Good morning, gentle readers! How are you? Feeling fine? Maybe a little hungover from the weekend? Are you taking a break from the tortures of work to visit me? How sweet!
I'm doing quite well, thankyouverymuch. This morning, I discovered that I was one of the runners-up in the Invite a Friend to Bordertown contest, held over at www.bordertownseries.com. I can certainly think of much worse ways to start a Monday, can't you?
And while I'm talking about the contest, allow me to offer congratulations to everyone who entered. There are some truly talented people in the world and, gentle readers, you could do worse with your time than checking out all the contest entries.
If you're interested in reading my own entry, just scroll down the page a bit.
Happy Monday!
Monday, April 23, 2012
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Fiction: Witness to the Feast
WITNESS TO THE FEAST
The vampire introduced himself to Lizzie as Shepherd. He was pale and wiry, with eyes like polished garnets. When Lizzie met him, she was instantly captivated. Shepherd was charming and handsome. He seemed harmless, so when he asked her to leave the party with him, she agreed. She didn’t learn the truth about him, until it was too late, until her life had ended in an explosion of blood and violence.
"Holy shit," said Lizzie, staring at her own corpse. "You’re a fucking vampire!"
Shepherd glanced up, to squint at her ghost. "Yes."
"But you weren’t sparkly at all!"
He shook his head and picked up her corpse, muttering about girls today.
"What are you doing?" demanded Lizzie.
"Covering my tracks," said the vampire.
He carried her out of the alley, into a condemned tenement. There were boards nailed over the windows, but the back door hung off its hinges. Lizzie found herself drifting behind Shepherd, pulled like a child’s balloon on a string.
"Where are we going?"
Shepherd didn’t answer. He carried her down a flight of rickety stairs that groaned in a manner that would have frightened Lizzie when she was alive. Burdened with her corpse, the vampire danced down them, nimble as a cat.
At first, it was utterly black in the building’s basement, but then Lizzie’s vision seemed to adjust to the dark. Things took on a purplish tint. Shepherd didn’t seem to have any problem at all finding his way around.
He went to a wall and pushed. The wall, apparently made of solid bricks, slid open on oiled hinges. Beyond it, a narrow tunnel led away from the basement.
"Where are you taking me?" asked Lizzie.
He didn’t answer.
They followed the tunnel until it reached a dead end that turned out to be another false wall. On the other side, lay the sewer. The smell hit Lizzie like a physical thing. She recoiled in disgust.
"You are not leaving me down here!"
"Hush," said Shepherd. "Stupid, dead girls don’t get to have opinions."
He dropped her body like a bag of wet laundry, then knelt beside it.
"What are you doing?"
Shepherd didn’t answer. He began to strip Lizzie’s corpse. His movements were methodical and practiced.
Watching him do it left Lizzie feeling unnerved. It was worse than her death, which had happened so quickly, so suddenly, she hadn’t had time to feel anything about it at all. But this? This was different, this was intimate and horrible.
Soon, her body was naked. The wounds at her throat and shoulder were raw and awful. Lizzie turned away, unable to bear the sight. Shepherd shoved her clothes into a paper bag, and stood.
"What happens now?" asked Lizzie.
"Recycling," said Shepherd, blandly.
She wondered what he meant until she saw the first rats emerge from the shadows. They were huge creatures, the size of cats, with mad red eyes and naked pink tales.
"Oh God, no. . . ."
The huge rats descended upon her corpse, attacking the pale flesh with their sharp yellow teeth. More of the creatures spilled out of the dark. The tunnel filled with the sound of their feasting.
Shepherd turned his back on the rats’ buffet, and started walking deeper into the sewer. Lizzie, appalled by what was happening to her remains, hurried after him.
She got about a dozen feet before she was stopped. Then, try as she might, she could go no further.
"Shepherd!" she screamed. "Shepherd!"
He did not acknowledge her frantic calls, just walked away, leaving Lizzie trapped in the dark with her corpse and the rats devouring it.
The vampire introduced himself to Lizzie as Shepherd. He was pale and wiry, with eyes like polished garnets. When Lizzie met him, she was instantly captivated. Shepherd was charming and handsome. He seemed harmless, so when he asked her to leave the party with him, she agreed. She didn’t learn the truth about him, until it was too late, until her life had ended in an explosion of blood and violence.
"Holy shit," said Lizzie, staring at her own corpse. "You’re a fucking vampire!"
Shepherd glanced up, to squint at her ghost. "Yes."
