Hell and Wheels

2012-01-18T13:15:00.000-05:00

Fuck SOPA

That is all.

Thoughts on Whales

2012-01-09T11:07:00.000-05:00

About a week ago I promised Kate Sterling a post on why I'm terrified of whales. I've been giving this a lot of thought, of how to approach the topic so I don't sound like a loon. However, I don't think it's possible, so I figured I'd just go whole-loon--with drawings!

Whales are huge.

No, whales are bigger than huge. You look at a bull, an elephant, one of those stretch Hummer limos, and you go, "Wow, that's huge" (and in one case, tacky). But, a whale is somekindamathpercentagetimes bigger than all of those. In fact, a blue whale could be my house.

Let's look at this boring drawing of a blue whale compared to a human:

Now, let's look at my super-scientific drawing of that same whale being my house:

As you can see, the entirety of my downstairs could fit inside a blue whale. If you stacked two blue whales on top of each other, they would be my house. I could install a nice stairway between the two, and it would be exactly like living in my house (except moist and fishy, which I am proud to say my house is not). Whales are THAT big, and they're just down there, churning through the dark, all big and monster-like. You can't see what they're doing, what they're about to do. They could be hanging around near the bottom one second, and then decide they're feeling a little vitamin D deficient and barrel to the surface the next. I'm aware (despite my fang depiction) that they're most likely not the next incarnation of Jaws 3--mindful killing machines with a fixed, personal interest in filtering me to death. What matters is that I don't matter. This size advantage is clearly the whale's. It is just going to do what it's trying to do, and if I'm in the way, too damn bad. The whale is not going to see me, and even if it does at the last second, that doesn't mean it won't accidentally hurt me. Hell, I step on my cats all the time, just because they're small and have decided to hang out in a place I didn't expect them to be.

Not a smart person

You never see a squirrel strolling along suddenly stop, stand slack-jawed and goggle-eyed, and say, "Oooh, Mary, look! A human!" as you pop out of nowhere in their general vicinity. No. The squirrel collects Mary and hightails it up the nearest telephone pole. He knows to get out of the way because HUMANS ARE BIGGER. And when it looks like the ocean has grown a brand new mountain right in front of you, it's probably time to get back on land.

So, no. I don't think whales are going to eat me. I don't think they're plotting some sort of Avery-involved hostile takeover down in the deep. I don't think they're evil (again, despite the fangs I drew). I just don't want this to be my last interaction:

And this completes the post on my wholly irrational terror of whales.

A New Year, and an Apocalypse to Look Forward to.

2012-01-01T13:02:00.002-05:00

Happy 2012, everyone!

2011 will not be missed by many. It was a rough year, to say the least. But, it was my first full year as a published author, and my first year as a roller derby girl. So, even though the socioeconomic aspect was fairly sucktastic, I still have to chalk it up as one of my best years ever.

I have several writing projects in the works, one of which is super secret and involves branching into other genres--something that is both exciting and intimidating. I have a possible anthology inclusion, and a few collaboration projects hanging on the back burner. Along with the three novel projects that have been slowly coming to fruition--Junket City, Harmony, The Harrower, I unearthed a discarded manuscript and realized it was fairly good. So, I'm adding, The House of Doors to the lineup. Look for Junket City to make its appearance first. For those of you who didn't participate in its creation, it is the story of demon hunter EllaNon de Mortens who sells demon nodes to the addicted, yet socially uptight denizens of Junket City, and her struggle to save her beloved city from enslavement by a dimension-traveling impostor.

In roller derby I am again on the travel team. I've managed to skate twenty-nine laps in five minutes (I used to sweat doing twenty), and I'm no longer afraid to put on either the jammer or pivot panty. This season we face some new opponents, including Charm City's Female Trouble, and our travels will even take us to Puerto Rico. All I need for that last one to happen is to man up and get my tail on a plane. Yep, yours truly is not a fan of (the notion of) flying. I have been on a medivac helicopter, but no one asked me if I wanted to do it, and there wasn't much I could do at the time to stop it. Other than that, I have never been in the air. My reasons for not doing so could encompass an entire post altogether, so I'll just keep it at that.

Everything seems poised to stream in the right direction for the next twelve months. I just need a little luck, a little more perseverance, and for the apocalypse to hold off for another few years. If all of that can come together, I think 2012 should be pretty damn cool.

One of my "projects" also includes getting back to weekly posts. Maybe next week I'll tell you why I don't like flying, and maybe even why whales scare the crap out of me.

Until then, have a happy New Year's Day.

Catching Up

2011-11-04T14:00:00.000-04:00

It seems the past few months have been a race between time and me, with me struggling along in the back, trying to catch up to all of the things I need to do. This month marks a year since I joined SRG, and what I've learned, more than anything, is joining a roller derby league is not a trivial affair. It's not a drop in the bucket list, or the filler of an empty space on a college application. Roller derby is a living, breathing monster.

And it will swallow you whole.

Once devoured by the monster, there are just two options: be spit back out, or settle down inside with thirty other ladies for a long, slow, glorious digestion. The first moment I laced up and stepped onto the track I chose digestion. I practice for two hours, three nights a week. At least one of those ends with someone offering to run out and grab a beer. There are fundraisers, league meetings, committee meetings, and committee obligations. There are gatherings, parties, and get-togethers almost every weekend. With so many young women on the league, something is always going on.

I'm an all-or-nothing sort. I don't half-ass things, never have. If I commit, I put my heart into it. If I can't commit, I don't try to just squeak by with a marginal approximation, I simply don't do it. And that is why this blog has been such a wasteland the past few months. I committed to roller derby, found amazing fulfillment in it, and let, well, pretty much everything else slack. There were other factors going on with my writing, ones I will not bore you with. As many of you are writers you probably have experienced each of my extenuating circumstances, and I wouldn't be sharing anything new, anyway. Whatever the root cause, my obsession with roller derby provided an excellent excuse for not dealing with the blinding white screen.

Sunday closes our official season--our team's first. I started out having not skated in twenty years. I was sedentary (save for a few short-lived spurts of "I'm going to get in shape with Billy Blanks!"). Skating an hour during open skate exhausted me. I geared up and pushed myself on sucky wheels and a slick floor. I participated in my first bout, skating very upright and directionless. Boomz from Charm City--a borrowed skater for our team--spent the entire night yelling my name and dragging me around the track from wherever I had wandered to where I was supposed to be (thanks for that, Boomz). I worked harder after that bout. I learned to always ask myself, "Where's their jammer, where's my jammer, where am I?" I learned to pick up my feet, to get in front of people and sit on them. I got faster, got winded less. I went from panting after one jam to being able to participate in almost every jam without exhaustion. I tore my PCL. I went to physical therapy and pushed even harder once I got back on skates. I hit harder. I skated with more strategy. I learned to crossover on the turns while skating backwards. I jammed more to learn agility. I hit harder. And now I'm looking at this upcoming bout with confidence, knowing that all of those little struggles have added up to an entirely new me, both on and off the track, one that will keep growing and changing with every passing practice from here on out.

If I take what I have learned from roller derby this past year, it's that achievements aren't the big billboards we envision at the end of our path. Rather, they are the small things that happen on a daily basis that add up to create an ever-shifting vision of who we see ourselves being. For a while there, I was concentrating on my billboard dream with writing. I kept slogging towards it, occasionally flinging myself forward in the hopes of making greater headway, but it never seemed to be getting closer. Every choice I made seemed to fail, and I started to think, "Why bother?" And that's where the disconnect began. Commercial/professional/mental progress is much trickier to track than the physical, however, and I failed to recognize how far I'd come from five years ago. The connections I've made with other authors--people who are great both professionally and personally--are enough alone to consider this venture a victory. Looking even closer, though, I see magazine articles; an entirely self-published novel with admittedly few, but stellar, reviews; invitations to join other writing friends on projects; and new avenues constantly appearing to help guide me through this path I've chosen.

Expecting the One Thing to tell me I'm doing well is like saving up all of my energy at a bout just to deliver that big hit where everyone goes, "Ooooh!" It might be cool and satisfying in the moment it happens, but in focusing on that single detail I would be overlooking the multitude of other opportunities to grow and achieve (and probably set myself up for a slew of failures in the interim). You know that hokey saying about how it takes a village? I guess it's true. Except in this case, it takes a whole roller derby team to raise a writer.

As this blog is about Hell and Wheels, about my professional and derby life, it seems only natural to treat them as mutually inclusive. How I approach derby seems to be a success, so I'm going to approach this writing life in the same manner--one little victory at a time.

As for Sunday's bout, well, I'll let you know how that one turns out. Here's a spoiler, though, it's gonna be a good time.

If you're in the Wilmington DE area Sunday around six and have nothing to do, stop by the Christiana Skating Center and buy a ticket. I'll be in black, with the mark of the beast on my back.

(I'm not in this particular jam from our July bout, but this is SRG--purple--in our first bout against this weekends' opponents)

Locking Wheels

2011-09-07T11:54:00.000-04:00

It's amazing how fast you can go on wheels. Just a few sweeping pushes with the legs and you're off, spinning around the track at breakneck speed. Not many things come easily to me, but being on skates is one of them. That's not to say I don't work at it. I do. Very hard. But, it feels natural. Safe, even. I know that sounds ridiculous when I am on the track for the sole purpose of bashing into people, but there it is. I feel safe on skates.

It's the same with writing. Even when I had barely mastered the basics of reading, when I was just learning the foundation elements of what comprised a story, I found I could not only immerse myself in a world created by another, but forge one of my own. My stories were simple, of course, but they came to me easily. I have since learned that there is also a hell of a lot to learn about storytelling, and have had to hone my skills a hundred times over, but still the basics, the "what if" comes with little effort.

In skating I allow myself to hit walls. Not literally, of course; that would hurt. I'm talking about physical limitations. I know I am still learning after ten months, that I can't possibly jump on a pair of skates and know everything about derby in one, two, five years. It takes time, and it takes time for my muscles to accept the fact I'm now expecting them to do more than just help me sit at a desk. I can accept my failures, set goals to improve from those pitfalls, and understand with complete objectivity that the whole thing will take time. So, my question really is:

Why the hell can't I do that with my writing?

When I write, I want it perfect from sentence one. I want the whole story laid out before me, shining and whole, no plot tangles, no ugly surprises somewhere around page one-fifty. To have a day, week, or month with little output is so unacceptable that I would rather not do anything than face the fact that I might fall short of my own stupid expectations. Like a fresh meat skater terrified of picking up her feet, I am barely rolling along, locking wheels with myself, hindering my own growth, and almost guaranteeing I'm going nowhere except onto my face.

I know where the problem lies. Adventure. I don't have a sense of it when writing. I'm so bogged down with my need to have order that I've forgotten (so soon after Junket City, even) how to be spontaneous in storytelling. To be organic.

I'm trying it today. No outline, no starting from page one. Just jumping into a random scene and writing until I'm done. I'm unlocking my wheels and picking up my feet. Let's see how fast I can go.

Done With This

2011-08-15T10:39:00.001-04:00

It happens every year. My prized herb garden begins to bolt. Plants become leggy, and I wonder if I will pluck the caterpillars from my parsley or let them gnaw the lot to sticks. The grass (what little there is to be had amidst the clover and wiregrass) becomes my enemy, a vast refuge for countless mosquito swarms that swell upwards in a whining cloud the moment my feet brush its surface. I begin to grumble about the heat and humidity, shrug off the raggedy appearance of my hedgerows. Last night I dreamed the tree leaves were beginning to yellow, first one, then another, a creeping progression of golden, glorious decline.

It is now official--I'm done with summer.

I knew this moment was coming. The past few weeks have been hot, intolerably so. While cranking the AC and stalking the weather page to find the one acceptably-climed day in which to venture outside and quickly shear my grass, I have been perusing stores' shelves, impatiently watching for the first peeks of fall decor, knowing the Halloween products will not be far behind. It is no secret I love Halloween more than Christmas, that I search for odd and wondrous decor like others hunt for the perfect holiday gift. I walk through craft stores in late summer and breathe a sigh of contentment at the walls of orange, gold, crimson, and black. Fall is my holiday season, and Halloween sits atop it like the cherry on the most perfect sundae.

It is by fortune my mother-in-law shares my zeal for All Hallow's Eve. We covet one another's collections, share our spooky resources. She gives me books to peruse for ideas and inspiration, brings me Day of the Dead dolls from her travels to Mexico, and finds the most promising shops in Florida for us to haunt when I go down there on vacation. She feeds my desire to have the Perfect Halloween. It is, then, no surprise I have decided this year I will have a party. What might be surprising is I have never hosted one before. Maybe it was because I never before had such huge resources of friends to fill my house, or maybe I was waiting to have a collection big enough to support my grand ideas. Either way, I am ready, and stupidly excited about it. I have thus far planned on spooky projections (or maybe a silent film showing on a wall), a tree branch barrier, my huge ouija board collection displayed, my glittery Illuminations lanterns hanging from the ceiling... I have more ideas than space, and more ambition than money, but that is not going to stop me from hosting one hell of a bash.

I've sounded summer's death knell and begun counting the days 'til Halloween on my own internal, dark Advent calendar. I will continue to tend my garden, of course, but my soul's longings will stretch to October. My only concern is, can I spend the next ten and a half weeks sporadically breaking into, "This is Halloween" without going mad.

I guess we'll soon find out.

A Few Quick Updates

2011-07-26T16:10:00.000-04:00

I'm backtracking a little through my progress with the Resonance sequel (titled Harmony), because I've decided--no, the story's decided--there has to be a third book. I never expected this to become a trilogy. Well, once I had a notion that there was room within the plot confines for a third book, but I never really gave it much thought beyond that. Then, the other night I was playing the "what if" game with the Architect and an entirely new idea twisted itself out of the current Harmony plot, and set about weaving itself into a whole storyline. Because of that, some of the events that were going to happen in this upcoming novel have either been shifted to the final book's plot, or have been deleted altogether. I don't mind the work, really, because it's all going to make for a much more exciting series. And that's a good thing. It's just chewing up a significant amount of my extra time.

In derby news, we at SRG had another bout on July 17. We won, by a significant margin. I don't have any photos to post, sadly, because no one I know has a camera that's speedy enough to take the good action pictures, and I'm too lazy to contact the people who do to see if they'll allow me publication rights. But, I was there and I skated well. Promise. We had an unofficial scrimmage against another team on Sunday night, and we won with a similar score. This all makes me very happy, and excited for our next bout in August.

I also got new wheels, Atom G-Rods, and my laps-in-five-minutes count went from 26 to 28. Yay for magically awesome wheels! Oh, and I have a new helmet. It does nothing to make me faster. But, it does a lot for the looking badass category.

This is probably one of my lamer posts, but the derby and writing have been warring for my attention, and I find I don't have the time I used to for getting these posts together. Just wanted you all to know I hadn't died under a pile of cats or derby girls.

Oh, and I have an interview with Adam Slade up at Editing Hat, today, if you'd like to check that out. I talk about writing, derby, and wading through flooded streets in nightwear. It's more amusing than this most likely has been. Promise--yet again.

