My favorite type of reading!”
Wendy Brewer, Copy Editor for Edward Lee.
Order your copy of Bonded By Blood II today or die trying!
Thank you for your loyalty and support to SNM Horror Mag.
www.createspace.com/3417084
The SNM Mausoleum is now built…and the Dead have been ripped from the Crypt and exhumed from the Tomb!
Darkest Wishes,
Steven Nicholas Marshall
Senior Editor / Moderator
SNM Horror Magazine
www.snmhorrormag.com
Friday, December 11, 2009
Onward...
Down the street a truck appears, adorned in reds and greens, its lights shining. The driver honks and waves a meaty hand as he passes through the crowd of onlookers. Three fingers are missing, a pinky and thumb form an odd L shape. "Merry Christmas," he bellows. It comes out "Mare-wee Cwis-moss."
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Again, It Continues...
"Here they come," a kid shouts, others echo his words. Eyes open wide in anticipation and little ones squirm in their seats; blankets come off as they stomp their feet, kicking up clouds of dust.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
It continues
There's no snow this year; streets are covered in dust and dirt, debris from crumbling buildings, worn by time, weather and the passing wars. Few trees have stood the test of bombs and bullets, fewer windows remain intact.
A breeze blows along Main Street, lifting grit and trash into the air. Many cover their faces, kids cry out from the sting of sand in eyes; some adults shake their heads and wonder why others choose not to wear protective goggles.
A breeze blows along Main Street, lifting grit and trash into the air. Many cover their faces, kids cry out from the sting of sand in eyes; some adults shake their heads and wonder why others choose not to wear protective goggles.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A Story In Pieces
So, I decided to do this story on Facebook, posting excerpts with updates. Sadly, I can only post 420 characters at a time, which amounts to about 130-140 words, depending on spaces. The parts will be posted each day starting today and going through Christmas Eve.
But, wait, AJ, I said to myself. What if folks don't use Facebook? Well, then they are out of luck. Ah, but Mr. Self wouldn't allow that. Other egos stepped in, I was beaten 48 times with a wet noodle--that actually hurts, by the way--and finally, the powers that be gave in to the masses and said post the story, in parts, on Blogger and MySpace.
So, here we are, myself and all of my other selves (one of them looking over my shoulder making sure I do this right) bringing you some Christmas cheer.
The story is titled 'Not Like It Use To Be.'
Enjoy and come back tomorrow to read more.
Thank you.
I'm AJ and I'm out and here is the beginning of 'Not Like It Used To Be.'
***
Families line the streets, kids bundled in coats, hats, gloves and blankets. Adults stand or sit in folding chairs, hands in pockets or laps, their excitement matching the children's. A chill hugs each person tight. Teeth clatter, legs shake and dance, trying to stay warm. Hot chocolate and coffee work for a while but fade, leaving shivers along spines.
"How much longer, Momma?" they asks, young eyes and hearts waiting, hoping to catch a glimpse of an elf or reindeer or Santa Clause. Maybe some candy will get tossed their way.
"Not much longer," mothers and fathers announce, some happily, others with a chagrin that sits in their stomachs like heavy rocks. Christmas isn't like it was when they were kids, back when December meant presents and eggnog and feasts, parties and family get-togethers, Christmas lights and holiday specials on television. Snow-filled streets meant sledding and snowmen, snow angels and snow ball fights.
But, wait, AJ, I said to myself. What if folks don't use Facebook? Well, then they are out of luck. Ah, but Mr. Self wouldn't allow that. Other egos stepped in, I was beaten 48 times with a wet noodle--that actually hurts, by the way--and finally, the powers that be gave in to the masses and said post the story, in parts, on Blogger and MySpace.
So, here we are, myself and all of my other selves (one of them looking over my shoulder making sure I do this right) bringing you some Christmas cheer.
The story is titled 'Not Like It Use To Be.'
Enjoy and come back tomorrow to read more.
Thank you.
I'm AJ and I'm out and here is the beginning of 'Not Like It Used To Be.'
***
Families line the streets, kids bundled in coats, hats, gloves and blankets. Adults stand or sit in folding chairs, hands in pockets or laps, their excitement matching the children's. A chill hugs each person tight. Teeth clatter, legs shake and dance, trying to stay warm. Hot chocolate and coffee work for a while but fade, leaving shivers along spines.
"How much longer, Momma?" they asks, young eyes and hearts waiting, hoping to catch a glimpse of an elf or reindeer or Santa Clause. Maybe some candy will get tossed their way.
"Not much longer," mothers and fathers announce, some happily, others with a chagrin that sits in their stomachs like heavy rocks. Christmas isn't like it was when they were kids, back when December meant presents and eggnog and feasts, parties and family get-togethers, Christmas lights and holiday specials on television. Snow-filled streets meant sledding and snowmen, snow angels and snow ball fights.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Commitment? Really? Do I Have To?
It starts at an early age. What's that? What starts at an early age? The fear of commitment starts at an early age with many males.
What are you talking about, AJ? Seriously? Are you on the strawberry Kool-Aid again?
Hold on. Hold on. I can explain this if you have a minute or five.
My son is four years old. He is a fairly well adjusted child who likes Hot Wheels, Lightning McQueen and beating up his daddy. Other hobbies include watching Sid the Science Kid, running really fast and beating up his daddy.
There is a theme here.
Last year Logan went to a three year old pre-kindergarten class three days a week. He was one of only four boys in the class. The other fifteen children were, you guessed it, little girls with ponytails and shiny eyes. One of the boys left a few weeks into the school year, leaving three boys and fifteen girls. It kind of reminds me of that old Jan and Dean song, Surf City. Instead of two girls for every boy, it was more like five girls for every boy.