"But you weren’t sparkly at all!"
He shook his head and picked up her corpse, muttering about girls today.
"What are you doing?" demanded Lizzie.
"Covering my tracks," said the vampire.
He carried her out of the alley, into a condemned tenement. There were boards nailed over the windows, but the back door hung off its hinges. Lizzie found herself drifting behind Shepherd, pulled like a child’s balloon on a string.
"Where are we going?"
Shepherd didn’t answer. He carried her down a flight of rickety stairs that groaned in a manner that would have frightened Lizzie when she was alive. Burdened with her corpse, the vampire danced down them, nimble as a cat.
At first, it was utterly black in the building’s basement, but then Lizzie’s vision seemed to adjust to the dark. Things took on a purplish tint. Shepherd didn’t seem to have any problem at all finding his way around.
He went to a wall and pushed. The wall, apparently made of solid bricks, slid open on oiled hinges. Beyond it, a narrow tunnel led away from the basement.
"Where are you taking me?" asked Lizzie.
He didn’t answer.
They followed the tunnel until it reached a dead end that turned out to be another false wall. On the other side, lay the sewer. The smell hit Lizzie like a physical thing. She recoiled in disgust.
"You are not leaving me down here!"
"Hush," said Shepherd. "Stupid, dead girls don’t get to have opinions."
He dropped her body like a bag of wet laundry, then knelt beside it.
"What are you doing?"
Shepherd didn’t answer. He began to strip Lizzie’s corpse. His movements were methodical and practiced.
Watching him do it left Lizzie feeling unnerved. It was worse than her death, which had happened so quickly, so suddenly, she hadn’t had time to feel anything about it at all. But this? This was different, this was intimate and horrible.
Soon, her body was naked. The wounds at her throat and shoulder were raw and awful. Lizzie turned away, unable to bear the sight. Shepherd shoved her clothes into a paper bag, and stood.
"What happens now?" asked Lizzie.
"Recycling," said Shepherd, blandly.
She wondered what he meant until she saw the first rats emerge from the shadows. They were huge creatures, the size of cats, with mad red eyes and naked pink tales.
"Oh God, no. . . ."
The huge rats descended upon her corpse, attacking the pale flesh with their sharp yellow teeth. More of the creatures spilled out of the dark. The tunnel filled with the sound of their feasting.
Shepherd turned his back on the rats’ buffet, and started walking deeper into the sewer. Lizzie, appalled by what was happening to her remains, hurried after him.
She got about a dozen feet before she was stopped. Then, try as she might, she could go no further.
"Shepherd!" she screamed. "Shepherd!"
He did not acknowledge her frantic calls, just walked away, leaving Lizzie trapped in the dark with her corpse and the rats devouring it.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Poem: Oh Child of Mine
Still your thoughts,
oh child of mine.
Rest your head,
upon my breast.
Hear the angels,
sing your name.
But always know
I love you best.
Close your eyes,
oh child of mine.
Let no worries,
crease your brow.
The sun has sunk,
the moon climbs high.
And I will love you,
‘till I die.
Weep no more,
oh child of mine.
Your fever’s broke,
your hand is cold.
You are forever
my little love,
and now you never
will grow old.
oh child of mine.
Rest your head,
upon my breast.
Hear the angels,
sing your name.
But always know
I love you best.
Close your eyes,
oh child of mine.
Let no worries,
crease your brow.
The sun has sunk,
the moon climbs high.
And I will love you,
‘till I die.
Weep no more,
oh child of mine.
Your fever’s broke,
your hand is cold.
You are forever
my little love,
and now you never
will grow old.
Poem: The Writer & His Critic
The Writer and his Critic,
went to sea in a pea-green boat.
The Writer banged on a laptop,
while his Critic had a smoke.
The Writer’s finished story,
was passed to his Critic’s hand.
The Critic read the story,
then declared it "Banal and bland."
The Writer went to work again,
banging on the keys.
The Critic sat and watched the sky,
pondering the birds and bees.
The Writer’s second story,
was passed over for review.
His Critic read it and sighed.
"Can’t you come up with anything new?"
The Writer bent to his task again,
a frown upon his face.
His Critic sat and filed his nails,
the picture of indolent grace.
The Writer’s third story,
was handed over with aplomb.
His Critic read through it twice,
before declaring it ‘a bomb.’
Incensed, the Writer stood,
and grabbed a pea-green oar,
"I’ve had it with your analyses!