What I've Learned About Writing From Roller Derby, Part Three: Sometimes You Have No Idea What the Lesson Is

2011-07-11T14:05:00.000-04:00

It was a normal Sunday night. Scrimmaging had started three jams before. I was in the center of the track, skating as a poor substitute for a jam ref due to some bruised ribs. The girls were doing short pack scrimmage drills. Three jams in, one of our girls went down, her ankle leading the way. I stood and watched it happen, having no recourse to help. It's a gut-wrenching thing to see one of your teammates fall and not get back up. Derby girls are tough. We stand in less than three seconds if uninjured, ten if slightly rattled, thirty if we have our bells rung pretty hard. Last night time stretched beyond those benchmarks. We waited on one knee, silently willing our teammate to rise, knowing as the seconds ticked past the likelihood of her getting up on her own grew smaller and smaller.

Since I was useless as a jam ref, I chucked off my skates and drove her to the ER. Fortunately, it was a slow night and radiology came for her soon after I arrived from ditching the car in the garage. The doctor came back with the results almost as quickly--broken fibula. Just like that, in the odd bend of an ankle, all of her plans for the summer, for derby, for everything, came to a sudden and complete halt. And there seems no apparent reason for it.

We've all had those slap-in-the-face moments of hyper-clarified reality, when life seems to be trucking along nicely; we're enjoying ourselves, our jobs, our writing, and then a lightening bolt crashes from the cloudless sky and sets everything aflame. We try to make sense of it, say things like, "There's a reason for it," but in reality we're just ignorantly stumbling in the smoke, wondering what in the hell just happened.

As someone who always wants to know the reason for everything, I wish I had an answer to those moments, that I could locate the lesson within the haze. Sometimes, years later, I do see a glimmer of a thread connecting a bad event to others, a tiny labyrinth of happenings that lead to my current happy situation. Other times, though, the purpose is more deeply hidden, seemingly absent.

Maybe it's not the event, but the response that counts. How quickly we pick ourselves up from that devastating rejection letter, from our dismal sales rankings, from that sidelining injury. Some would say it's a test of our mettle. I agree, but not in any hand-of-God way. Instead, it's our own test, not something we set for ourselves, of course, but one to accept once presented just the same. We are all stronger than we feel most times, and can take hits--even devastating ones--better than we can ever imagine.

Still, searching for the whys in difficult times can be counterproductive. Coming from an obsessive background, I understand the allure of picking over minutiae, analyzing mental scenarios to find the cause, reason, truth. The torrents of energy we pour into such thoughts, however, can better be served by moving on, even if the steps are slow and tedious. If there is a lesson hidden within, no doubt it will present itself along the way. Conversely, if the universe simply decided to flip us the double bird for no discernible reason, then what else is left but to flip it right back and go forth?

Divine lesson or no, chaos or no, the only thing to do is keep on rollin.'

Get well soon, Punk.

Buy "Resonance" and Help an Author in Need

2011-06-21T13:04:00.000-04:00

I had planned another post entirely. Had it halfway written this morning, in fact. And then I heard about urban fantasy author L.A. Banks. She's gravely ill and fighting not only a physical battle, but a monetary one.

Back in 2005 I had started reading Minion, the first book in the Vampire Huntress Legends. I fell in love with the style and characters immediately. I reached the end--an abrupt finale--and realized the original novel must have had been split in half because of the length. At the time I was in a frenzy because I was halfway through writing my first book and was already beyond the 80,00-120,000 word count recommended by professionals. I was writing a monster. I was terrified, confused, wondering if I should shelve the behemoth, or start hacking at it like Michael Meyers on All Hallow's Eve. Discovering that Ms. Banks' book had been divided in two gave me back a bit of breath, eased the rising hysteria.

About a week after finishing the second novel, The Awakening, I decided to email Ms. Banks about the whole mess. I expected a quick, form note, or possibly nothing at all. Instead, I received a sincere, helpful, inspiring letter. In a single page (an outpouring of literary energy that could have been directed to benefiting her WIP and not mine) she gave me the courage to let Resonance be what it wanted to be. I haven't forgotten that.

I am deeply saddened to hear she is now so very ill and that her finances are also dire. I don't have much, but what I can give, I give freely. For the next week, the profits from any purchase of Resonance from either Amazon's Kindle store, Barnes & Noble's Nook Store, or the iBookstore will go to Ms. Banks.

If you don't have an e-reader or would rather support her in your own way, please visit the L.A. Banks Auction and Donation Site.

I still have the email she sent me sitting in my inbox as a reminder that people can be good and kind, even the incredibly busy, bestselling ones.

I wish her well.

A Brief Departure for Reflection

2011-05-27T09:37:00.001-04:00

In three days I'll be thirty-eight. Two years closer to forty. Two years closer to the age I once thought older than old, the age I once laughed at my parents for being decrepit enough to reach. Some people have a lot of angst about the big "O's". I suppose I had a little of it in the two years before I turned thirty. At that time the Architect and I had just moved to our new home, he had a shiny new job and I had an exciting lack of one. In exchange for taking care of the household's daily operation (something I happen to do very efficiently), I was free to spend my days writing. Instead of a grim reminder of fleeting youth and eventual mortality, thirty became a gateway to a whole new chapter of my life, one where I was happier, healthier, and wiser.

Eight years have passed and I'm now looking down the barrel of that ridiculous, once improbable-sounding number. 4-0. A voice somewhere inside whispers it is the beginning of the end; forty will bring with it that inevitable decline, the knowledge that one's prime is long past, the certainty of being bested by those younger and brighter. And then another voice surfaces. It is a fierce, guttural growling of a voice. It is the voice of Mortem.

Mortem doesn't care about numbers, except the ones that show how many laps she can do in five minutes; how many of her points she withheld from the opposing jammer; and the three numbers on the back of her jersey. Mortem plays roller derby. When she falls, she bounces back up like she's twenty. And although sometimes she makes me take ibuprofen like I'm eighty, she gives me the drive to come back every practice to do it again, intent on not just keeping up, but on excelling. Mortem doesn't care that I haven't participated in sports ever, or that most people might think it's a little late to start playing a full contact sport on wheels. Mortem only wants me to shut up and play. I can't say I disagree with that.

Mortem tells me thirty-eight will be a blast. I believe her. My body may get beat up easier and take longer to recover than my twenty-year-old teammates, but bodies are just bodies. Something deeper, more important has changed within me, something that age cannot touch. There's a saying in derby. It can be seen on bumper stickers and tee shirts. It rings deeply true in me, not cheapened by its constant broadcasting. It is a saying that tells me I'll be okay no matter if I'm thirty-eight, forty, or fifty.

Roller Derby Saved my Soul.

So, bathed in the baptismal font of derby, I arise anew to greet May thirtieth with a huge, stupid grin plastered on my face.

I'm going to have a good time getting old.

What I've Learned About Writing From Roller Derby, Part Two: The Flashy Stuff is Generally Useless

2011-05-03T15:13:00.000-04:00

A woman cruises along on her skates, leg extended back. Another skater flies up and grabs the proffered ankle. With a quick pull, the front skater propels the other forward, giving up her momentum to allow her teammate to fly around the track. The crowd goes wild at the show just performed for them. This maneuver is called a "leg whip."

A blocker sees another blocker coming up. She leaves her defensive wall and sweeps out like a wrecking ball, smashing the other player into the suicide seats. The opponent sprawls onto the floor (and maybe a few laps), and the audience is beside itself with glee.

The problem with these techniques is--they're generally useless. If a skater is in a tight pack, then there's probably no room to extend her leg fully. Even if she does have the space to attempt such a move, she's just asking to get knocked down. An arm whip--less glamourous, maybe--will more than suffice. As for our swooping, big hitter, odds are the opposing jammer has taken advantage of the defensive hole she has left in the pack and has zoomed on through. Or, the other team has used the lack of walls to form one of their own, and have now possibly trapped the abandoned co-blocker, making her the "goat" they keep behind them (and thereby control the speed of the pack). In any of these scenarios the result is the same, showboating gets you nowhere.

The same is true for writing. You can plan in your head a heroine who does flying roundhouses, snaps necks with a flex of her well-toned (yet sensual) bicep, who dismantles nuclear weapons while speaking eighteen languages to six different covert agency operators. You can implant her into every dangerous scenario known to man. You can build up the action until it's nearly boiling over. But, if your character has no purpose, no meaning, no depth, then all you have is flash. And while flash can be pretty and cool, it never entertains people for very long on its own.

For instance, have you ever stood in line to see the Hope Diamond? Waited in that snaking, creeping line to get your turn at the glass? If not, here's how seeing it goes:

Seconds one through two:
"Oh, wow! Just.... Wow!"

Seconds two through eight:
"Man, that thing is big. I'd risk a curse to have a diamond that size."

Seconds eight through ten:
"How is it blue? I like blue. I'd rather have a blue one than a regular one."

Seconds ten through twelve:
"I think that guy behind me is breathing directly onto my neck."

Second thirteen:
"I wonder what the big elephant in the lobby is up to?"

And that's it. The flash has already waned. And the more times you see it, the less special it is. Soon, it's just a rock in a case that thousands of people stand in line to see, while you walk by and think, "Suckers."

Sure, that last part was a little jaded, but my every field trip from kindergarten to twelfth grade was to the National Mall and I've had more than my share of the Hope Diamond, so you'll have to forgive me. Still, I stand by my assertion; just like a leg whip, just like a swooping block, just like an over-hyped stone, writing with the sole purpose of blinding your audience with awesomeness is useless. Without depth and meaning, those big moments will not be very big at all. In fact, they'll reek of the author's hand in the story, and jade your readers faster than a twenty-minute line to see a rock. Staging events just to have them will never ring true with fans, and--just like the blocker who swings out to make the grandiose hits--will most likely cause a giant hole to appear somewhere you don't want.

Instead, keep it tight. Keep it effective and meaningful. And if the opportunity for flashiness arises, be sure first and foremost you're not doing your story any harm by taking it.

What I've Learned About Writing From Roller Derby, Part One: It's Okay to do This

2011-04-26T10:31:00.004-04:00

In roller derby you have to pass a series of physical and written tests before you can scrimmage with the other players. It's a safety thing--making sure you're not going to injure yourself or anyone else when skating in a tight pack. At one point during the assessment test I fell. As I regained my feet, my captain said, "It's okay if you fall. You have wheels on your feet. You're going to fall sometimes."

I called the corner of the rink in which we fresh meat practiced, "The Guppy Pond." In the guppy pond I practiced crossovers, jumping, blocking, hitting, and I learned how to fall. I learned how to fall correctly, and how to get up quickly. I would steal envious glances at the ladies scrimmaging on the rink while I skated and dropped to one knee, stood up, dropped to the other, stood up, dropped to both, stood up. Over and over I skidded across the floor, my legs aching for relief, my eyes darting along with the flashes of blue and red pinnies flying around the track. I wanted to be out there so badly, to mix with the experienced girls, to play derby. But, I wasn't ready, yet. I had more to learn before I could play the game.

So, I studied the rules and practiced the basics. I took my test and passed. And then I got onto the track. My rabid enthusiasm quickly turned to apprehension as the realization sunk in that I was out of the guppy pond. The hits would be real, and my newly acquired skills were nothing against the seasoned skaters surrounding me. Suddenly, the guppy pond didn't seem so bad. But, it was too late. I was in with the big kids and there was no going back. So, I launched into the fray. And fell. And fell. And fell. Over and over I tried my best to get around the opposing blockers, eating floor more often than not.

But, there's a trick to falling in derby. It's called falling small.

Falling small is falling in a calculated way. It's not flailing, clawing, sprawling onto the track in a miserable heap, railing against that which brought you down. It's tucking in your knees and elbows while still descending, hitting the ground in a smooth, protected curl and regaining your feet instantly. It's a thoughtful process, not distracted by what happened to make you fall--that doesn't matter anymore--but rather knowing how to make that hitch in your progress cost you as little momentum as possible.

We've all struggled as writers. Roadblocks--either of our own design or of those forged by the system into which we seek admission--are inevitable, just like falling when you have wheels on your feet. But when those moments come, we can be ready for them. As we topple, we can look up to see the track ahead. We can see the holes in the defense, pleasant little spaces for us to try to squeeze through and attain our goals. We can tuck in, preparing for that brief moment of impact, but already poised to spring forward with renewed vigor. Sometimes we hit the ground hard, but it doesn't matter. We've fallen small, and are up again and sprinting, a clearer plan in mind.

Yes, it is okay to fall.

Just make sure you do it right.

Five Years and One Month

2011-04-25T13:41:00.003-04:00

That's how long it's been since my blog has been running. To celebrate that milestone (I missed last month's true anniversary, but I like the notion of thirteen months better than twelve, anyway) I am making some changes.

I've been skating for five months now, and I can honestly say the Derby Monster has grabbed me and will not let go. Instead of fighting my loves and trying to compartmentalize them, I have decided to merge the two. Derby has taught me quite a bit about being a writer, and vice versa. I'll tell you all about it, soon, right after I get this new layout squared away.

There will still be fantastic stories--of mystical women, some who can control fire and minds, and others who will knock you onto your face with a twitch of the hip, or slide through a fingerbreadth of space as if it were a chasm.

So, welcome to Hell and Wheels, the next transformation of the dark fantasy writer Avery DeBow's blog. I'll be back soon with my first post about what derby has taught me about being a writer and how "It's Okay to Do This"

It's Okay to Do This

Toothless

2011-04-19T10:45:00.002-04:00

Well, the roller derby bout is over (so much fun, even though my team lost in overtime), but I still have house guests and the upcoming holiday weekend to contend with, so I don't have anything original to post. I thought I would take you far back to when the vampire phenomenon was gearing up, back when I thought I might like to write a vampire story. The popularity of the vampire (and, yes, more so the "sensitive" vampire) tale drove this YA piece back into the computer vault, never to be submitted. While it's nothing I'd write now, I like some of the prose and Gordon is fun, so I'll share in good humor.

TOOTHLESS

Joshua's father had smoked yellow-ended cowboy cigarettes. Two packs a day. The bittersweet aroma had seemed to concentrate between his dad's nubby fingers where the butt always remained pincered until it smoldered to ash. It was that unmistakable scent that surfaced in Joshua's mind whenever he recalled the four-year span when his baby teeth had loosened but were reluctant to part with his head, and those aromatic digits had repeatedly crunched the waggling offenders free of their sockets.

The hands pinning Joshua dug into his arms and legs, grinding his body against the concrete wall. Another pair cemented his head to the cold solidity behind him, pulling open his lower jaw hard enough that the tendons popped and cracked with the strain. But those hands didn't concern Joshua nearly as much as the single pale one creeping towards his face, the one that carried the same smoky-sweet aroma he remembered from his childhood. It was that hand that caused him to writhe in panic under the pressure of his captors, turning his gurgling protests into high-pitched screams.

It was all because of her.