There was one child among these young ladies that was smitten with my son. She's a cute little child with dark hair and dark eyes. A few weeks into the school year she got up the courage to play with Logan. After that she played with him on a regular basis. Then it happened.
"Logan Brown," she says in all seriousness. "I'm going to marry you."
The blood in my son’s face drained out, leaving a pale mask of his normally cheerful persona. It happened another couple of times with that same little girl. When I asked him about it, he covered his head with his blanket and refused to come out.
That was last year…
Logan is now in four-year-old pre-kindergarten going four days a week. The ratio of boys to girls is no longer five girls to every boy—it's almost even. However, recently, it happened again. My son was minding his own business after school, running and playing with his friends out on the front lawn while parents talked and gossiped.
A little girl with dimples and a ponytail and a year younger than Logan walked up to him.
"Logan," she said. "When I grow up, I'm going to marry you."
Fright.
That is what appeared on my boy's face. Fright. Not because the girl is scary—she's quite adorable. But, because, now, twice in two years, girls have proclaimed their desires to marry him—and they were/are only three years old.
My son now has the pressure of two lasses wanting to marry him. What is he going to do when he gets older and falls in love?
I imagine his girlfriend asking, "Are we ever going to get married?"
A look of terror is going to sweep over my son's face and he is going to run for the hills. He is going to remember these two little girls coming to him at such a young and tender (and impressionable) age, about their desires to marry him, and he is going to freak out. It's too much pressure. Too much anxiety.
How do we avoid this?
Unfortunately, we can't. There will always be the added dread of relationships, both beginning and ending, that will haunt every individual throughout their lives. Sweaty palms, tongues that knot up when the object of our affection is around, stupidity… Yes, we all do stupid things for our loved ones. Don't deny it. Look back and you will find at least one stupid thing you’ve done for a loved one that you wouldn't do for anyone else.
Ahh, I have gotten off course. If any of you women out there have men who are afraid to or don't seem to want to commit, step back. Don't nag him or fuss at him. Don’t give him the ‘or else’ ultimatum. Think about a possible childhood event that has caused him severe trauma, such as a little girl at age three saying "I am going to marry you."
For many men, this is the root of commitment fears…
That will be a nickel please.
***
In the Silence of this Room can be purchased now at The Grey Sparrow Press website. Go here for more details:
In the Silence of this Room
My story, "Walking on Red Brick Road," is within these pages.
***
Being a University of Michigan fan, I was pleased to see Michigan win this weekend and both Ohio State and Notre Dame lose.
It's really the little things that bring me so much joy in life.
***
Cool places worth checking out:
Necrotic Tissue
The Patchwork Project
Microhorror
Dark Recesses
Chizine
***
Paula Ray did an interview with me last week and she has posted it up at her blog page, Back Space Junkie. It's rather lengthy. Read, leave comments. Check it out here:
Back Space Junkie
***
And, one other thing—yeah, I’m on the Strawberry Kool-Aid again.
I'm AJ and I'm out…
What are you talking about, AJ? Seriously? Are you on the strawberry Kool-Aid again?
Hold on. Hold on. I can explain this if you have a minute or five.
My son is four years old. He is a fairly well adjusted child who likes Hot Wheels, Lightning McQueen and beating up his daddy. Other hobbies include watching Sid the Science Kid, running really fast and beating up his daddy.
There is a theme here.
Last year Logan went to a three year old pre-kindergarten class three days a week. He was one of only four boys in the class. The other fifteen children were, you guessed it, little girls with ponytails and shiny eyes. One of the boys left a few weeks into the school year, leaving three boys and fifteen girls. It kind of reminds me of that old Jan and Dean song, Surf City. Instead of two girls for every boy, it was more like five girls for every boy.
There was one child among these young ladies that was smitten with my son. She's a cute little child with dark hair and dark eyes. A few weeks into the school year she got up the courage to play with Logan. After that she played with him on a regular basis. Then it happened.
"Logan Brown," she says in all seriousness. "I'm going to marry you."
The blood in my son’s face drained out, leaving a pale mask of his normally cheerful persona. It happened another couple of times with that same little girl. When I asked him about it, he covered his head with his blanket and refused to come out.
That was last year…
Logan is now in four-year-old pre-kindergarten going four days a week. The ratio of boys to girls is no longer five girls to every boy—it's almost even. However, recently, it happened again. My son was minding his own business after school, running and playing with his friends out on the front lawn while parents talked and gossiped.
A little girl with dimples and a ponytail and a year younger than Logan walked up to him.
"Logan," she said. "When I grow up, I'm going to marry you."
Fright.
That is what appeared on my boy's face. Fright. Not because the girl is scary—she's quite adorable. But, because, now, twice in two years, girls have proclaimed their desires to marry him—and they were/are only three years old.
My son now has the pressure of two lasses wanting to marry him. What is he going to do when he gets older and falls in love?
I imagine his girlfriend asking, "Are we ever going to get married?"
A look of terror is going to sweep over my son's face and he is going to run for the hills. He is going to remember these two little girls coming to him at such a young and tender (and impressionable) age, about their desires to marry him, and he is going to freak out. It's too much pressure. Too much anxiety.
How do we avoid this?
Unfortunately, we can't. There will always be the added dread of relationships, both beginning and ending, that will haunt every individual throughout their lives. Sweaty palms, tongues that knot up when the object of our affection is around, stupidity… Yes, we all do stupid things for our loved ones. Don't deny it. Look back and you will find at least one stupid thing you’ve done for a loved one that you wouldn't do for anyone else.