You’re a dullard and a bore!"
The Writer returned to shore that night,
happy and alone.
His Critic finally silenced,
and sunken like a stone.
went to sea in a pea-green boat.
The Writer banged on a laptop,
while his Critic had a smoke.
The Writer’s finished story,
was passed to his Critic’s hand.
The Critic read the story,
then declared it "Banal and bland."
The Writer went to work again,
banging on the keys.
The Critic sat and watched the sky,
pondering the birds and bees.
The Writer’s second story,
was passed over for review.
His Critic read it and sighed.
"Can’t you come up with anything new?"
The Writer bent to his task again,
a frown upon his face.
His Critic sat and filed his nails,
the picture of indolent grace.
The Writer’s third story,
was handed over with aplomb.
His Critic read through it twice,
before declaring it ‘a bomb.’
Incensed, the Writer stood,
and grabbed a pea-green oar,
"I’ve had it with your analyses!
You’re a dullard and a bore!"
The Writer returned to shore that night,
happy and alone.
His Critic finally silenced,
and sunken like a stone.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Community
Good morning, gentle readers. Today, I'm going to natter on about community.
This past weekend, I drove to Florida and met an old friend and a fellow writer. We spent two days sitting around, sipping cool drinks, watching the world and talking about writing.
It may not sound like Mardi Gras to some of you, but it was definitely fun for us.
As writers, we tend to isolate ourselves. We live in our heads a lot. Sometimes too much. As the saying goes, "Don't worry about talking to yourself. Worry when you start answering yourself and the answers surprise you!"
I think this is very sound advice.
In a previous post, I expressed my dislike of writing groups. That still holds true, but I also believe its important to have other writers to talk with.
What we do can be lonely, and nonwriters often don't get it. I tried once to explain a problem I was having with a story to a nonwriter friend. As I rambled on about the frustration of keeping the plot moving without compromising the protagonist, I saw my friend get a glazed look in her eyes.
"I'm boring you to death, aren't I?" I said.
"No!" she protested. "Not at all!"
"Oh. Really? Good! You see. . . ."
"OhmyGodlookatthetimegottagopickupthekidsbyeseeyalater!"
Then there was a friend-shaped hole left in the air, as my friend ran away from me.
To avoid experiences like this, it's a good idea to find a writing community. You can jabber on about writing and truth, plot arcs and second-person narrative with people who will totally get you. It will give you an outlet, to vent or commiserate, and your nonwriter friends will probably stop cringing every time they see you.
If you live in the middle of nowhere, and there aren't any writer-types in the vicinity, don't worry. There's always the Internet. Find a blog or a message board populated by writers. Join a forum. Trust me when I tell you that aspiring writers are as common on the Internet as dirt.
So look around, fellow writers, and build that community!
You'll be glad that you did.
This past weekend, I drove to Florida and met an old friend and a fellow writer. We spent two days sitting around, sipping cool drinks, watching the world and talking about writing.
It may not sound like Mardi Gras to some of you, but it was definitely fun for us.
As writers, we tend to isolate ourselves. We live in our heads a lot. Sometimes too much. As the saying goes, "Don't worry about talking to yourself. Worry when you start answering yourself and the answers surprise you!"
I think this is very sound advice.
In a previous post, I expressed my dislike of writing groups. That still holds true, but I also believe its important to have other writers to talk with.
What we do can be lonely, and nonwriters often don't get it. I tried once to explain a problem I was having with a story to a nonwriter friend. As I rambled on about the frustration of keeping the plot moving without compromising the protagonist, I saw my friend get a glazed look in her eyes.
"I'm boring you to death, aren't I?" I said.
"No!" she protested. "Not at all!"
"Oh. Really? Good! You see. . . ."
"OhmyGodlookatthetimegottagopickupthekidsbyeseeyalater!"
Then there was a friend-shaped hole left in the air, as my friend ran away from me.
To avoid experiences like this, it's a good idea to find a writing community. You can jabber on about writing and truth, plot arcs and second-person narrative with people who will totally get you. It will give you an outlet, to vent or commiserate, and your nonwriter friends will probably stop cringing every time they see you.
If you live in the middle of nowhere, and there aren't any writer-types in the vicinity, don't worry. There's always the Internet. Find a blog or a message board populated by writers. Join a forum. Trust me when I tell you that aspiring writers are as common on the Internet as dirt.
So look around, fellow writers, and build that community!
You'll be glad that you did.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)