******

The trance music's beat picked up the individual thumps from the wildly pounding hearts of the dancers around Joshua, swelling the thick rhythm in his throat. He stood off to the side, out of the range of both the stroboscopic spotlights and the trajectory of flashing neon glow sticks wielded by a good number of the contorting youngest attendees. His black hoodie's ragged string again found its way into his mouth. He chewed it in time to the music, imagining the cord between his teeth was made of a softer, more palatable fiber.

He was hungry.

She walked in front of him, taking a deep swig from her nearly empty water bottle as she passed on her way to the door. She hit the center of his gaze's range and stopped dead, turning her suddenly wide eyes to meet his. Her dark hair was piled high on her head in an elaborate series of swirling buns. Her sweat-ruined turquoise makeup bled down her face and neck, disappearing into the tiny chasm between her black tube top and the slight mounds of her breasts. For a moment she trembled beneath Joshua's scrutiny and he feared she would bolt. Then, her mouth curved in a smile and her hips--clad in yet another miniature stripe of stretchy black fabric--swished to the side as a bangled wrist propped against one of them. E was a miracle drug.

"See something you like?" She tilted her head seductively, promising him far more than she was prepared to deliver.

Joshua nodded, rolling the string around in his mouth like a sweet piece of candy.

"You got a name?"

Joshua nodded again, chewing furiously. Any natural instinct to flee would have been long squelched by the feel-good chemicals flowing in her veins. He could tear into her, and she would purr. He dug into the ragged pocket of his jeans and surfaced with a pair of tiny white disks marked with a letter. She'd already used twice tonight at the rave. That meant she'd use again. He held out the pills, smiling. "Name's Josh."

******

Joshua screamed as the thick scent filled his nose. The index finger and thumb closed around his tooth and he could nearly feel their calloused hardness grinding into the enamel. His chest heaved in short, spasmodic bursts. If he'd had breath left, he would have hyperventilated. As he didn't, the noise continued to flow in broken bursts from his lungs, the high-pitched wailing of a car's alarm. With the strength of steel pliers, the fingers tightened and wrenched. The crunch of the roots tearing free of their tissue echoed in deafening waves through Joshua's head, and his cries of agony burbled away in a wash of blood.

"Enjoy that drink," the owner of the fingers said. "It's pro'bly the last you'll get for a long time." The fingers returned. With the same cold efficiency they tore the other pointed incisor from Joshua's mouth.

His screams turned to sobs as the imprisoning hands released him and he fell to the floor. Blood gushed in twin torrents from the gaping chasms in his gums. Amid a round of vicious kicks and a chorus of taunts urging him to lap it off the floor like the dog he was, Joshua cried. He hadn't been a vampire long, and already he'd screwed up beyond redemption.

"You think we wouldn't find out?" asked Gordon, his master and owner of the assaulting fingers. "You think we're that dumb?"

Joshua lolled his head against the cold basement floor, unable to lift it for the pain.

"You split before the changes were thru. She didn't die, but she sure as shit rose again. You made somethin' that was only the stuff of bedtime stories 'til now. You made that broad a livin' vampire. You're too stupid to hunt like us." Gordon used the toe of his boot to tip him onto his back. An old construction foreman from New York's nineteen-twenties skyscraper heyday, Gordon was extra sensitive to the effect of individual errors on the greater whole, and gave no lenience in the punishing of them. "You ain't one of us no more." Gordon flashed a crooked, humorless smile beneath his bushy gray mustache. "But, you do what I tells you, we might let you come back as a Lesser."

Joshua cringed.

"It's the best deal you gonna get, boy-o."

A Lesser. A human. No. Even less than that. Humans were at least food--useful. He'd be an encumbrance. A slave. If Joshua didn't do as Gordon commanded, he'd die. One night he'd be walking down the street and the shadows would sweep up from the ground to meet him. When they withdrew, there wouldn't be enough left of him to fit in his father's novelty Elvis ashtray.

A hand tangled in Joshua's hair, jerking it upwards. Mark--a vampire who'd once been his friend--walked towards him, carrying a lighted brazier.

Gordon held up his closed fist and rattled the objects inside it like dice, tossing them onto the floor at Joshua's feet with a flourish. "You get ta do the honors."

Joshua gazed at the two miniature white daggers lying in the crimson puddle at his knees. He stretched out his hand and scooped them up. In his mind, he made a brilliant break for it, kicking Gordon's legs out from under him, smashing the elder vampire's skull against the wall, then plowing through the other ten assembled vampires with Herculean ease before catapulting through the window and out into the night, his teeth clutched like precious gems in his sweaty palm. In reality, he extended his trembling hand over the crackling miniature fire and dropped in his teeth, watching in helpless grief as they turned to blackened ash.

*****

The first semester art scholar worked alone in her loft, her crackling arc welder and large, contorted slabs of steel the only company she could claim. Joshua had watched her silhouette move behind the frosted mullioned windows for two nights, now. It seemed she lived as hollow an existence as he, going to random parties because they were one of the few refuges where a person could be both surrounded and yet remain completely alone, and no one would be the wiser. Where other humans tended to mesh together to create a fabric, she remained a solitary string frayed away from the rest of the weave--much like the one he'd held clamped in his teeth three weeks before when he decided she was enticing enough to both feed him and be paid eternal life as compensation.

The ramifications of that once seemingly trivial decision pounded in the two tender craters in Joshua's mouth. As a slave to those he'd once called brothers, his life would be filled with ridicule and torture. Yet, he'd still be able to claim their protection against the rival clans who would clamor to possess him once the word got around a eunuch vampire roamed the States. If he couldn't survive the torment, he could always choose death. The other way around was a much more irreversible decision.

If Joshua decided to take the hero's route and protect his first-made, he would be rewarded with a stake through the heart and she would die at Gordon's hands just the same. His mission wasn't solely about punishment; the vampires would never permit such an abomination to live. Since she was going to die anyway, Joshua might as well squeeze some sort of existence for himself out of the deal.

It was so simple in his head, yet here he was, staring at her shadow for the second night in a row. With a great effort, he shook himself out of his torpor. The sooner it was over, the better it would be for everyone.

Forcing his way into her apartment was easy; he'd already been invited in. The remainder was the simple task of pitting his vampiric strength against her door's common metal latch.

As Joshua moved to stand behind her, she flipped up the visor of her welding helmet and switched off the sparks.

"Hi again," she said.

"Hi, April."

"You're here to finish what you started." She stood, turning to face him. Her cheeks had gone pallid, as had the luster of her eyes. Her face and body were leaner than the last time he'd seen her, and the bones in her hips jutted from her torn jeans in sharp points. She gave him an indiscernible look, and then edged past her sculpture to the fridge.

"Yeah." Joshua took a step towards her, but made no move to attack. A thin line of blood from the non-healing wounds in his mouth crusted each side of his chin. They crackled to powder as he formed the next words around the painful gaps with tenuous care. "I can't go back unless I do."

"But you're not going to." April said it with such finality Joshua nodded and then turned to leave. Two steps later, he stopped short, shaking his head to clear it. Even though she'd escaped the vampiric curse of living death, she had the undead's gift of swaying minds. It was an impressive feat for a novice to muster any amount of control over another vampire. It made him wonder what other amplified gifts her unusual status granted her.

"Do you know what you just did to me?" Joshua asked.

"Not really." April propped a papery hand against her hip and frowned. "Not until I did it."

"I really don't want to kill you."

"So don't."

He didn't answer, but lifted first one side of his upper lip and then the other, exposing the voids punctuating the otherwise uniform whiteness of his teeth.

"They pulled them out?"

"If only that." Joshua sighed, the sound whistling through the hollows like a desolate wind. "The others held me down while my master did it." He rubbed his hands against the cottony softness of his jacket's sleeves as if cold--even though the ability to feel such a sensation had long deserted him. "After they made me watch my teeth burn away to nothing, they turned me out. They won't let me back until I kill you."

"Without your teeth? Why would they make the job they ordered harder to do?"

"That's just it. They took my natural weapons, forcing me to use other, more human means." He shook his head as his hands still worked against his biceps. "Even when I show I'm worthy of the title I was reborn to by fixing my mistake, they'll still make me live like all the other things not on top of the food chain--at the mercy of those who are. And I can't ever again have that feeling of biting into a soft neck and letting the blood gush down my throat."

"They won't grow back?" April's question didn't drown the low, pitiful stomach rumble his last sentence evoked.

"I'm no better than a house cat that's sprayed one too many times on the furniture. I've been fixed."

"What about falsies? The poseur goth kids get them all the time."

"They'll just fall back out. I'm stuck with two unhealing holes in my face forever." He dropped his gaze to the scuffed toes of his sneakers. "I have to use tools to open veins from now on. I've gone from hunter to plain murderer."

April's stomach growled again and she opened the refrigerator door. Standing in the slice of harsh light, she flipped open the lid of a container brimming with a toxic green liquid, and tipped it to her lips, draining half of it in two gulps. She turned to him, offering the remainder and he made a face.

"Spinach and cucumber. It's not half bad."

He grimaced again.

"It's your fault," she said after taking another swallow. "I can't eat, anymore. I try even the smallest bite of food and I hurl all over the place for hours. I want to kill, to drink like you just described, but I can't bring myself to eat people or animals; I was a raised a vegan, you know. My parents still call once a week to check on me, make sure my college buddies haven't lured me to the dark side with a hamburger." She seemed to shrink into herself as her own words sunk in. "Like that's the biggest of my problems."

"I'm sorry."

A fragile squeak of laughter escaped her throat. "Lucky for me I have a juicer. My stomach knows its not blood, but it lets me get away with it--barely."

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"I can't go in the daylight without getting hives. Too much water freaks me out. I've had to drop all my day classes; the sun rises and I have to fight not to pass out right then and there. I've lost like fifteen pounds and I'm pretty sure I look like crap, but I wouldn't know because my reflection is just a hazy blur." April fixed him with a glare. "And the best part? The day after you turned me into this I woke up naked in a room splattered with my own blood. Now, that was fun."

"I'm sorry."

"I heard you the first two times." The corner of April's mouth gave a minute, downward twitch.

When she turned to put the juice away, Joshua made sure he was gone before she closed the door.

*****

Rough hands pulled Joshua to his feet, yanking him off the park bench. Newspapers fluttered to the sidewalk and caught the next breeze, scurrying away from the two burly figures holding him.

"Did you think just because we don't eat bums we wouldn't find you hiding like one?" Mark's hands were as big as baseball gloves as they bunched in the folds of his shirt. The cloying aroma of dinner still hung from his former friend's fangs and Joshua's stomach whined. He hadn't eaten in days. "Gordon gave you an order."

"I--"

"No excuses. The way it goes is, order given, order received, order carried out. Even as stupid as you are, you should be able to manage somethin' as simple as that." Mark gestured with his head to a thick-necked, vampire behind him. "Or, do we have to drive the point home?"

Thick-Neck grinned a gold tooth studded smile and held up a diamond-encrusted shaft with five deadly inches of sharpened wood protruding from its end. Purchasing custom built, personalized stakes for the skewering of one's foes was currently a popular trend among the fanged set.

"No." Josh stammered as Mark raised an expectant eyebrow. "No--No, sir."

"You know, Gordon says me and Biz, here, can share you when you're done with your little job." Mark adopted a tone of false haughtiness as his eyes raked up and down Joshua's frame in anticipatory appraisal. "Did I ever mention I have a fondness for the taste of vampire blood? It's not for everyone, I know, but I've developed a palate for the unique texture of congealed liquid brimming with platelets marinated in aged veins." Mark dropped the accent, his expression turning to one of sadistic menace. "And the best thing is, you'll keep on living this sad life you carved out for yourself even after I drain every single drop of it from your skinny ass. You'll be as hollow as one of those chocolate Easter bunnies and everywhere you go, your shriveled up organs will rattle around in you like a maraca."

With a laugh, Mark released him. Joshua toppled to the ground, landing on one side, his elbow taking the force of his thankfully less-than-solid frame. His assailants had already merged back into the shadows. He pulled himself to his feet, still rubbing the twanging joint. How had he been friends with that guy?

Joshua had suspected the quality of life waiting for him when he finished his assignment. But, suspecting and knowing were two different things. He wouldn't live like that.

Not even if it meant he'd get to live.

*****

Joshua followed April's scent through the streets, his memory taking over for his nose when the brownstone row houses faded into the familiar sight of the dilapidated buildings of the city's largely deserted industrial district. Around the next block, the deep bass boomed through the abandoned warehouse, rattling the few remaining unbroken windows and setting his lifeless heart tripping in the closest thing to a beat it had experienced in the long year and a half he'd been undead.

April was standing just outside the rave, hovering at the fringes of activity as the brightly colored butterflies flitted in and out of the doors with their arms wrapped joyously around one another. The expression on her face was pained, as if the hunger inside was gnawing its way out. A young woman with glazed, love-filled eyes brushed by, trailing an exploratory finger up April's arm. April lurched forward at the contact, but then checked herself. It wouldn't be long, though, before that control slipped entirely away, the hunger eating her rationale because she wouldn't give it anything more substantial. The hollow defeat in April's eyes as she watched her potential meal slide into a waiting car suggested she knew this, that she was merely holding off against the inevitable for as long as she could.

Joshua had a fix for that.

"Hi, April," he said as he approached.

Her gaze flicked to him. She didn't seem surprised he was there. "You've come to finish what you started." Although the greeting was the same one she'd used the week before, it was no longer a declaration of fact, but instead a tired plea.

"Yeah." He gave her a long look. They were both alone in this world, unwilling freaks of other people's machinations. There was no reason either of them needed to die because of it, and there was every reason the ones who refused to tolerate their aberrant presence should.

Joshua moved closer, leaning in to whisper his proposal in April's ear. At first she shook her head in vehement refusal, eyes wide with horror and panic. But, as he continued talking, her expression took on a darker, more predatory glow.

She would be his teeth. He would teach her how to use them, to repeat the mistake he'd made and paid for. Only this time it wouldn't be an accident. And it wouldn't be just once.

Every shift in history could be traced back to one moment, a single event that set the wheels turning.

This moment was the axis for the downfall of the vampires.

The beat of the rave thrummed through Joshua as he twined his fingers around April's and led her inside. The sweat-infused damp wrapped them in a warm cocoon as their future army bobbed in cadence under the prismatic spotlights.

A Link to Follow

2011-04-15T10:26:00.001-04:00

Today I'm not writing much. Not because I have nothing to say (that's a rare event), but because someone else has something more important to say. I'm linking to a blog written by my roller derby league's president and coach, Buster Skull. Buster has lymphoma, but I'm not linking because the story of her cancer is so unique. It's not. Everyone with cancer has a similar story of how they got it, and how they went/are going through treatment. I am linking because Buster herself is unique.

The first time I met Buster I thought she was an adorable ball of energy. I saw her skate and quickly changed "adorable" to "intimidating." Then came the cancer diagnosis and a whole plethora of adjectives rushed in to join the previous two. There are moments in one's life when some chord strikes inside us and we realize we are seeing a wonder we are not likely to see again in this lifetime. It is with total honesty when I say Buster has struck that chord within me. I may have been alive twice as long as she, but have lived only half as much. Her attitude resonates with me as a skater, a writer, and a human being.