Ahh, I have gotten off course. If any of you women out there have men who are afraid to or don't seem to want to commit, step back. Don't nag him or fuss at him. Don’t give him the ‘or else’ ultimatum. Think about a possible childhood event that has caused him severe trauma, such as a little girl at age three saying "I am going to marry you."
For many men, this is the root of commitment fears…
That will be a nickel please.
***
In the Silence of this Room can be purchased now at The Grey Sparrow Press website. Go here for more details:
In the Silence of this Room
My story, "Walking on Red Brick Road," is within these pages.
***
Being a University of Michigan fan, I was pleased to see Michigan win this weekend and both Ohio State and Notre Dame lose.
It's really the little things that bring me so much joy in life.
***
Cool places worth checking out:
Necrotic Tissue
The Patchwork Project
Microhorror
Dark Recesses
Chizine
***
Paula Ray did an interview with me last week and she has posted it up at her blog page, Back Space Junkie. It's rather lengthy. Read, leave comments. Check it out here:
Back Space Junkie
***
And, one other thing—yeah, I’m on the Strawberry Kool-Aid again.
I'm AJ and I'm out…
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Kids . . . Yah Gotta Love 'Em
It’s been a hectic week, with a sick one in tow and missing several days of work. I did very little writing, but that’s the way it goes sometimes.
In weeks like this I look for little nuggets of laughter to carry me from day to day. I share with you a couple of them now:
My son has been ill most of the week with a fever, cough and ear infection. When little ones are sick they become wimpy lumps of flesh—much like most grown men. My son is NOT like this. Though he was down at times, he was still hyper and active. The two of us sat in the recliner, he on my right, a blanket on his legs, juice in one hand. Sid the Science Kid played on the television. Out of the blue my son makes a statement.
“Daddy,” he said. “I want to beat you up.”
He followed this statement with an elbow to my stomach.
He caught me off guard, to say the least.
“I thought you weren’t feeling well,” I said.
“I’m better. I’m going to beat you up.”
Another elbow followed.
And, this is the way it is when my youngest is sick—ill until he has an opportunity for a sucker punch.
***
My daughter is in love with Nick Jonas. Yes, my eight year old is in love with a “rock star.”
I guess that’s okay. Better than being in love with Manson, eh?
***
As we all know, it is October, and October means Halloween. What better song than ‘This is Halloween’ by Marilyn Manson than to celebrate the coolest ‘holiday’ of the year?
***
Speaking of Halloween, my sister asked my niece and nephews what they wish to be for Halloween.
“I want to be a vampire,” Annemarie, the oldest, said.
Okay, as long as she doesn’t sparkle, I guess that is okay.
John, the four year old said, “Turn on ‘Can’t Stop,’” by Red Hot Chili Peppers. Anna complied. John immediately pointed to John Frusciante, the guitarist. Okay, that’s easy enough.
Then she turned to Ben, the middle child. At seven, Ben is somewhat of a follower and has a hard time making decisions. So, when it came time for him to answer, he was less inclined to give his own thoughts.
“Ben, what do you want to be for Halloween?” my sister asked.
He shrugged. “Annemarie has a good idea, so I’ll do that.”
My sister, ever the patient one, rolled her eyes and knelt down (not that she really needed to kneel down, she is two inches under five feet tall—I don’t care what she says). “Ben, I want to know what YOU want to be for Halloween.”
Ben has an evil smile. He gives her this particular smile, his eyes gleam and he says, “I want to be a whoopee cushion.”
I’m so proud of him. . .
***
The State Fair has arrived here in not so sunny South Carolina. Catherine and I took the kids on this gray, cool day. The corn dogs were great, as were the Fiske Fries. Chloe did the rock climbing, which surprised me. Though she didn’t make it to the top, she did go almost all the way up. She made the mistake of looking down and became scared when she realized how high up she was.
Logan perked up after being sick all week and rode as many rides as he could, some of them half a dozen times. They both rode the children’s roller coasters—several times. As a parent, I get more enjoyment and fulfillment out of watching my children have fun.
***
Did I mention my daughter loves Nick Jonas?
***
My dog has Extreme ADD. Seriously. She has no attention span what so ever.
***
Chloe held a book in her hands and read off several jokes. If you know my daughter, you also know that she is matter of fact when she is reading, especially jokes from books.
She read, “What type of phone does the ocean have?”
I confess, most of these types of jokes I don’t know. Kids jokes. They are so simple, they are brilliant.
“I don’t know,” I said and leaned back in my desk chair.
“Shell Phones,” she said, her eyebrows rose, her head swiveling. “Duhhhh… Get it Cell phone, shell phone?”
That’s my daughter.
Did I mention my daughter loves Nick Jonas?
***
A free concert series has started on the grounds of the historic Columbia Motor Speedway. One of my favorite local bands played last night in the open field that used to be the racetrack. There was beer for the drinkers and food for the eaters and, well, not much for the children.
I guess it was like Woodstock, but without the weed…
***
I would like to throw out a promotion for Cutting Block Press’ new collection, Butcher Shop Quartet Volume II. For a glimpse of the book, read further:
The Breach, by Greggard Pennance
Jared, one of the few survivors from the crash of flight 319, is visited in his dreams by one of the perished passengers. Needing answers, he is drawn to the site of the wreckage -- 140 feet deep in the Atlantic. What Jared finds there is beyond extraordinary, and it sets him on a path to make choices that will determine much more than his own fate.