So, everyone, please meet Buster:

Is There Anything You Don't Like About Having Cancer

RESONANCE cut scene #3

2011-04-07T10:29:00.000-04:00

This scene is from the first incarnation of the novel. It made it through one or two editing rounds, and then I cut it out, mostly for brevity's sake, but also because I didn't like the tone it set for Res and Wyatt's relationship. But, it's an amusing read on its own. It takes place just after the Massawangee Cypress Swamp Stone trial when Resonance is talking to the necromancers about her mother's growing interest in Doug, and dissipating trust in her daughter.

*************

"I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do," Wyatt said.

"You can give me a paycheck," Resonance said.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Wyatt's eyes widened.

"You know what I said." She gave a cool shrug. "I've kinda been telling Mom I've been coming here for on-the-job-training for the past two weeks. I told her it was without pay, which she flipped over, but then I told her it would be given to me in back pay after the three month probation period." She paused to gauge Wyatt's reaction--which took the form of a bulging vein in the middle of his forehead. "Soon, though," she continued, biting back a smile, "she's going to start harping on me about bringing home a check, so I thought you could just write me one. Eight hundred ought to cover it."

"I--don't, I..." Wyatt stammered.

"Come on, I won't even cash it. I just need to show her something to get her off my back."

"I can't just… Why didn't you…?" He turned an accusatory stare on Quinn. "Did you know about this?"
Quinn looked nonplussed.

"We haven't been talking too much lately," she answered, voice flat, eyes daring Quinn to speak. She shrugged again. "It's no big deal, really. You don't have to do it. Of course, Mom might come knocking on your door, demanding to know why I haven't gotten paid. She would, you know. She thinks I'm a drooling idiot. Even worse, she'll accuse me of funneling it all up my arm and turn me over to some rehab clinic in upstate New York, which would severely hamper my saving the world and all."

"Are you always this manipulative?" Wyatt asked, the first hint of a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Pretty much." She flashed a wolfish grin.

"Why don't you just get a job?"
"Please. I can barely look at people, let alone work with them. Besides, you'd rather have me here, memorizing all of your family journals and magic books and becoming your personal reference set, right?"

"I'll see what I can do," Wyatt said, shaking his head. "You are a little extortionist aren't you?"

"If I was that bad, I'd make you give me cash."

"Thanks so much," Wyatt replied dryly. "If your mother has questions"--he sighed audibly--"tell her to call me."

Oh, and I Play Roller Derby

2011-03-22T11:42:00.001-04:00

Since the past two weeks have been filled with getting ready for my roller derby team's first ever bout, I haven't really been writing much.

(Waiting for grumbles of chastisement to cease)

See, I agreed to be the bout production coordinator, because... Well, if we have our honest hats on, because I have a bossy streak and an inescapable need to be in charge of things. So, it's all my fault, really. I haven't been doing nothing, though. I've fit in several internalized versions of my ever-famous "What If" plotting tirades between the ticket sales, text messages, shopping trips, printer emergencies, and phone calls. As far as actual writing goes, though, these past two paragraphs are pretty much the sum of it.

*Gulp*

Now that the first home bout is over, I think things will be much easier from here on out--which is good, because I need to crawl back inside my head and get some things done.

Until I come back with something more substantial, I will leave you with the information that our bout was amazing. Nothing went wrong. We had over six hundred people in attendance and they all had a blast. It was an inter-league bout where we split into two teams, The Old Bay Bombers and The Wicomikazis. I was on The Bombers, and we just happened to win.

But, the big win of the night was an entire league of girls finally getting out there and showing the public what a group of fun-loving, hard working badasses we really are.

Photo courtesy of Todd DeHart Good Clean Fun Life (on Facebook)

The Contest Winners

2011-03-04T16:32:00.000-05:00

Thanks to everyone for playing! I considered all of your stories of rebellion with a sincere amount of gravity and reflection. After a difficult choice I have decreed the three winners to be:

1) The Walking Man -- For standing up against generational expectations, and sheer determination to stay the course.

2) Christina -- For CIA-like antics that could have resulted in a field trip to jail had you encountered a more surly police officer.

2) Jenn Sommersby -- For teenaged rebellion that truly resonates with Resonance's own youthful backlash.

Winners, email me at averydebow(at)comcast.net and tell me which format you'd prefer your eBook to be delivered in: PRC (for Kindle), or ePUB (for Barnes and Noble or iBookstore).

Thanks again to everyone who played. I had fun reading your little tales of badness.

Contest Ends Friday at Noon

2011-03-03T11:11:00.000-05:00

If you haven't shared your story of youthful rebellion with me, now's the time to do it. If I decide it is in the top three, then you'll win a free copy of RESONANCE--your choice of ebook format (PRC for Kindle, or ePUB for Barnes & Noble or iBookstore).

I'm looking forward to hearing about your dark side!

Win a copy of RESONANCE!

2011-02-24T12:01:00.000-05:00

Now that RESONANCE is officially settled in on Kindle, Barnes and Noble, and the iBookstore, I'm thinking I'll celebrate with an ebook giveaway contest. To celebrate the characters'--urm--colorful natures, I would like you to read the deleted scene below, and then tell me in the comment section about something you did as an act of rebellion in your younger days. The three best (decided by me on whatever whim I so choose) will receive an eBook copy of RESONANCE in the file format of their choice: E-Pub (for B&N's Nook store or iBookstore), or PRC (for Kindle).

It doesn't have to be a masterful piece of prose, just tell me what you did and I'll decide if I love it. That simple.

********

Spider Flashback Deleted Scene:

Resonance had been a reluctant transfer student dropped in a lions' den of scholastic and social overachievement, forced to play dead just to survive. There was a big kid who sat near the back in her mandatory freshman music class, one of those boys who had no doubt started eighth grade normal-sized, but freakishly grew a foot in every direction over the summer. His broad shoulders were the perfect shelter, forming a jersey-clad wall for her to hide behind, unheard and unseen. Not even her classmates seemed to realize she was more than another empty chair at the back of the class. Except him—the one with the mohawk. He noticed.

It was his pattern to slouch into the room, fling himself into the chair diagonal to hers, and do nothing for the first half an hour. Then, as regular as clockwork, he would turn and look at her, his eyes searching her face as if to be sure she hadn’t died or turned to stone, his constant sneer deepening enough with what he saw to drive her further into the shadows. A few seconds later, he would turn back around, and finish off the class with another ten minutes of apathy.

One February afternoon, however, he did more than that.

Outside the classroom window snow drifted down, covering the grass and cars. Resonance stared hopefully at the defiantly clear blacktop, absently mouthing the words to the week’s song. Knuckles rapped on her desk. She started, and looked up into the rabbity face of Mr. Bilke.

“Since you are so intent on the song today, Miss Murphy,” maybe you should grace us with a solo.”

Her heart dropped to her feet. Her body felt numb, leaden, as every set of eyes in the room—all those gazes she had strived to avoid for so long—fixed on her. “I-- I can’t,” she squeaked.

“You can’t?”

“No.”

“Why? Because you haven’t paid attention all year?” The class snickered. Fueled by their amusement, Mr. Bilke continued, “Because you hide behind your hair and pretend this class doesn’t exist? That we don’t exist?”

Resonance prayed she would stop existing.

“I’ll do it.” All of those burning gazes and curved mouths turned away at the voice. She retreated behind her wall into the soothing shade.

“Very well, Andrew,” Mr. Bilke said, his tone one of utter astonishment.

“It’s Spider.” The chair ahead and to the right of hers screeched back and the boy with the mohawk curled out of his chair. He looked back, threw her a conspiratorial wink and strode up to the platform. Mr. Bilke moved towards his piano. Spider didn’t wait for the music. He gave the class a cockeyed leer, turned, dropped his shredded jeans and belted out his version of the day's song, shouting, "It's-the-age-of-my-hairy-ass," at the top of his lungs.

Her teacher and classmates froze. Their paralysis was intoxicating. For once, Resonance forgot to hide. She craned her neck for a better look—and laughed.

Fortunately for Spider, Zero Tolerance had not made its way into schools, yet. Two months later, after his in-school suspension was over, he walked back into the classroom. Mr. Bilke seethed at his piano. The students whispered and tittered, re-living the now infamous scene. Resonance leaned forward and looked him in the eyes, her chin lifted almost defiantly. The side of his mouth twitched upwards, and her face split into a grin. He took the chair beside her.

*************
Now it's your turn. Tell me what you did as a youth to shake up the Establishment. It could win you a novel! I will post the winners next Friday afternoon, so be sure to get your story to me no later than noon (that's EST for you non-East Coasters out there).

Free Excerpt of RESONANCE--Right Here!

2011-02-22T16:09:00.004-05:00

Kindle has offered up a free, embed-able sneak peek of Resonance's innards. Now, I love innards, and there are a lot of them here (255 pages!) so I feel compelled to share them with you. So, get started. No clicky links, no downloading software, just move your eyes a bit south and you're good to go! Be sure to pop back in later this week for a contest where you can win a copy of the entire eBook. Yep. Even more innards, hundreds of pages more--free. Until then, read and enjoy:

RESONANCE cut scene #2

2011-02-16T16:17:00.000-05:00

I have another fallen scene for you, today. This one used to be where the current Wyatt, Quinn and the Grim scene is. I liked it, very much, but I needed to replace it with a scene that forwarded the story as well as revealed more about the characters. So, this scene got the axe and the Grim arose in its place. Reading it again, I kind of miss this one.

*********

Wyatt seized Quinn's arm, dragging him backward.

They stood at a safe distance, watching tiny forms materialize like mist from a garden hose sprayed into the summer air. With the haze came first the smell of flowers, heady and sweet. As the clouds gave themselves a shadow of form, the odor became the suffocating stench of earth, bone and blood. The infantile hazes lingered there, straining to form in the cloying scent of their graves.

"This isn't possible," Quinn said.

"Apparently it is," Wyatt's forehead creased into a frown. "These children's astral corpses have always been different. They've been here for a very long time, trapped in their graves by some form of magic."

"Still, astral corpses don't just jump up out of their coffins to say hello."

"I think our power called to them."

"How? That's never happened before and we've passed this site dozens of times."

"Maybe it's that change we've been feeling, some outside factor allowing them to contact us." Wyatt gazed thoughtfully at the shades for a few more moments, and then sighed. "Whatever caused it, we have to try to release them, or at least put them back. We can't leave them hovering here like this. I should have helped them a long time ago… Before something like this… Stupid to leave them there, tortured…" Wyatt trailed off, his face a mask of misery and self-loathing.

Quinn gave his uncle a modicum of privacy by turning his attention to the materializing spirits. He closed his eyes, quieted his mind, and connected with the spark inside that fed his ability. Instantly, his head filled with a clamor of tiny voices, all howling for his attention. The spirit children's plaintive calls stirred a mixture of horror and pity within him.

"They want our help," he said. "They’re angry."

"They were unfairly treated when they were tethered to their graves, and now that they have our attention, they want something done about it." Wyatt's voice held the detached quality Quinn had come to associate with the practitioner aspect of his uncle's personality. "They want their turn to live."

Initially, he had found his uncle's removed professionalism cold and uncaring. Soon enough, though, he learned it was the only way to survive the continual parade of grief that, if not exactly brought on by him, was reinforced by his actions as both an aspiring mortician and necromancer.

The spirits writhed in the shadows, arms beseeching them to draw near enough to bring them to life. He shuddered, chills wracking his body. The sun still beat down mercilessly, but, for all he could tell, it shone on a different planet.

For these children, it did.

"They don’t know their bodies aren’t around anymore?" he whispered, careful not to draw their attention further.

"No."

Power prickled along his skin, but this time it was the familiar--if not particularly pleasant--magic of Wyatt. He moved to stand beside his uncle. Although he was not certain what his uncle was about to do, he allowed his power to surge to the surface.

His heart constricted as their tiny consciousnesses reacted, channeling the hope of life towards him. Their momentary glee filled his mind. Mommy and Daddy, play, laughter, friends, love. It sliced through his chest--a knife edged so sharp with longing it nearly cleaved his heart. Then, he followed Wyatt's lead and sealed it off, severing the painful link of humanity between them.

The only thing they had left in common now was death.

It was a lie to say he and Wyatt brought the deceased back to life. They only re-delivered them to the grave.

Wyatt had begun chanting, low and steady. He added his voice to the melody of the Release--the incantation used when freeing a Raised spirit. For a moment, the specters became clearer, solidified by both their struggle to become material and their outrage at their perceived betrayal.

A cry arose among them, a horrific, screeching parody of their living peers. Over the din his uncle raised his voice as his hands spread in the air, casting his supplication to the Beyond.

As suddenly as it began, the noise ceased. The spirits dissipated without further struggle, vanishing like powder in a breeze.

They were left standing by the graves, both of them breathless from the effort, and on his part, wretched guilt.

Cut scene From RESONANCE

2011-02-09T13:20:00.000-05:00

Hi, all. Avery here. While Resonance is getting her bearings back after an extended leave (and coping with the sudden knowledge she's now a character in a book), I thought I'd give you guys a behind-the-scenes look at the weirdness of Resonance's home town of Tyne via a deleted scene. This excerpt was removed early on, but it remains a favorite of mine--because it was inspired by real neighbors. Enjoy!

RESONANCE CUT SCENE #1

Resonance braked and cut the wheel sharply to avoid circling the block again, veering the car onto her road, and into the path of two figures.

The two raven-haired little girls occupying the pavement didn't react as the car ground to a halt a mere foot from them, nor did they acknowledge its continued presence. Holding the skirts of their matching tangerine sundresses like they were about to curtsey, the girls sauntered in a circle around a storm grate embedded in the in the center of the asphalt. Their MaryJanes clicked in cadence as they trained their intent faces on whatever lay below the rusted metal grate.

Muttering a string of curses, Resonance mashed the Accord's toll button, making the half-lowered window slide all the way into the door.

"Hey," she called, leaning her head out, "You geniuses might want to move next time a car comes." They momentarily stopped their circumambulation to turn their sallow faces up at her. Neither girl’s blank gaze registered any emotion. "You slow bussers get me?"

The girls simply watched her with expressionless apathy for a moment longer, and then lowered their heads, resuming their--

Game?

An unexplained chill traveled up Resonance's spine. She grasped the wheel with suddenly sweaty palms, steering the car around them, driving halfway onto the sidewalk to do so. She peeled into the driveway with aggressive bravado, telling herself there was no reason to be rattled by a couple of potentially lobotomized knee-biters. Chiding herself, she climbed out of the car.

As the door banged shut, her neighbor’s door opened. A matronly woman with large glasses and lank, chin-length brown hair emerged. Resonance opened her mouth to tell the woman her children had nearly become road pizza, but the woman stuck her arm out and began flapping her hand in an exaggerated wave.