Road Rash, by Simon Janus
After a botched bank robbery in which the rest of his team is lost, Straley escapes on foot. Toting the loot, he is desperate for a set of wheels. Then his luck seems to turn his way, as he finds the car he needs, but soon he learns that it has come at a terrible price - in acquiring it, he's contracted an aggressive skin rash, and soon it is ravaging his body. When he receives his diagnosis, a terrible curse, he learns that he must use up the last of his loot in attempt to rid himself of this infliction. He must journey into the depths of Central America, where he will find the answer he needs … or doesn't need.
Bodies Raining, by Rick J. Brown.
As a young boy, Corey is the only witness to an atmospheric miracle that will signal the beginning of the end of civilization. Years later, after a virulent disease has ravaged the Earth, and with no safe way to dispose of the corpses, Corey must leave his wife to work in space as a 'body dropper'. While human corpses pile up on the surface of the moon, he is sent to the surface to unravel a mystery. There Corey finds that even the most unimaginable of events can be natural, up to and including personal vengeance.
Condemned, Written by Vince Churchill, Story by Ray Brown (R. Lenard Brown)
In a blink the world changes, but Quentin is too busy having illicit sex to notice. It isn't long before things in the Midwestern town of Benson become strange. People are different, neighbors violent. He learns that the Rapture has occurred, and that he was mistakenly left behind. As all Hell breaks loose, Quentin finds himself in the race of his life, and he has one chance to reclaim his salvation. Accompanied by two gun-toting preachers, he must reach the Church of the First God before sunrise, and all that stands in his way is a long night and the enraged souls of the damned.
Check it out at:
Butcher Shop Quartet II
***
Did I mention my daughter loves Nick Jonas?
For now, I’m AJ and I’m out…
In weeks like this I look for little nuggets of laughter to carry me from day to day. I share with you a couple of them now:
My son has been ill most of the week with a fever, cough and ear infection. When little ones are sick they become wimpy lumps of flesh—much like most grown men. My son is NOT like this. Though he was down at times, he was still hyper and active. The two of us sat in the recliner, he on my right, a blanket on his legs, juice in one hand. Sid the Science Kid played on the television. Out of the blue my son makes a statement.
“Daddy,” he said. “I want to beat you up.”
He followed this statement with an elbow to my stomach.
He caught me off guard, to say the least.
“I thought you weren’t feeling well,” I said.
“I’m better. I’m going to beat you up.”
Another elbow followed.
And, this is the way it is when my youngest is sick—ill until he has an opportunity for a sucker punch.
***
My daughter is in love with Nick Jonas. Yes, my eight year old is in love with a “rock star.”
I guess that’s okay. Better than being in love with Manson, eh?
***
As we all know, it is October, and October means Halloween. What better song than ‘This is Halloween’ by Marilyn Manson than to celebrate the coolest ‘holiday’ of the year?
***
Speaking of Halloween, my sister asked my niece and nephews what they wish to be for Halloween.
“I want to be a vampire,” Annemarie, the oldest, said.
Okay, as long as she doesn’t sparkle, I guess that is okay.
John, the four year old said, “Turn on ‘Can’t Stop,’” by Red Hot Chili Peppers. Anna complied. John immediately pointed to John Frusciante, the guitarist. Okay, that’s easy enough.
Then she turned to Ben, the middle child. At seven, Ben is somewhat of a follower and has a hard time making decisions. So, when it came time for him to answer, he was less inclined to give his own thoughts.
“Ben, what do you want to be for Halloween?” my sister asked.
He shrugged. “Annemarie has a good idea, so I’ll do that.”
My sister, ever the patient one, rolled her eyes and knelt down (not that she really needed to kneel down, she is two inches under five feet tall—I don’t care what she says). “Ben, I want to know what YOU want to be for Halloween.”
Ben has an evil smile. He gives her this particular smile, his eyes gleam and he says, “I want to be a whoopee cushion.”
I’m so proud of him. . .
***
The State Fair has arrived here in not so sunny South Carolina. Catherine and I took the kids on this gray, cool day. The corn dogs were great, as were the Fiske Fries. Chloe did the rock climbing, which surprised me. Though she didn’t make it to the top, she did go almost all the way up. She made the mistake of looking down and became scared when she realized how high up she was.
Logan perked up after being sick all week and rode as many rides as he could, some of them half a dozen times. They both rode the children’s roller coasters—several times. As a parent, I get more enjoyment and fulfillment out of watching my children have fun.
***
Did I mention my daughter loves Nick Jonas?
***
My dog has Extreme ADD. Seriously. She has no attention span what so ever.
***
Chloe held a book in her hands and read off several jokes. If you know my daughter, you also know that she is matter of fact when she is reading, especially jokes from books.
She read, “What type of phone does the ocean have?”
I confess, most of these types of jokes I don’t know. Kids jokes. They are so simple, they are brilliant.
“I don’t know,” I said and leaned back in my desk chair.
“Shell Phones,” she said, her eyebrows rose, her head swiveling. “Duhhhh… Get it Cell phone, shell phone?”
That’s my daughter.
Did I mention my daughter loves Nick Jonas?
***
A free concert series has started on the grounds of the historic Columbia Motor Speedway. One of my favorite local bands played last night in the open field that used to be the racetrack. There was beer for the drinkers and food for the eaters and, well, not much for the children.