"Hiiiii, Neighbor," the woman trilled in an ear-splitting falsetto. A foolish grin encompassed the lower half of her face, making her look like a pale jack-o-lantern.

Resonance gaped. For once, words wouldn’t come to her mouth. Too taken aback by the woman’s exuberant display to do anything else, she turned abruptly and pretended she'd forgotten something very important in her car. She resurfaced a few moments later to find the two girls had abandoned their diversion and were standing at the edge of their yard, impassively watching her. She looked past them to the mother, whose fleshy arm still flapped like a flag in the wind.

"Hiiiii, Neighbor."

Resonance headed for the door, moving as fast as her pride would allow. Thankfully, it was unlocked. She pushed her way in, clicking the deadbolt behind her. She didn't know why she was so rattled. After all, it was just a couple of strange kids and their freakshow mother.

Nothing to be worried about.

Reinforced by her reasoning, she hazarded a peek out the window. The girls stood shoulder-to-shoulder, gazing into the front window.

"Jesus Christ!" The exclamation was a mixture of annoyance and unease. As she yanked down the blinds with a vicious tug, she made sure the last thing the little maggots saw was her middle finger.

There was something majorly wrong with Tyne, no denying it.

Well, well

2011-01-24T11:47:00.002-05:00

So, you guys like how Spider's done on here? I'm kinda happy with it myself.

Yep, it's me, Res. I'm back.

Where've I been? Well, that's the million dollar question isn't it? And, despite risking getting your panties all into a twist, I'm not really into talking about it right now. Let's just suffice it to say I've been places, seen things, and done things, none of which I'm very proud of right now. And I'm pretty fucking happy to be home.

Yeah. Home.

Who'd've thought I'd ever call Tyne my home? Not me, that's for sure. God, I hate that word, not...

Anyway, I'm back, and it looks like I'm sticking around. It also looks like I might be getting some company, but I'll leave that for later, too.

Mom and I are still on the outs, but, that's pretty much daily life for Res, so I guess I'd just better get used to it, huh?

Thanks to all you guys who stuck around when I was...uh, busy. And thanks most of all to Spider. Looking back at your posts, man, I'm thinking you were close to being certifiable. But, that you were apeshit like that over me and my whereabouts... Well, thanks.

And to the rest of you out there, stay put; the bitch is back.

Oh yeah, and that Avery chick wrote a book about me. Seems it's for sale as of now in the Kindle store on Amazon (whatever that is). She says there are some other versions coming soon, iBookstore and Barnes and something-or-other. I dunno how she wrote so fast. Almost like she knew before I did what was going to happen to me. Oh well, I've seen weirder things. So go buy it.

RESONANCE for Kindle

The Worst Day of the Year -- and an Announcement

2011-01-17T16:40:00.000-05:00

Spider, here.

It's started. Already. I'm gettin' the calls for St. Patrick's Day ink requests and I'll be the only one workin'. Man, I hate that day. Now, don't go thinking I got a problem with the Irish, or those that think they're Irish, or those that wish they could think they're Irish. I don't. I just don't wanna have to do any fuckin' four leaf clovers.

I swear, as soon as New Years is over, every fucker who wants a tat suddenly decides he's fuckin' Irish. The closer to March 17, the more likely it is the dude'll be too pissed to see straight, demanding I give 'em a shamrock on the balls or somethin'. Try tellin' a drunk fuck you can't do his ink because his blood's thin and he'll bleed all over the fuckin' floor. The next thing you know, you're rollin' on the tiles as the dickhead screams about you denyin' his heritage. Then, there's blood on the floor anyways. And it sure as shit ain't mine. Still don't make it any more fun to clean up.

I tried switchin' shifts early this year, but Trey's already planned to be drunk in anticipation of sitting his black ass down and celebrating his "Irish" heritage proper, and my boss is the one who handed me the shit gig in the first place. So it's gonna be me and the piercing chick (whatever her name is, piercing chick #7, I guess; they come and go like there's a revolvin' door) and I don't think she's gonna be much help.

I'm gonna tell 'em they gotta take a breathalyzer test by law and the machine's broke.

I'm gonna lock the fucking door and make 'em show me what they want before I let 'em in.

I'm gonna tell 'em I'm out of green ink.

Fuck it. I'm gonna do the four leaf clovers. I'm just gonna charge 'em triple. They'll all be too wasted to notice.

So, call to check my schedule. I'll give you a discount if you don't want nothin' Irish (no shamrocks, no Celtic, druid or pagan crap, no leprechauns, not even one of those ugly ass setter dogs).

If want any of the above, you'd best be ready to pay, and feel some pain.

Now that I've got y'all all worked up, Avery wanted me to tell y'all that she's got some book or nother coming out on Thursday. Tells me it's got some familiar people in it, whatever that means. I don't read much, but I guess y'all might. So, there ya go. I told ya about it. You've been given official notice, so don't let her give me shit about it, later.

Religion's Dead--Or on Walkabout

2011-01-13T17:58:00.000-05:00

Spider, here.

When I was a kid, I thought a monster was under my bed. I could hear him hissin' and growlin' under there. My ma told me it was the radiator and stop being such a retard. Didn't convince me, tho. I knew. It was down there, waitin'. The next time it started hissin', I yelled again. This time my ma came in with a baseball bat. She told me to shut up 'cause she was busy and if the thing came creepin' up the foot of my bed like i said it was, to hit it in the damn head. I held that chunk of wood and knew there wouldn't be any more noises after that. Just like I believed in the monster, I believed in that bat.

Later on, when birdie powder and bad boyfriends made my ma more likely to hit me with a bat than gimme one, my beliefs still were about that bat. It was solid. It would deliver pain--and sometimes save me from it. I did some things with that bat most of you'd turn away from. I did some things all of you would say I'm a bad person for. If I am or not, well, that's not part of this, so I ain't gonna get into it. It'd end up a big circle of a talk with no answer at the end, anyways. Might as well leave it.

In high school, right about when that bat started gettin' me into too much shit, I found something else to believe in. A new student from Bal'more named Resonance. She looked to me like this surly girl who'd just as much kick you in the teeth as say somethin', but the funny thing 'bout her was she liked to pretend she was invisible most of the time. She'd slink around the halls, duckin' past whatever was in her way, makin' sure she didn't have to look at no one. But, every once in a while, someone would do somethin' she couldn't overlook and she'd pop out of the shadows and it was all fangs and fury for a good thirty seconds. Then, she'd disappear again.

She still likes to think I didn't see her, didn't notice her until she noticed me. That ain't the truth. I saw her. I watched her, waited to see if she'd ever drop the invisible shit and just be, you know? Then I pulled some shit in class one day and she just--exploded. Not in a crazy, gun-toting, school-burning way, or anythin'. You know that Wizard of Oz movie, where everything is black and white, and then the chick in the house lands and, boom, it's all color? That's what it was. She turned to color. And everthin' around her did the same.

After that, I didn't need that bat. Life was alive 'cause she was. The walls were colored for her. Music was there so she could pull me into the pit and thrash around like we were forged from anger itself. The air was there just so her mouth could go on lettin' out whatever the fuck it was she felt like sayin'.

When the stepdad from hell started layin' in on me, she'd tell me it'd be okay someday soon. And it was like I finally understood those people who stuffed themselves into their good clothes to pack the churches on Sunday. She spoke. I believed. She became my church. My religion.

Now the church is empty. And I can't go back. That bat's just a hunk of wood. Even that monster can't get ahold of me, now. My beliefs changed and all that lived before she walked in on my life has washed down the drain like dirty water. I'm clean. Born again. I embraced the color and then the world went all gray again. I saw the light, then the light upped and split.

Shit.

The Easy Thing of Breathing

2011-01-05T11:32:00.000-05:00

Spider, here.

When people go away, the ones left always say, "I can't live without 'em." It's a feelin', sure and certain, deep down. It tells us that's how things are gonna be. But, the cigarettes disappear from the box, the boxes vanish from the carton, and each day rolls into the next, an endless trudge of smoke and grief. Even tho' that damn feelin' keeps gnawin' our insides into slush, we keep pullin' in the next breath. We stay alive.

Life sucks, plain and simple. No matter how much we wanna lay down and die, it keeps beatin' the shit out of us day after day. The only way to stop it is to blow your fuckin' brains out. If that ain't your cup of piss, then the sun keeps on comin' up, the seasons change, and the days march ahead, draggin' you along like the prisoner you finally realize you are.

I didn't think I'd make it thru Christmas. I thought time was gonna stop, the air would dry up, and I'd die on the floor of my apartment like a floppin' fish stranded on an island of grungy laundry.

And then it didn't happen.

I dunno how I feel about that.

Still, the happy crapfest is over and I can breathe a little--for now, anyways. Her birthday is soon. She'll be twenty-three. I got her present wrapped and waitin', like I still got the one from Christmas. I guess they'll stack up until I see the end of this thing, or it sees the end of me. I already found out that last one probably ain’t gonna happen, so they'll just sit and collect dust for her--collect it in my place, I guess.

That Time of Year

2010-12-24T09:52:00.000-05:00

Yeah, Spider here. Still. I ain't lookin' forward to Christmas much, even less than usual. With Res not around, it's like, what's the point, you know? Even tho' I don't remember much about Christmases with her; we'd start drinkin around noon on Christmas Eve and wouldn't stop until just 'bout New Year. That part don't matter. She was there. I remember that.

When I was a kid, Christmas wasn't a big deal. Sometimes we had a tree. Sometimes we didn't. Most times there were no presents. None for me, anyway. It's like those people who make commercials and sing songs and write cards don't get real life. They build up this dream picture of what should be goin' on, snow and skating and stuff. For most people snow is never gonna happen. In D.C. it's pretty damn close to never. They sing 'bout fires (and not the one every year at the crackhouse down the street) and chestnuts, and talk 'bout families hanging together and laughing and singing. For a lot of us, it just ain't that way. Makes a little guy hate it when December comes. Makes a teenager hate the sight of a tree. Makes a man just want to drink 'til it's all over.

That's where she came in. Didn't try to get me see the error of my ways--even tho' she dug Christmas up until last year. Didn't shove stupid hats on my head or bring a tree to my place to set up. She just hung and made it like any other day. I guess by doing that, she made it okay for it to be Christmas.

So, to all you fuckers out there standing around your fires and singing your songs, know you're lucky. To the rest, the shop'll be open. Come on in and I'll give you the present you really want, the one your Mama will hate.

Merry Christmas, Res. I miss you, girl.

Not Close Enough Encounters

2010-12-21T10:51:00.000-05:00

Spider here, again. It's too early to have my eyes open, let alone be writing in this damn thing. I gotta go to work later, but until then I've got this big gap of time and I'm thinking this shit crawlin around in my head is just gonna get worse. I tried to go outside and smoke, thinking the air would clear my brain, but it didn't help. These thoughts are all jammed up in there and I got to get em out, ya know? I see now why Res liked this blogging shit. It's a place to get things like this into the open so the pressure in my head can maybe let up.

I dreamed, or sort of dreamed, last night. It was like being and watchin' all at the same time. Like I was someplace else, but still here. See, Stone (that's my roommate) was smokin' the fuck outta some shit last night and I guess I might have breathed in a little of it. It was good shit and by the time I got into my room and fell on the bed, I felt like I was being pulled backwards, like the mattress was sucking me into it. It pulled me so far in I thought I was going to be swallowed whole. I couldn't really breathe. The covers were choking me. Then the pull switched to push and spit me out into space.

Sounds like cosmic hippie shit, right? That's how it went down, tho'. I flew out there and it was just like floating in nowhere. It wasn't too bad, that floating. Then it was like some other sense inside me got sharper and then I could sense her; Resonance. I couldn't see her or nuthin', but I felt her. She was far away--really far, like a far I could never get to no matter how many miles I drove or how many planes I took. And she was hurt and scared and pissed off. But she wasn't shouting out for me, or that dude Quinn, or anyone. With all that goin on, she was still o.k, in charge of her own shit, still the fortress she'd always been.

And now I'm awake--not that I'm sure I was really dreamin'--and my head's about to explode with it all. It was her. I know that. That's not even a question. But where she was, and why, that's what I can't get my head around. And, if she's so far away, so outta my reach, how in the hell am I gonna get her back?

I've smoked half a pack already and all I can think of is I can't get to her. I can't help her. Not if I rob a hundred banks and raise ten million dollars. Not if I get that gun from under the counter at the shop and threaten everyone on the planet. Not if I stomp a thousand skulls into the pavement. I can't help her. I can't. And that's pretty much all I've been goin' on for the past couple months.

I don't know what to do. I can't move on without her, but standing still is killin' me.

All 'Bout Spider

2010-12-17T15:38:00.001-05:00

Spider again. I'm still gettin' used to this sharing thing. I'm glad for the love, but if I don't answer y'all's comments much, don't take it personal. I'm not used to talking into space to whoever wants to listen. I'm not used to talking much at all--'cept to those who know me. And that number is few and far between.

I can't even believe Res did this blog shit. She doesn't talk to no one except me. Hell, even then it usually was like pulling teeth. Don't get me wrong, the girl can run her mouth like a cheerleader on coke, but it's usually not about much at all. Then she came here and poured out her heart and soul to all you fuckers. Yeah, it pisses me off. And, Res, we're gonna have some things to square when you come back. You know what I'm talkin' about, this--and that other thing.

I guess it's 'bout time I told y'all a little something about me. Name's Spider, you got that already. The other name I had before was given to me by a woman whose main purpose in life was to find the next bar, the next stash of gutter glitter and the next winner with a dick and handy supply of cash to finance it all. Didn't matter if he hit her. Didn't matter if he hit me. So, you can see where that name doesn't mean shit to me anymore.

The winning bachelor for my mom's hand turned out to be Steve, a jackass drunk who got together with her when I was fourteen. He did all of the above, once cracking me in the face with a beer bottle for taking one of his smokes. Mom did nothing. She was too afraid he'd up and split. It must've been my fault. I must've provoked it. Stop being such a pain-in-the-ass, Spider. You know, you've seen it on every cheesy-ass Hallmark movie going. I guess writers need to get their ideas from real life at some point.

Teachers really didn't care. By the time Steve started slamming on me, I was already THAT kid--the one destined for jail. I guess thinking that made it easier for them to ignore the bruises. Since it was my fate to go to prison, I decided I'd go ahead and earn it. I smoked--still do. I drank--still do. Decided high school sucked. I pretty much ignored all my classes until I got tired of it all and left after my second stint at tenth grade. I managed to find jobs here and there. Some were legal. Others weren't.

Then, some shit went down at home, and I had to go away for a while. When I got back--I guess I should say, ‘Out’—I found more trouble through a roommate who dealt. He made it easy. I got into heroin and I dragged Res down with me. We chased the dragon for two years. Then, people started dying. All around us, friends, associates--they just died. The party stopped. We cleaned up. I retched and barfed and shook and moaned while Res sat there holding my head, looking like she'd decided to stop eating spinach. I woulda been pissed if she hadn't been so nice. Lots of chicks will come around to get high, but not many will stick around to mop up the puke.

After I'd been clean a while, I ran into an old high school buddy. We'd had the same problem with school, not fitting in, not liking learnin' shit we knew we would have zero use for in the real world. We both sat and drew in our binders while whatever teacher stood in front of us blabbering on about whatever. He remembered that. He remembered my work. And he said he could hook me up with his tattoo shop 'cause they were looking for an apprentice. I didn't have much else to do at the time, so I said yeah.

I figured I'd be there a month and quit. Almost did. Didn't like people tellin' me to scrub the nasty toilet or run and buy cigarettes and sandwiches for the rest of them. But, I did like the drawing. And once they let me practice on a pig's foot, I was sold. I choked down more words in that time. Shit, I nearly severed my tongue biting it when I thought I just couldn't take their shit anymore.

But, I made it through. Now I've got a good number of clients and I'm getting a pretty solid rep. I'm even thinking of going solo. "The Web" tattoo shop. "Spider's Lair." Okay, maybe I'll wait until my girl gets back to decide on a name. She's better at that shit than me.

Now you assholes know all about me. Take it as the truth, or be a disbelieving shithead and go away. I really don't care.

Res, girl, Christmas is coming. I don't want to be the only one punting lawn Santas.

Call me.

Spider Again

2010-12-14T13:24:00.000-05:00

Here I am, keeping my promise to keep this journal going until my girl gets back. There's been no word from her, and the few leads the police had have gone cold. It's like she just vanished.

I went to Tyne a few days ago and talked with her mom again. Even tho' we've never seen eye-to-eye, she actually let me in her house and talked with me for a while. I have to admit, it was pretty weird, us chattin' like two people who could actually tolerate the sight of each other. She told me Res left without taking anything other than a few handfuls of clothes, the jacket she snatched from some girl I was with last year, and that army bag we doctored with band patches and spray paint when we were fifteen. And that was it. Nothing personal. No mementos. And--the thing that makes me so antsy--no money or credit cards. That just don't fit how Res works. If she was going away, she'd have cleaned Meg out before she went. But she didn't.

If her intention was to vanish, then she did a goddamn good job of it. Something's wrong in all this--wronger than her disappearing, I mean. First off, she wasn't herself. I mean, she wasn't herself since her dad kicked it, but when she found out she was moving to Hicksville USA, she got worse. In fact, she got downright strange. It was like she didn't even want to talk to me anymore. She thought she was doing a great song-and-dance routine, keeping me in the dark, but she should've fucking known better. I know her better than anyone and I knew something was goin' on. I could hear it in her voice. But she wouldn't tell me. Now she's missing, and it's like she meant to take so little, like she was expecting not to, well, like she knew from the beginning of all this she was going--and then she just did it.

But to where? And why didn't she come to me? Why couldn't she trust me to keep her safe from whatever the fuck it was she was running from?

I can't worry too much about her, though. I don't think there's anyone that can take my girl down. There's just something about her that's pretty fucking scary. Maybe she's just on a head trip, out walkin' the earth or some shit, trying to figure out what's what. The least she could could do is send me a fucking postcard, or something.

Christmas is coming up. She used to ditch her family to hang with me, 'cause she knew I didn't really have any. We'd go to a bar and get lit. I really dug those dives that stayed open on every holiday. Everyone in there was the same. They either had no one, or didn't like the ones they had, so they drank and listened to shit music on the jukebox with each other, instead. Unification in Freakdom. Amen.

This year I have no one to drink with. And drinking alone with the loners just aint gonna do it for me. I volunteered to keep the tattoo shop open. I doubt there'll be many walk-ins, but I have one appointment. This guy wants me to put his profile mugshot on the side of his neck, so when anyone looks at him from the side, they'll see him as he is now, and then what he used to be. I guess it's a cool idea, tho' it probably won't open up a lot of doors in the career department. But, the guy's not too sharp anyway, so I'm guessing it'll even out.

Some guys would refuse to do that kind of ink. Me? I don't care. If that's what the dude wants, well, who am I to tell him it ain't? My job is to make sure it don't look like shit, but other than that, he can get a tattoo of the Pope's dick if he wants.

My next client will be in in a few minutes. I'm gonna go grab a smoke in this shit-ass wind before he gets here. If anyone wants to come in on Christmas, bring me a turkey leg and I'll give you half-off your ink.

And to the dude who said after my last post, "Never trust anyone named Spider," well, man, you're probably right on that one, most days, and with most people. Hell, with all people--'cept her.

Changing the Guard, or Something Like That

2010-12-08T13:37:00.000-05:00

I dunno how this all goes, what I'm supposed to say and all that. Mass introductions and announcements ain't my thing. So, I guess I'll just to go the important part first, which is where I need to be, anyway:

Resonance is gone.

I'm Spider, Res' friend from D.C. No one knows where she's gone off to, or why. From what I got from her mother (who is of the mind I'm the devil and am somehow to blame, even though I'm three hours away) she split not long after I came to visit. For a few days I expected her to show up on my doorstep, but she never did.

I dunno why I'm writing this. I guess I'm hoping she'll check in here and see I'm looking for her.

So, Res, if you're out there, girl, let me know you're okay. I'm gonna keep writing in this blog thing until you come back, so you know we're looking for you--me, your mom, even that Quinn guy you've been doing whatever with.

Look, I don't care what you've done. Those people in Tyne won't tell me, but I know something's up. Whatever it is, I don't care. Never have, you know that. Just come home, girl. Come back to me.

Until you do, this'll be my candle in the window so you'll know I'm here, waiting.

Spider

Revelations

2010-11-29T12:09:00.000-05:00

You know how we all like to think of ourselves in a certain way? How we want to see the best person possible, even when all evidence points to the contrary? Why is that? Why can't we just accept who we are, what we are? Would accepting that we're less than perfect (or slightly better than totally fucking flawed) really make that much difference?

I've been finding out some things about myself, lately. Quinn (the guy from the funeral home) has been kind enough to play the part of enlightener. That's not really fair. There have been others, too--others who gave me more solid evidence that the person I see in the mirror isn't who I think she is. But it's Quinn who drives the knowledge home, makes what they tell me seem more real. Along the way, he somehow manages to do what everyone else has failed to do--make me feel bad about it.

I've done some things, recently. I haven't been a good person. Not remotely. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to be this big hero when all I do is fuck up. I'm trying, for once, really trying to do more than just get by. But it seems everything I do just causes damage.

I used to be kind of careless as a kid. I was always rushing around, not paying attention to where I was, only to where I was going. I'd bump into things and break them. "A bull in a China shop," my mom would always say. She was right. That's what I was. And it's still what I am. I'm still rushing towards my destination, leaving little broken pieces scattered behind me.

Expectations

2010-11-17T16:22:00.000-05:00

When I was younger, my parents had expectations. They expected me to work hard and get good grades, and I did. Then, when I shifted away from being that girl, they expected me to up and switch back. After that, they simply expected me to stay alive long enough to move the hell out of the house. Now, my mom's only expectation is to expect nothing from me. And you know what? I kinda enjoyed that.

Things are changing, though. Doing and being nothing is no longer an option for me. The deck has been re-shuffled and a whole new game has been dealt--and it's for me alone to play.

Even though my entire future is laid out before me, I don't know what's coming. Can I rely on myself to pull it together? Do I even care enough to try? Can I get by with just going through the motions and not involving myself any more than necessary in the situation at hand? Am I the one they all say I am? The one capable of doing what needs to be done? Or (as I heartily suspect) have the expectations been wrongly assigned?

I feel like a hiccup in that birthday party donkey game. I'm off to the side, watching fate being blindfolded and spun. Fate sets out across the living room with that little tail, wandering far away from the intended target. Dizzy and disoriented, the blindfolded fate misses the donkey altogether, and mistakenly slaps the tack in Reluctant Partygoer Number One.

So, here I am with a braided yarn tail stuck in the center of my forehead while those fucking expectations surround me; crawling up my nose, clogging my ears, drowning me in their insistency.

I really hate birthday parties.

In it to (Win?) It.

2010-11-08T16:53:00.000-05:00

It keeps getting weirder. I have another tattoo, now. And I didn't ask for this one.

I guess that statement is too random to start with. More strange shit is happening to me. I met this old guy in Mom's nursing home. He gave me a black Stone carved with markings. I took it because he was old and senile and wouldn't get off my ass about it, but after I got it...

No. I can't explain it. I really would sound crazy. And the thing is, I'd prefer crazy to this. But, that guy Quinn is helping me, or trying to, anyway. And he has an uncle named Wyatt. Wyatt's been in town his whole life and seems to know things, things that might actually get me out of this mess I'm in. He's really nice, too. He's this calm presence that keeps me feeling like I just might make it through another day.

And Quinn? Well, he's--intense. He seems to have these ideas about what should happen and how, and if it doesn't work out that way he gets weird, like his entire world has been disrupted. I guess he means well. Maybe he's just eager to prove himself to his uncle, or maybe even to himself.

I'm glad these guys are around. I don't know what I'd do if they weren't, because it's painfully clear now that I can't run away from this. It's too bad, too. I'm really good at avoidance. It's the sticking around part I can't get the hang of.

There's a first time for everything, I suppose.

If there are any gods out there willing to hear a prayer from me... Shit, there's no point in going any farther with that, is there?

Keep your fingers crossed for me. I'll keep you posted.

How About a Little Crazy, to Go?

2010-11-01T19:54:00.000-04:00

So, all that ranting I did about this town being strange and having this monster sense of foreboding? I was right. Now, ask me if that makes me feel any better.

Some really strange shit happened today. Mom got on one of her kicks and made me go to the college to register for classes. After a torturous round of 'How Stupid is Res?' with the resident bitch advisor, I headed back to the parking lot. Something happened on the way. Maybe it was just a gas leak somewhere on that old ass campus giving me hallucinations. That's what I'd like to think. The thing is, though, this guy, Quinn, popped up out of nowhere and acted like he not only saw it, but knew what it was all about. He said his uncle, some mortician guy whose been a lifelong resident of this town, told him all about some sort of power in Tyne that screws with people. Can you believe that? Chalking it up to too much inbreeding down his family line, I told the guy to leave me the hell alone.

I can't figure out what exactly happened, even with some distance from the situation. My head gives me the rational explanation I want to hear. The rest of me says the exact opposite. Shit, I don't know. All I do know is that I want to get the hell out of here as soon as fucking possible.

Somehow, I don't think it's going to be that easy.

The Move

2010-10-26T09:04:00.000-04:00

Avery, here. Before I post Resonance's blog update I just wanted to apologize to you (and her) for my week-long absence. She's been chomping at the bit to post (she's oddly down with this blogging thing) and I haven't been around to do it for her. But, I'm back, now, and she has a ton of new things to say to you. So, here you go--Resonance Murphy blogging on "The Move":

I'm in Tyne. Just like that. I packed my shit into boxes, helped Mom do the same, and watched four guys load it all onto a truck.

It's funny, I was thinking there'd be something to stop this, like some major embargo by Spider, or maybe my aunt finally driving into Mom's head her theory that this change is all too soon. In my wilder visions, I thought maybe a massive sinkhole would suddenly open and swallow the entire town. None of that happened. In fact, nothing happened.

For a major turning point in my life, it was pretty blah.

Our house is in a relatively crappy section of town. Those pretty Victorians with their candy-colored shingles are a few blocks over. Because of the shitty economy mom lost her shirt on the house sale. Dad's insurance wasn't much and their life savings was even less. So, Mom and I live in the spartan section, where people built homes to be sturdy and utilitarian, and not much more. There are six other houses on our street, but so far I haven't talked to anyone. It's weird, I pictured this Mayberry-esque parade of portly old lady neighbors with tins of cookies or giant, unidentifiable casseroles. But, no one's come. They must be cautious around strangers. Gotta give them points for that.

I managed to find a bar—a dark, dirty place where the drink choices are tap beer and rail booze served as-is in chipped glasses. The people in there mind their own business and don't ask stupid questions like what a young girl such as myself might be doing there alone at three p.m.

Mom has started her job. She's busy trying to deal with the switch to her new director position. She's always been more of a hands-on nurse, and I think the upgrade to bossing people around (no matter how well she does it with me) is kind of hard for her. Of course, despite her long hours she still finds enough time to ride my ass without remorse.

And my future occupation? There's not much to this place as far as finding job opportunities go. Aside from the harbor shops (ugh, retail) and the surrounding business district (ugh, filing), there's only houses, schools and parks. There's a giant forest at the northwestern edge, but I don't do outdoors or bugs -- not that I'd want to be a ranger or tour guide, anyway.

Yesterday, the dude at the bar says he needs a cocktail waitress. "But the pay's shit."

That's alright.

"There's no drinking on the job."

Losing me...

Then he added the clincher. "And you'll have to get rid of those--" referring to my combat boots, --"and buy yourself a pair of nice pumps."

How 'bout I just stay on this side of the bar, then? I'm much happier being a patron, anyway.

So, after scoping the town yesterday and today, I've decided the time's not right for gainful employment. This place isn't ready for me, and I'm sure as shit not ready for it. I consider trying not to set anything on fire out of boredom a full-time job, anyway.

As far as the rest goes -- the town seems pretty okay. Not my dream location by a long shot, but not the freakshow I'd imagined it to be. No other weird shit has happened. I'm still having the dreams, but I'm pretty used to them, now. I guess that bizarre thing with the obelisk and that "coming home" feeling was just my mind trying to point me towards some sort of stability it's been missing since Dad's death, or maybe some weird sixth sense trying to tell me moving here could be a new start.

A new start, huh? That's a thought. Can someone like me really have a totally fresh start? I don't think my mom would see it that way. In her eyes, some things -- or people, in this case -- never change. She's probably right.

Well, at least my adventures in fucking up have a new backdrop.

Blending In

2010-10-14T10:30:00.000-04:00

Competition. Even as babies, we're compared to others--who walked first, whose first word was bigger. From the moment we pop into this world we're tossed into a society that's bent on forcing competition down its member's throats.

We get older, it gets worse. First, it's grades. A 'C' is considered 'average,' yet god forbid anyone earns just average marks. Average is just not good enough. Even 'above average' won't get you too far. In my high school, there were thirty people with a straight 'A' average. Still, the system managed to break their accomplishments down into an ordered list of best to worst. How that can even be possible? Ranking perfect scores so just one person gets to be 'the smartest,' is beyond me.

Then comes college. In this day, you have to go in order to be considered worthwhile by society. "What college are you going to?" is the favored question of aunts and uncles everywhere. Nosy neighbors inquire about your plans after school, and if you dare to speak the unspeakable, "I'm not going to college," they either shake their heads and moan about what a mistake you're making, or they subject you to a twenty-minute lecture about, "Getting ahead in this world."

Has anyone stopped to think just how fucking stupid it all is? To push yourself beyond the limits of desire or ability in order to get that extra ten, twenty, or thirty thousand dollars a year? What, exactly will that get you? A bigger house? Better car? Nicer clothes? More attractive spouse? The keys to the door hiding the secrets of the universe?