I guess it was like Woodstock, but without the weed…
***
I would like to throw out a promotion for Cutting Block Press’ new collection, Butcher Shop Quartet Volume II. For a glimpse of the book, read further:
The Breach, by Greggard Pennance
Jared, one of the few survivors from the crash of flight 319, is visited in his dreams by one of the perished passengers. Needing answers, he is drawn to the site of the wreckage -- 140 feet deep in the Atlantic. What Jared finds there is beyond extraordinary, and it sets him on a path to make choices that will determine much more than his own fate.
Road Rash, by Simon Janus
After a botched bank robbery in which the rest of his team is lost, Straley escapes on foot. Toting the loot, he is desperate for a set of wheels. Then his luck seems to turn his way, as he finds the car he needs, but soon he learns that it has come at a terrible price - in acquiring it, he's contracted an aggressive skin rash, and soon it is ravaging his body. When he receives his diagnosis, a terrible curse, he learns that he must use up the last of his loot in attempt to rid himself of this infliction. He must journey into the depths of Central America, where he will find the answer he needs … or doesn't need.
Bodies Raining, by Rick J. Brown.
As a young boy, Corey is the only witness to an atmospheric miracle that will signal the beginning of the end of civilization. Years later, after a virulent disease has ravaged the Earth, and with no safe way to dispose of the corpses, Corey must leave his wife to work in space as a 'body dropper'. While human corpses pile up on the surface of the moon, he is sent to the surface to unravel a mystery. There Corey finds that even the most unimaginable of events can be natural, up to and including personal vengeance.
Condemned, Written by Vince Churchill, Story by Ray Brown (R. Lenard Brown)
In a blink the world changes, but Quentin is too busy having illicit sex to notice. It isn't long before things in the Midwestern town of Benson become strange. People are different, neighbors violent. He learns that the Rapture has occurred, and that he was mistakenly left behind. As all Hell breaks loose, Quentin finds himself in the race of his life, and he has one chance to reclaim his salvation. Accompanied by two gun-toting preachers, he must reach the Church of the First God before sunrise, and all that stands in his way is a long night and the enraged souls of the damned.
Check it out at:
Butcher Shop Quartet II
***
Did I mention my daughter loves Nick Jonas?
For now, I’m AJ and I’m out…
Saturday, October 10, 2009
A Tough Week...
Normally, I do very little writing related work on the weekends, especially with football season here! Florida at LSU tonight, though I won’t see much of that game. Michigan is playing at the same time against ranked Iowa.
I know you aren’t reading this to find out about my love of football. Just wait until I start talking hockey . . .
Anyway . . .
It was a rough week for me on the submissions front. Nine rejections, two of which were shortlisted stories at paying publications. The others were also from paying places, yet not shortlisted. It is during weeks like this where the lack of good news can cause a dip in confidence for many writers. I admit that I was a little frustrated with one of the rejections—I REALLY thought the story would get in. All this really means is that I’ll rework the stories and send them back out.
Not too long ago, this type of week would have gotten me down and made me ponder why I even write. I will be honest, this week did make me question certain things about my writing . . . and that is a good thing. Yes, that’s right: a good thing. When I get frustrated like this, I start researching, studying and try to better my abilities. I can smile at this moment because I have discovered that there is a significant flaw within my writing: Often I don’t use my words wisely. Every word should count—and I have a habit of not doing that. This is a chance for me to grow as a writer; a chance to improve on the craft.
This leads me to other writers. If you are a writer and you are reading this, first of all, thank you. Second, a rejection is a stepping-stone. It may feel like a lily pad and you may feel like you are sinking because you are standing on that lily pad. But, rejections are not always bad. If you take the negative and turn it into a positive by working harder and honing your skills as a writer, then the rejection is not just something to paper the wall with.
Rejections can cause a writer to lose confidence in him/herself. Don’t ever doubt yourself or your abilities. My dad has always said, if you don’t believe in yourself, who else will? I believe in myself. I believe I am getting better. I believe I will continue to get better and will finally get into some of those publications I have been pestering over the last couple of years. You publications know who you are—I’m coming, and eventually, you will like something I write . . . I hope . . .
***
On to other news.
In my last post I mentioned Grey Sparrow Press. I am mentioning them again. Yes, they are a literary market but Diane Smith and Dean Lawson have a great thing going over there. The website is beautiful, easy to navigate and enjoyable.
Check them out at: Grey Sparrow Journal
There is another reason I put this plug in here twice within a week: Grey Sparrow Press has released a collection of fiction, poetry and artwork titled, In the Silence of this Room. This book has been in the works for about two years, and well worth the wait. Holy cow. In the Silence of this Room is a beautiful hardback book with glossy pages, color pictures, a smooth dust jacket. Beautiful. That’s the only way I can describe it.
And, then there is one other fact: My story, “Walking on Red Brick Road,” appears within these pages. I’m very proud to be part of this publication and thank Diane Smith for using “Walking on Red Brick Road.”
Check it out here:
In the Silence of this Room
***
And, to add to this, here are the recent stories that have gone up on various publications this month. Check them out if you haven’t already.
Apartment 306 at SNM Horror Magazine
Release at The Monsters Next Door
House of Horror
These Eyes at Dark and Dreary Magazine
These Eyes at Dark and Dreary Magazine
Chapiesky at Flashes In the Dark
Broken Hearted Savior at Static Movement
***
I would like to leave you folks with a video. I saw this last week. Being a parent, I can appreciate it. If you are a parent—and more specifically, a mom—I’m sure you will be able to relate to this. If you are not a parent, well, just remember this song when you become one.
Enjoy.
I’m AJ and I’m out.
I know you aren’t reading this to find out about my love of football. Just wait until I start talking hockey . . .
Anyway . . .