And, we're right back to that phenomena we were subjected to in infancy; sorting out who among the throngs of people out there is the very best.

Society never stops to think some of us aren't ready to be its bitch. Maybe we never will be. I can't think of a fate worse than having to wear high heels and a tan business suit. I can't imagine sitting in front of a computer hitting keys all day while my view of this world I'm supposed to be living in is blocked by a five-foot wall of partitioned blandness. I can't stomach the idea of playing nice with people I loathe in order to get ahead, whoring myself out spiritually (or even physically) so I can get just that much closer to the slightly bigger cubicle in the slightly more prestigious corner of the office.

Because of my aversion to the corporate/consumer/drone lifestyle, I am one of society's fallen children. I have been 'left behind.' I am to be pitied, or maybe scorned--which is mostly all right, since I pity and scorn them. The problem is, it's several hundred million to one. The pressure comes from all sides; parents, government, do-gooders. They want me to join them--as if becoming part of the collective will somehow validate their own submission. They can't just leave me alone; they have to preach the gospel of 'responsible adulthood.' They have to convert me in order to save themselves.

Another log for the fire.

I'm finding out as I get older, some of my friends are collapsing under the pressure. Ricketts just caved a few months ago. He shaved off the remains of his mohawk, rolled down the sleeves of his white, button-up shirt so his ink wouldn't show, and applied for a job as a customer service representative. The lure of money, the siren song of things, pulled him in, made him want to be one of them. Now he has a car of his own, an apartment of his own, and is buried by more debt than he can possibly climb out from under when making only thirty grand a year. But, he's got a girl and they're getting serious. He has to show he's a good provider. A man's man.

More than a C-average.

I understand there has to be some sort of compromise. Money is needed to survive. We can't just take a sling out into the forest and come back with dinner. Our hunt is the job. Our kill is our paycheck.

But, do we have to lose so much of who we are in order to get it?

I'll soon be twenty-three. Mom keeps saying, "Resonance, you can't fight your future forever." But, I think I can. Fighting is what I've been doing my entire life. No reason to change that, now.

Past, Present, and That Blurry, Vague Thing

2010-10-11T13:39:00.000-04:00

(Before I get into my next post I wanted to remind you guys that this blog is the property of fantasy writer Avery DeBow. I'm just a guest. I suppose my actual existence is a matter of opinion, but I think I'm real enough, at least enough to entertain you guys for a bit. --Res)

*********

Spider wants me to stay. That's no real revelation. He's made it clear he thought my leaving was a bad idea since I announced I was going to Tyne. But, last night while we were watching TV in his apartment, I think he was trying to make other things clear, too.

We've been friends since ninth grade, when I was new to the area and no one wanted to look at me, let alone utter a word in my direction. He was bad. So bad, he got my attention. Then, I became bad, too.

Over the next couple of years, our friendship expanded to include a few other people. First Ricketts, John-O, and Malice Alice. Later came Glory, Liz-Bet and Dino. But, we were the originators--the first, and closest. After another year or two, we closed the circle. We were happy with the eight people we hung with and thought maybe more people would disturb the ranks. But, the circle Spider and I sealed soon became irrevocably locked by the others, and external dating became nearly a taboo subject. Even now, the others continue with their dysfunctional partner swapping. Every six months to a year, they start to pair up. Then, over the course of the next several months, the couples dissolve one-by-one until almost everyone is single and swearing off dating forever. Two months pass and the hormones kick in full force, and they start gravitating together again--Ricketts with Glory, and now Glory's old flame, Dino, with her best friend, Alice.

Like I said, it's twisted.

Anyway, Spider and I never went for that. We teamed up, gluing ourselves together so no offensive moves could be made by anyone else. We had all the benefits of being a couple--companionship, snuggling, and laughing, everything but the sex. That, we got elsewhere. But, last night, my partner of old threw me for a loop. He didn't fall to his knees professing his love for me. It was much more subtle than that--a hint that could easily be explained away if rejection happened. It was simply, "Don't go," and an earnest look in those green eyes that went straight to some chord inside me, plucking it like a stretched rubber band until my entire body vibrated.

It almost happened. I almost let myself kiss him. And then I thought, "Do I love him?"

Yes.

In that way?

*crickets chirping*

Voicelessness

2010-10-08T08:41:00.000-04:00

Some people are buying chez Murphy. In a couple weeks, they'll be in, and we'll be out. It's not that I was attached to that particular house. It wasn't home to me. But, it was the last place my father slept. The last place he ate breakfast. The last place I saw his face still lit up by life. I can go to any room in this house and envision him there. In the new house, though, he'll be foreign, strange, wrong. Like trying to peel off my favorite wallpaper and transplant it on a different wall, some pieces won't come, and what does won't fit the same way anymore.

We packed him up and put him in a box in the ground. Then, we gathered his belongings and shoved them into cartons. Now, we're doing the same with his memory.

It's too soon. The house still feels like some sort of shrine, a tribute to his impact on our lives. People would say he'd be happy we're moving on and adjusting to life without him. I don't know about that. If it were me, and I came back from the beyond to check on my family and found they'd split and left no forwarding address, I'd be pissed.

Everyone--by their actions and attitudes--is telling me the mourning is over. Except it isn't. Not for me. I'm still sitting by a coffin in a candle-lit room, wondering why their worlds keep spinning when mine has clearly stopped.

With everything else, I have a choice. No matter what I say about Tyne and my uncontrollable urges to go there, I do have a choice. But, not in this. The house will sell with or without my permission, and the final bits of his life will quietly slip away. And I just can't forgive Mom for that.

Unknowables

2010-10-05T08:44:00.000-04:00

Are dreams really just the bile of our subconscious? Or, are they a link to some other time or place we've yet to find?

Yeah, I know, that opening line sounded a little too much like the intro to an episode of that old seventies paranormal show hosted by Mr. Spock. Sorry about that. It's just that lately I've been having these dreams about my dad. Except, they're not exactly about my dad--not in the traditional, dead-visits-the-living sense.

The dream goes like this:

I'm in some sort of dark cave, my back to the entrance. In front of me are dark-skinned monsters. It's equally dark in the cave, so all I can tell is they are huge. They loom so high into the ceilingless cavern that I can't see their heads, only big, dark bodies circling me like sharks, long arms dangling by their sides while their spidery fingers drag across the hard-packed ground. As their nails rasp across the grit, they sound out a word, "Middu." Over and over again, I hear it, "Middu. Middu."

The creatures circle closer, and they smell like an antique store that's been sealed up for years. Everything about them is dusty and ancient. Their breath is hot on my neck, and it, too, is dry and stale.

Just when they're close enough to brush against me, he calls my name.

I whirl around to face my father, who is standing at the cave's entrance. The light behind him is too bright for my eyes, and I blink hard against it. But, it's not the rumored white light of the afterlife. It's too hot and dry, too substantial to be heavenly. No. Beyond him--beyond the illumination my eyes can't penetrate--is an endless stretch of skin-parching nothingness. It is the desert, and I long to cross into it, but am too afraid to go near.

For a moment I stand there, staring at my father as he gazes back at me. I want to run to him, but I'm too scared to go near that light, afraid I'll be drawn in, sucked down into... Something I don't want to be in. But, my feet have other ideas. My boots start to scoot forward on their own, one after the other, as tiny bits of gravel crunch and grind beneath the plow-like slide. And I'm aware I'm not moving towards him, but past him, into the desert.

A shadow darkens the entrance for a moment, like the sweep of a hand across a light bulb. When the light returns, my father's face explodes in blood. It pours down his face, filling his mouth as he opens it to scream. His dark brown eyes are wild with terror and his fingers scrabble in a vain attempt to stop the flood of his life from pouring out. He screams my name, yet the gurgling of blood in his throat changes the sound. It too becomes, "Middu."

And then I wake up, my body soaked in sweat, my neck muscles painfully tight and my head pounding violently from holding my breath. I gasp for air, almost certain that this time blood will fill my lungs, too. Of course, it doesn't. I wake up fully. I shake it off. I get up and shower and dress and go downstairs to listen to yet another rant from my mom about how lazy and irresponsible I am. I don't tell her about my dreams. I don't tell anyone. Well, except you--whoever you few are who have nothing better to do than read this.

I've never had nightmares. I think I've probably been the cause of a couple (especially on my mom's part), but no dream has ever scared me until now.

So, back to the "In Search Of" beginning of this post--is it just a dream? Or, could my father be trying to tell me something from beyond the grave? When I put it that way, it just sounds corny. But I can't help thinking he is. That he's out there, somewhere in the great beyond, trying like hell to get me to understand something about him, or his death, or me.

Right before I go to sleep at night, I concentrate on him. I ask him to make his message a little clearer because I'm a slow one. I need things spelled out for me, not encoded in cryptic messages. It hasn't worked. The funny thing is, I don't try too hard to decipher what he's telling me, either. I don't sit down with a dream book, or a psychologist, or even my own decent amount of common sense and try to sort it out. Because when I do, when I figure out just what he wants me to know, he'll go away. And, no matter what horrible event he has to re-live every night, no matter what sort of hellish limbo he's stuck in, no matter his torment, I don't want him to leave.

So that's it. That's the kind of person I am. If there's one thing I could always admit, it's that I'm not a stellar representative of the human race. Not even close. But, at least I'm aware of it and not trying to fool anyone.

Anyway, tonight it's back to bed, where--once I finally fall asleep--I will be waiting with both anticipation and dread for my father's ghostly appearance.

Wasn't there some Shakespeare movie about that?

New Talents

2010-09-30T14:17:00.000-04:00

So, Spider and I went out and got totally pissed last night. I mean, so drunk we couldn't see straight. We'd been doing tequila shots at some hole-in-the-wall bar. You know the kind of place--dark and smelling of filthy mop water, a bar with worn patches in the varnish, and no two bar stools alike. Lining the bar were the usual assortment of ancient skanks in their clown makeup, posing cross-legged, their micro minis and stilettos a tacky contrast to the cellulite dimples and mats of webbed veins in between. It obviously wasn't the best place for us to hang, but they had a killer special and drinks were dirt cheap.

We left after last call, and no cabs would stop for us--probably because of Spider. He's six-foot-five, tattooed everywhere and has an eight-inch mohawk. Then again, I don't really look the respectable type, either. So, maybe it was the combination. We ended up walking through some pretty sketch neighborhoods to get to Spider's apartment. It's near the tattoo shop where he works. It took for fucking ever. Spider had his cigarette to keep him entertained and it was the first time I wished I smoked again. It's weird, but I never got the craving to light up, even in the first days after I quit. I just stopped. Period. But last night, for whatever reason, I kept staring at that plume of smoke coming from his mouth, dying for the wind to whip it up into my nostrils. He knew it, too. I could tell by the way he turned away a little to exhale. I guess he thought he was being a good friend. I'm not sure about that one.

We finally made it to his place. We went to the wrong floor, first--I did mention we were shitfaced, right?--Spider, who'd lost his keys somewhere, starts banging away on what he thinks is his door. This guy flings open the door, and starts screaming at us in this high-pitched, dog voice. Seriously, you could've replaced him with one of those tiny, yappy purse-dogs and no one could've told the difference.

Too drunk to care, we just walked away. Well, that set him off and he followed us up to Spider's floor, still yelling. At that point the whole damn building was awake. People were opening their doors and screaming, or yelling through the walls for this asshole to shut up.

We got upstairs and Stone, Spider's burner roommate, was the only one in the building who wasn't woken up by all this. We were finally pounding on the right door, and this guy was still behind us, demanding we turn around and face him. I have to give it to Spider, usually he'd have already beaten the shit out of this guy. But, for some reason, he thought it was funny. Stone finally woke up, opened the door, and let us in. The guy followed, shoving Spider inside. Spider stumbled, and something in me went off.

I turned around, grabbed the guy's arm and squeezed. I've always been strong, like some sort of pre-Berlin-Wall-falling East German female bodybuilder. But this time, when I squeezed, I just knew I could crush the bones with no effort at all. Stuff inside there--tendons, or bones, I don't know--started to shift. There was no noise, just a violent reddening on either side of his arm as I cut off the circulation. The guy screamed, this time in pain. Spider, his face white, pulled me away, and pushed the guy backwards out into the hall. Stone shut and locked the door. Then, we all just stood there staring at each other.

I wanted to break that guy's arm. Not because he pissed me off, not even because he fucked with Spider, but because I could. It wasn't even like I wanted to see if it was possible, like a kid testing whether or not he could fly. I knew it was possible. I knew I was capable of it. And I wanted to watch myself do it.

God, I'm screwed up.

Stone wandered off to bed and Spider, standing with me in his filthy, laundry-encrusted studio, asked the question of the day, "What the hell was that?"

I wish I knew.

So, I got home late this afternoon, and Mom's sitting there, waiting. She flips out on me for the--What?--fifteenth time this week. She threatened to leave me here to fend for myself. And as much as I wanted to say, "Fine. Screw off, have fun in that shitty town," the words froze in my throat.

I panicked.

I said I was sorry.

I said I'd behave.

God, I hate this, having this urge to go to Tyne hanging over my head. It's got me in a headlock and I can't get out. I have to try and straighten up. Right after this bender, I'll be good.

Sightseeing and Feelfeeling

2010-09-27T14:00:00.000-04:00

Mom and I looked at houses in Tyne this weekend. It was really strange to be crossing the bay bridge without Dad, like we'd packed for vacation and forgotten him. Mom seemed to feel it, too. She white-knuckled the steering wheel like she was afraid the car would careen off the edge if she relaxed for even a minute--like even the waters of the Chesapeake were trying to pull her down. I don't think Mom needs water to help her with that.

She's drowning already.

I did my part to help, which meant keeping my mouth firmly shut even when she started trying to pick a fight with me (hoping to deflect her feelings with a tirade on how bad a person Res is, I guess). I didn't take the bait, just stared out the window.

First time for everything.

So, three hours passed in a car that seemed to keep shrinking on us with each mile until I could even feel Mom's breath on my neck like she sat right behind me, instead of beside me. I stared out the window as desolate stretches of road peppered with tiny towns rolled by. With each narrow main street and its half-closed array of businesses we drove through, I prayed that town wouldn't be the one I'd been sentenced to. And then we pulled up to the city limits of Tyne.

I don't know exactly what to say about Tyne without sounding like the next candidate for shock therapy. Yeah, it's small. There are no major malls or strip shopping centers like I've grown up around. There's a downtown area that ends facing a harbor. There are some stores and restaurants. Only one bar that I could see. Outside of the business district are the blocks of housing--lots of them old, with big porches and pointed tops, painted in insanely bright colors. Quaint is the word I guess describes it. Or lonely. Or isolated. Past the small cluster of development there's only cornfields and chicken farms to the north and south, a monster-sized forest at the western edge, and the river on the eastern side. It's like someone dropped a town in the middle of nowhere, and nowhere is desperately trying to reclaim it.

I really am moving to East Hell.