It was a rough week for me on the submissions front. Nine rejections, two of which were shortlisted stories at paying publications. The others were also from paying places, yet not shortlisted. It is during weeks like this where the lack of good news can cause a dip in confidence for many writers. I admit that I was a little frustrated with one of the rejections—I REALLY thought the story would get in. All this really means is that I’ll rework the stories and send them back out.
Not too long ago, this type of week would have gotten me down and made me ponder why I even write. I will be honest, this week did make me question certain things about my writing . . . and that is a good thing. Yes, that’s right: a good thing. When I get frustrated like this, I start researching, studying and try to better my abilities. I can smile at this moment because I have discovered that there is a significant flaw within my writing: Often I don’t use my words wisely. Every word should count—and I have a habit of not doing that. This is a chance for me to grow as a writer; a chance to improve on the craft.
This leads me to other writers. If you are a writer and you are reading this, first of all, thank you. Second, a rejection is a stepping-stone. It may feel like a lily pad and you may feel like you are sinking because you are standing on that lily pad. But, rejections are not always bad. If you take the negative and turn it into a positive by working harder and honing your skills as a writer, then the rejection is not just something to paper the wall with.
Rejections can cause a writer to lose confidence in him/herself. Don’t ever doubt yourself or your abilities. My dad has always said, if you don’t believe in yourself, who else will? I believe in myself. I believe I am getting better. I believe I will continue to get better and will finally get into some of those publications I have been pestering over the last couple of years. You publications know who you are—I’m coming, and eventually, you will like something I write . . . I hope . . .
***
On to other news.
In my last post I mentioned Grey Sparrow Press. I am mentioning them again. Yes, they are a literary market but Diane Smith and Dean Lawson have a great thing going over there. The website is beautiful, easy to navigate and enjoyable.
Check them out at: Grey Sparrow Journal
There is another reason I put this plug in here twice within a week: Grey Sparrow Press has released a collection of fiction, poetry and artwork titled, In the Silence of this Room. This book has been in the works for about two years, and well worth the wait. Holy cow. In the Silence of this Room is a beautiful hardback book with glossy pages, color pictures, a smooth dust jacket. Beautiful. That’s the only way I can describe it.
And, then there is one other fact: My story, “Walking on Red Brick Road,” appears within these pages. I’m very proud to be part of this publication and thank Diane Smith for using “Walking on Red Brick Road.”
Check it out here:
In the Silence of this Room
***
And, to add to this, here are the recent stories that have gone up on various publications this month. Check them out if you haven’t already.
Apartment 306 at SNM Horror Magazine
Release at The Monsters Next Door
House of Horror
These Eyes at Dark and Dreary Magazine
These Eyes at Dark and Dreary Magazine
Chapiesky at Flashes In the Dark
Broken Hearted Savior at Static Movement
***
I would like to leave you folks with a video. I saw this last week. Being a parent, I can appreciate it. If you are a parent—and more specifically, a mom—I’m sure you will be able to relate to this. If you are not a parent, well, just remember this song when you become one.
Enjoy.
I’m AJ and I’m out.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Accessibility
While talking to my friend, Dameion, recently, we came to the conclusion that, as writers, there is something that we should always do or be or make sure happens, in the event that one or both of us become popular, if not famous writers.
What is it, you ask? Oh, you didn't ask? Really? Well, go ahead and ask. I can wait.
Okay, much better.
In order to get a following of any sort, a story must be entertaining. But, that's not the thing we should make sure and do; however, it is a major component of getting that following that all writers want, which leads to the thing we should always do. We are told to follow this rule and that rule and these rules over here and what this person says is gold and we should listen to them. It's aggravating, to be honest. However, even if a person follows all the rules, it doesn't mean the story is great. It just means you have a well-written piece. There is a significant difference between a well-written story and an . . . entertaining one. If a story doesn't entertain the reader, it really doesn't matter how well it is written—it won't keep the reader's interest and, thus, won't get read all the way through.
I put this in here because it was one of the things we discussed at length. We also noted that everyone, including editors, have their favorite types of stories and, though one publication may reject your work, there are others out there who may accept it. Again, it goes back to entertainment, back to keeping the reader reading.
Entertainment: Vital to the success of a writer. I think we writers should take on a new motto: How may I entertain you? And no, I don't mean going the route of a brothel or a street corner hooker. I mean just what it says: as writers, how can we entertain you, the readers? What do you want to see? Yes, I know you want originality, but beyond that, what intrigues you? What do you like to read? What do you dislike? In order to entertain you, we the writers, need to know what you, the readers, like.
Notice, I didn't ask this question of the editors? I did this on purpose. Yes, I know editors are an important piece of the submission pie, and what they like is very important. Editors, like writers, are readers first. However, editors have seen just about everything out there so they tend to be a little more jaded and writing fresh material is sometimes impossible. Unless . . . we know what you readers like.
If we are able to entertain you, then we develop somewhat of a following. I found out, recently, that I have a fan. Yes, just one, but one can lead to two, two to four, four to eight and, as you can see, there is a progression. Having a fan has made me realize that there is a great amount of pressure that comes with someone liking your work. What if something gets published that she doesn't like? What if it takes a few months to get something else published and there is nothing new out there on the market for her to read? More so, what if I stop entertaining this individual? Well, there goes the fan club. Knowing there is someone out there who enjoys my work, other than myself, that is, makes me strive harder to continue trying to get published and trying to entertain everyone. And, if not everyone, I want to continue pleasing the individual who enjoys my work.
With entertainment, hopefully, comes a little bit of popularity. What happens a lot of times when folks become popular or famous? Well, their head swells and hats no longer fit the way they used to. The ego comes to life. Not in everyone, mind you, but in plenty of folks. What happens then? The author becomes less accessible to the readers. And that brings us to the answer of the question. Dear readers what we must make sure to do and always remain to you is: be accessible. Not only should we remain accessible, but our stories should remain accessible as well.
A lot of people love Stephen King. I, myself, am a huge fan of his. Oh yes, even some of you writers out there secretly love him, too, even if you won't admit it. One of the reasons King is so loved is that he is accessible. Maybe not in the, hey let's call Stephen up and chat for an hour kind of way, but in a he's always out there kind of way. Also, his stories are accessible. I don't mean you can go to any bookstore out there and buy one of his novels. I mean that his stories are relatable and the every day person can say about any given character, ‘man, this guy sounds like me.’ People relate to his stories because, for the most part, his characters are every day people with every day problems in any small town around the world—just like, well, everyone else.
Go ahead say I'm wrong. Go ahead. I can wait. Oh, you have to think about this, don't you? Go ahead; ponder on as I finish up. . .
My goal, as a writer, is to entertain you. I may not be the most technically sound author out there—I've never taken any classes on writing outside of public schooling—and I may not have the big name or the backing that others have. And, I am notoriously shy about promoting myself—it all feels like bragging to me. However, I will do my best to entertain you. If, by some stroke of luck, I get somewhere in this business, I plan on staying accessible.
But, wait. There's more. Accessibility includes something else: For me, a lot of non-paying publications have helped me get my name out there. Granted, some of them have published mostly reprints, but I still send non-paying markets stories (especially if they take reprints). I feel like these ‘for the love markets’ are huge stepping-stones for writers and without them, many of us wouldn't have a chance, myself included. So, what do I do if I make a name for myself? I make sure and not forget those markets that helped me along the way.
Yeah, I know, I can make a lot of money selling REPRINTS if I make it in the writing world. But, I honestly feel like part of the reason the horror market has gone south and lots of publications have shut down is simply because once people start making it, they stop paying attention to the nonpaying or low paying markets, which, at one time, were the only places that would accept no name writers.
It’s about accessibility. It’s about remembering what got you there. It’s about entertainment. I think if you can do all three of those, then you will have some sort of success in writing.
As a writer, we put ourselves out there, we write and we bust our butts revising and submitting, getting rejected, revising, submitting again and again and again. There are those times when we want it to be all about us. Understand something: It is NEVER about us. Ever. Period. End of discussion. E.T., don’t bother calling home. Once it becomes about us and not the story and the readers we let ego get in the way and, as we’ve seen with several good writers, the quality of work goes down and so does the fan base.
I’m done rambling, for the most part, but remember: Entertainment. Accessibility. Remember where you came from.
***
A few things of pimpage and I am done for the night.
Have you heard of Grey Sparrow Journal? It’s literary, I know, but the folks that run it are great people. Diane Smith, Dean Lawson, Sue Haigh are all talented individuals and really nice. I know I’m not big on literary markets, but if I hit one, it’s going to be Grey Sparrow Journal. The publication is beautiful, the poetry is magnificent and the stories are great.
Check them out at: Grey Sparrow Journal
Last week when I posted my blog I left off a publication. Check out Dark and Dreary Magazine and my story “These Eyes.”
These Eyes at Dark and Dreary Magazine
Here is another cool site, but not so much for the fiction, though there is good fiction there, but for what it is about. Patchwork Project is about exposing domestic abuse, bringing it more into the light and making folks more aware about the different types of abuse out there. Douglas Churchill started this last Halloween and its year anniversary is drawing near. Go check it out, drop Doug a line. If you have stories that do NOT glorify abuse but is about that particular subject, drop him a story as well. No, it’s not paying, but it’s for a worthy cause.
The Patchwork Project
***
Don’t forget about SNM Horror Magazine. My story ‘Apartment 306’ is up for the month of October.
Apartment 306 at SNM Horror Magazine
Also, currently playing at The Monsters Next Door is my story ‘Release.’ It’s not for the squeamish, but I promise, it is tactful.
Release at The Monsters Next Door
Also, showing at the House of Horror are various stories in issues 1-4. Just click on the covers of each issue and read through the stories in the various rooms.
House of Horror
***
Thank you all for reading. Feel free to leave comments. I don’t bite all the time. Just some of the time.
I’m AJ and I’m out.
What is it, you ask? Oh, you didn't ask? Really? Well, go ahead and ask. I can wait.
Okay, much better.
In order to get a following of any sort, a story must be entertaining. But, that's not the thing we should make sure and do; however, it is a major component of getting that following that all writers want, which leads to the thing we should always do. We are told to follow this rule and that rule and these rules over here and what this person says is gold and we should listen to them. It's aggravating, to be honest. However, even if a person follows all the rules, it doesn't mean the story is great. It just means you have a well-written piece. There is a significant difference between a well-written story and an . . . entertaining one. If a story doesn't entertain the reader, it really doesn't matter how well it is written—it won't keep the reader's interest and, thus, won't get read all the way through.
I put this in here because it was one of the things we discussed at length. We also noted that everyone, including editors, have their favorite types of stories and, though one publication may reject your work, there are others out there who may accept it. Again, it goes back to entertainment, back to keeping the reader reading.
Entertainment: Vital to the success of a writer. I think we writers should take on a new motto: How may I entertain you? And no, I don't mean going the route of a brothel or a street corner hooker. I mean just what it says: as writers, how can we entertain you, the readers? What do you want to see? Yes, I know you want originality, but beyond that, what intrigues you? What do you like to read? What do you dislike? In order to entertain you, we the writers, need to know what you, the readers, like.
Notice, I didn't ask this question of the editors? I did this on purpose. Yes, I know editors are an important piece of the submission pie, and what they like is very important. Editors, like writers, are readers first. However, editors have seen just about everything out there so they tend to be a little more jaded and writing fresh material is sometimes impossible. Unless . . . we know what you readers like.
If we are able to entertain you, then we develop somewhat of a following. I found out, recently, that I have a fan. Yes, just one, but one can lead to two, two to four, four to eight and, as you can see, there is a progression. Having a fan has made me realize that there is a great amount of pressure that comes with someone liking your work. What if something gets published that she doesn't like? What if it takes a few months to get something else published and there is nothing new out there on the market for her to read? More so, what if I stop entertaining this individual? Well, there goes the fan club. Knowing there is someone out there who enjoys my work, other than myself, that is, makes me strive harder to continue trying to get published and trying to entertain everyone. And, if not everyone, I want to continue pleasing the individual who enjoys my work.
With entertainment, hopefully, comes a little bit of popularity. What happens a lot of times when folks become popular or famous? Well, their head swells and hats no longer fit the way they used to. The ego comes to life. Not in everyone, mind you, but in plenty of folks. What happens then? The author becomes less accessible to the readers. And that brings us to the answer of the question. Dear readers what we must make sure to do and always remain to you is: be accessible. Not only should we remain accessible, but our stories should remain accessible as well.
A lot of people love Stephen King. I, myself, am a huge fan of his. Oh yes, even some of you writers out there secretly love him, too, even if you won't admit it. One of the reasons King is so loved is that he is accessible. Maybe not in the, hey let's call Stephen up and chat for an hour kind of way, but in a he's always out there kind of way. Also, his stories are accessible. I don't mean you can go to any bookstore out there and buy one of his novels. I mean that his stories are relatable and the every day person can say about any given character, ‘man, this guy sounds like me.’ People relate to his stories because, for the most part, his characters are every day people with every day problems in any small town around the world—just like, well, everyone else.
Go ahead say I'm wrong. Go ahead. I can wait. Oh, you have to think about this, don't you? Go ahead; ponder on as I finish up. . .
My goal, as a writer, is to entertain you. I may not be the most technically sound author out there—I've never taken any classes on writing outside of public schooling—and I may not have the big name or the backing that others have. And, I am notoriously shy about promoting myself—it all feels like bragging to me. However, I will do my best to entertain you. If, by some stroke of luck, I get somewhere in this business, I plan on staying accessible.
But, wait. There's more. Accessibility includes something else: For me, a lot of non-paying publications have helped me get my name out there. Granted, some of them have published mostly reprints, but I still send non-paying markets stories (especially if they take reprints). I feel like these ‘for the love markets’ are huge stepping-stones for writers and without them, many of us wouldn't have a chance, myself included. So, what do I do if I make a name for myself? I make sure and not forget those markets that helped me along the way.
Yeah, I know, I can make a lot of money selling REPRINTS if I make it in the writing world. But, I honestly feel like part of the reason the horror market has gone south and lots of publications have shut down is simply because once people start making it, they stop paying attention to the nonpaying or low paying markets, which, at one time, were the only places that would accept no name writers.
It’s about accessibility. It’s about remembering what got you there. It’s about entertainment. I think if you can do all three of those, then you will have some sort of success in writing.
As a writer, we put ourselves out there, we write and we bust our butts revising and submitting, getting rejected, revising, submitting again and again and again. There are those times when we want it to be all about us. Understand something: It is NEVER about us. Ever. Period. End of discussion. E.T., don’t bother calling home. Once it becomes about us and not the story and the readers we let ego get in the way and, as we’ve seen with several good writers, the quality of work goes down and so does the fan base.
I’m done rambling, for the most part, but remember: Entertainment. Accessibility. Remember where you came from.
***
A few things of pimpage and I am done for the night.
Have you heard of Grey Sparrow Journal? It’s literary, I know, but the folks that run it are great people. Diane Smith, Dean Lawson, Sue Haigh are all talented individuals and really nice. I know I’m not big on literary markets, but if I hit one, it’s going to be Grey Sparrow Journal. The publication is beautiful, the poetry is magnificent and the stories are great.
Check them out at: Grey Sparrow Journal
Last week when I posted my blog I left off a publication. Check out Dark and Dreary Magazine and my story “These Eyes.”
These Eyes at Dark and Dreary Magazine
Here is another cool site, but not so much for the fiction, though there is good fiction there, but for what it is about. Patchwork Project is about exposing domestic abuse, bringing it more into the light and making folks more aware about the different types of abuse out there. Douglas Churchill started this last Halloween and its year anniversary is drawing near. Go check it out, drop Doug a line. If you have stories that do NOT glorify abuse but is about that particular subject, drop him a story as well. No, it’s not paying, but it’s for a worthy cause.
The Patchwork Project
***
Don’t forget about SNM Horror Magazine. My story ‘Apartment 306’ is up for the month of October.
Apartment 306 at SNM Horror Magazine
Also, currently playing at The Monsters Next Door is my story ‘Release.’ It’s not for the squeamish, but I promise, it is tactful.
Release at The Monsters Next Door
Also, showing at the House of Horror are various stories in issues 1-4. Just click on the covers of each issue and read through the stories in the various rooms.
House of Horror
***
Thank you all for reading. Feel free to leave comments. I don’t bite all the time. Just some of the time.
I’m AJ and I’m out.
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