On our way in we crossed a small drawbridge over the river that feeds the harbor. On our right was a sign saying, "Welcome to Tyne--we hope you enjoy your stay" (I probably won't), and one of those bright white, manhood monuments set in a patch of grass. When we passed by that war memorial, or whatever it was, I felt (this is going to sound insane, but I warned you about that, already) like a wave washed over me, covering me in this weblike energy that screamed I'd just entered the one place I'd never been--but always needed to be.

We drove through the town and I just kept getting this increasingly jittery feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was like wrongness mixed with rightness. I knew something was off, but at the same time my body kept telling me I was home. It was as of invisible hooks in my stomach have been jerking me this way and that my whole life, pulling me towards this place, and once I finally arrived it didn't want to let go. Of course, something like that can't be good, or normal. So, there comes the feeling of wrongness; I'm not stupid enough to think any sudden, irrational influx of emotion is a healthy one.

The question is, what do I do about it? Mom found a house--a boring, brown thing with latticed windows. It looks like some sort of prehistoric swamp bug. There are more things wrong with it than right, but, she seems to like it, and she's too worried about money to look for better.

And I'm stuck. Adding to the already idiotic desire to stay with Mom, I'm now faced with this new wanting to move. Leaving Tyne this morning, that was the worst. The closer we got to that obelisk, the more I wanted to scream at her to hit the brakes. I bit my tongue so hard my mouth filled with blood. And then we passed by that white, upright pencil, and it felt like my skin had been caught on it's point, and the speeding car ripped it clean from my body.

After three hours distance from Tyne, I feel better. Only a mild twinge of anxiousness is in my stomach, now. Was it nerves? Panic? Or, something else? What do I do about it? Do I stay? Do I go with Mom, like every cell in my body seems to be pushing me to?

Do I even have a choice?

A Red Flag to Add to My White One

2010-09-23T11:06:00.001-04:00

I've been thinking about this whole moving thing. The town Mom and I are headed to is called Tyne. I can't even find the fucking place on a map--which is strange enough, right? Add to that how this whole moving situation came about, and it gets even stranger.

Mom gets a phone call a couple of weeks ago. This nursing home in Tyne needs a RN supervisor and wants to know if my mom wants the job, starting ASAP. Whoever it was said something about getting Mom's name from a reference, but was totally vague about the source--like they just pulled her name from a magic phone book and didn't want to admit it.

I'm wondering why her? Don't they have enough people scrambling for a job as good as that over there? I Why do they need to call hospitals in Montgomery County? And, as far as I know, she's the only one they approached. It just sounds weird, doesn't it? I mean, this is a recession and all. I've heard of universities luring professors from one school to the other--that's how my dad got his last job--but nurses? Maybe it does happen and I'm just not aware of it. But, something about this isn't sitting right with me.

I know. It's not like it's a haunted ghost town that's trying to suck my mother into it because she's some sort of conduit to the dead, or something. My brain's not completely rotted from horror movies. I guess I'm just jumpy right now. Since Dad, I've been more worried about her than I should be.

Mom would be ever-so-pleased to hear of my concern. That is, if she'd believe it. We don't really get along, at all. I could've scraped her jaw off the floor with a shovel when I said I wanted to move to Tyne with her. Her expression was like someone had just stomped Santa Claus in front of a kindergartener. That alone was almost worth the daily doses of nagging bullshit I've had to hear since she said I could come along.

I keep having these dreams about my dad. Someone said that would happen a lot in the first year. I hate that, "The First Year." Like there's going to be a Last Year. Like he's on a business trip or in the military. There's no Last Year for him--except for last year. The First Year; what a load of crap. Anyway, in these dreams, he keeps calling out to me in a panicked voice. It always wakes me up suddenly, and then I can't shake the feeling he wants me to do something. Add that to feeling the weird urge to go with Mom and watch over her, and you can see why I'm thinking her new job offer is on the shady side.

I don't fucking know. I'm just tired, I guess. Does dreaming all night disrupt your sleep patterns? Maybe I'm just having delusions from being clinically exhausted.

Clinical exhaustion. That excuse sounds so much better coming from the mouths of publicists for coked-out celebrities.

First Journal Post of Resonance Murphy

2010-09-20T16:52:00.001-04:00

My friend, Avery, says I should put something better as the title. But, I don't know what to put. I mean, you guys don't know who I am, or why I'm here. You might think it's just Avery doing this, or something. She thinks you'll get it. But, for all I know you could be riders of the slow bus. We haven't exactly met, have we? So, I figured I'd put you all on a low curve and spell it out for you. If you handle it alright, next time I'll give it a better title.

If there is a next time.

I don't know about this journal thing. Seems like a waste of time. Avery seems to think having some sort of outlet for my feelings (the exact word she used was "rage") will do me good. She said it's not magic, though, and not to expect typing a few sentences here and there to screw my head on right. Just for that, I'm letting HER field all the comments left here. That's what she gets for shooting off at the mouth.

So, anyway, I'm Resonance Murphy. I'm twenty-two. And, yeah, I still live with my mother. I don't like school, jobs, or society in general. If it turns out I like you, you can call me Res. If I don't, well... I guess that's not the best way to welcome you to Avery's old blog. She might get pissed if I drive you all away in the first day.

Speaking of getting pissed, I need to. Badly. See, I'm standing in the middle of a road and one of those wheel loader things has been scraping up all of the life garbage behind me and pushing it forward. Until now I'd managed to move ahead just enough so that mess piling up behind me never touched me, but the road has suddenly dead-ended. And I'm standing up to my neck in shit. If that's not reason enough to get shitfaced, well, I don't know what is.

A few months ago, life was good. Well, it was fine. Decent. No big complaints. Now, everything's screwed up. I'll spare you the soap opera-y details, but, the short version is I'll soon be moving away from D.C. to the Delmarva Peninsula (that's that weird tongue flapping off the side of Maryland and Delaware). It's totally backwoods. No more clubs, no more hanging out with my best friend, Spider, no more salons, decent places to eat, no more life as I know it. Yeah, you're probably thinking being twenty minutes from the beach is hardly an exile. Well, maybe for you. I couldn't care less about oceans or sand. I don't surf. I don't sunbathe. In fact, I don't venture into fresh air until the sun has set--and then only if every surrounding square inch is covered in concrete.

My mom's already on my ass to change my look so I can find a job in overall-land. She thinks blue dreadlocks are going to get me unwanted attention, give people the wrong impression. I'm thinking it will give them just the right one. Besides, who the hell cares what color my hair is when all there'll be for me to do is de-beak chickens or shuck corn?

I could stay. I think about it. Hell, I daydream about it. It's the one thought that lets me get up in the morning. Even so, I know I'll leave in the end. Something is making me want to go with my Mom. And it's not just about Dad, or the cash-cow leaving me high and dry (but, if we're being honest, it is a factor). Mostly, though, it's something else. I keep having these dreams, and the other day, when we first visited Tyne--

Nah. I told you I'd spare you the drama, didn't I?

Enough bullshit already. Moving to oblivion. Finding a crappy job. And that's the end of it.

East Hell, here I come.

Want to Put on My Shoes?

2010-08-11T12:12:00.000-04:00

Did you ever wonder what it feels like to have prompts thrown at you? Ever wonder how it feels to come up with a story based on random spewings from other peoples' minds? Well, now you can live the dream. D. Lynn Fraizer is sponsoring a very cool flash fiction writing contest over at her blog, WrittenWyrrd. She previously asked readers for prompts (I missed that part, sorry), and came up with a spine-tingling paragraph for writers to use as a basis/inspiration for an urban fantasy flash fiction story. You can find the prompt and the rest of the details, here.

So, come on. Jump in the prompt pool and see how well you can freestyle. The deadline for entries is midnight on Sunday, August 22.

Voting Closes Wednesday

2010-08-01T19:28:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I forgot to tell you guys that. But, it does.

Thanks to all of you who have played along so far. It's a pretty good showing this time around. To those of you who are wanting to play, but haven't gotten around to it, yet--it's okay. You still have a procrastination cushion. Just don't get too settled in and comfy, as this is--

The.

Very.

Last.

Time.

So...

And Now for Something Completely Different...

2010-07-06T08:30:00.000-04:00

I'm not the best salesperson. Back when I worked at a kiosk in the mall (cut me some slack; I was nineteen), I sold "Diamond Dirt." It was this gelatinous goo that one could put plants in and they would "grow" just like normal plants. Seeing the mangy, sad sticks poking out of the suffocating pink and green glop, I did not believe in this product, and could not get behind it. Whenever any potential client asked me questions like, "Is it better than dirt?" my reply was a quick, "Probably not." I quit the sales business in rapid order.

Having said that, I will, on occasion, pitch something to people whenever I truly believe in it. Dyson vacuums would be one of them. Apple computers would be another. Fluevog shoes, a third. And now, author Charles Gramlich joins the ranks. Charles is a talented writer whose diverse range of work always proves a good read. His ebook, Killing Trail debuted today on Kindle for Amazon. From the author's blogger page:

RIDE INTO DANGER!

Killing Trail is a collection of western short stories by Charles Allen Gramlich, the author of the Talera Trilogy and Cold in the Light. It contains:

Killing Trail: When they dumped Angela Cody on Lane Holland’s ranch she was scant moments from death. She managed to speak only a few words, but those were enough to make Lane strap on his guns and ride out on a killing trail.

Showdown at Wild Briar: Accused of a murder he didn’t commit, Josh Allen Boone has ridden a long way from his Wild Briar Ranch. But now he’s coming home, and the real killers are waiting for him with a rope. (Never before published.)

Powder Burn: They said Davy Bonner’s luck had run out and they ambushed him along a dark road. But luck or no, Davy wasn’t going down without a fight. (Written specifically for this collection.)

Once Upon a Time with the Dead: For the gray raiders, death was an old friend.

The work also includes two nonfiction essays, one about Louis L’Amour and another about the real Wild West.

As I said before, Charles is a great writer. And, by selling his ebook for just $2.99, he's also quite the bargain master. That grocery-store-coleslaw-tub-of-useless-glop I had to sell back in 1992 wasn't even that cheap!

Go download a copy (and get yourself a Dyson, while you're at it).

Another Delay

2010-05-13T11:35:00.000-04:00

Once again, I'm delaying the next installment of my story. The Architect (whom I have not seen more than twenty minutes of in the past two weeks) wants to spend time with me today. And I don't say no to him--not even for you guys. And next week I might be headed out to help some family with a home improvement project. I'd like to get that part over with before Memorial Day weekend, because Memorial Day + Chesapeake Bay Bridge + beachgoers = hours long traffic jams. But, that part still isn't concrete, so if next week ends up clear, I'll post. If not, well, I'll get back to work as soon as possible.

Sorry again to be putting things off. One of these days I'll join the new century, get a laptop, and make my entire work existence as portable as the rest of me.

Voting Closed--Urm, a Few Hours Ago

2010-05-12T16:54:00.002-04:00

Whoops! Forgot the official "Voting's Closed" announcement.

But, it is.

See you Friday.

"Mid-Installment Mini-Vote" Voting will Close Tomorrow

2010-05-11T21:24:00.000-04:00

For those interested, voting for the the question: "Do the doors open?" will close tomorrow at noon. I'm not sure which way the vote is leaning right now; the Architect has worked around 150 hours since last week on a project due tomorrow, so I've been busy running errands for him and making sure he's not going to collapse and die, and haven't had a chance to tally the current vote count, yet. So, it'll be a big surprise for all of us.

Be sure to check in on Friday for Part two of Installment Six, "Through the Frost."

Thanks for reading. Thanks for playing.

See you Friday.

Six Years

2010-04-12T13:20:00.001-04:00

Sorry about the posting fail on Friday. Because of (insert "blah, blah, blah," here) I've had to postpone the next installment until this coming Friday.

Having made my excuses, I can't pass up the day without mentioning a person who was instrumental in my development as both a person and a writer, my grandmother, who departed this life six years ago today. Not only did she tolerate me being up her ass twenty-four-seven during the summers (a feat unto itself); she bought me books whenever we were together, and suffered through my childhood attempts at playwriting with a fortitude not easily mustered. She was one of my first audiences, and her patient encouragement helped me gain the courage to seek out others. And it was in dealing with her death that I finally took my novel writing desire seriously.

So, if you dig what I do, then honor her by taking a swig of diet coke and scarfing down some Entemann's breakfast confections.

She'll get a kick out of that.

Bad-Lib Fantasy--Tuesday??

2010-03-25T16:08:00.000-04:00

I'm going to have to delay the next installment of Bad-Lib Fantasy Friday until early next week. I've got some family stuff to do and I've lost a lot of time this week--time that should have been spent writing this next installment. But, I will be back and at the top of my game next week. So, stick around and start dreaming of the wondrous ways in which you will torture me, while I think of all the new means by which you can go about doing that.

Thanks for understanding.

Do you like how I presume you're cool with this?

Voting's Closed

2010-03-18T10:40:00.000-04:00

Voting is closed (or has been since early, early this morning). Thanks to everyone for the great input. I will have my literary reply up tomorrow. Until then, enjoy the sunshine and very springlike temperatures if you live in the mid-atlantic. If you live elsewhere, well, try and enjoy whatever you've been given.

Bad-Lib Fantasy Friday

2010-02-08T22:33:00.004-05:00

I am finally starting my experimental play-along story this coming Friday, February twelfth. The notion I currently have (subject to change due to lack of interest, me writing myself into a corner, or general confusion) is to write an opening paragraph and then leave instructions for those willing to comment on how to guide my next installment. I'm thinking along the lines of (this is just a potential example):

For the next installment, I will need a location (landmark, city, or other nonspecific place), two nouns and two verbs. Please leave your comment with all six requested items. Commenters one and four will determine the nouns, commenter two the landmark...

Or something like that. Depending on how crazy you all get, I might have to be more specific, like:

Give me an animal, a piece of furniture...

As you can tell, I haven't yet ironed out all the kinks. I think it will be much more fun to figure it out as we go. Or, it could be disastrous, which would still be fun for you; nothing increases the merriment factor better than watching a writer crash and burn. As I am in the fantasy genre, I will be starting the story with a fantasy plot in mind, but since you all will be in the driver's seat, we'll just see how that works out.

My overall hope is that this experiment will be an exercise in creativity and flexibility on my part. As a reward for your participation, you get to torture the hell out of me.

Don't say I never did anything for you.

So, barring any blackouts from Snowpocalypse II, I'll be seeing you all on Friday.

Commenting Changes

2009-12-16T11:33:00.002-05:00

As of now, any responses will have to be approved by me before posting. I really resisted this action before because I didn't want my friends to feel like their comments were under scrutiny or think they were being judged as if they might not be worthy for my silly little blog. But--big, hairy but--the douches with the crawlers and Taco Bell-stained sweatpant, basement dweller jobs are spamming the shit out of this profile and I'm spending more time than I'd like deleting ads for weight loss pills, dick stiffeners and all sorts of other nonsense. And it has finally pissed me off.

Do you remember when the teacher in elementary school would get so fed up with that one kid who was dancing around in his chair, flipping up his eyelids and making armpit farting noises that she would make EVERYONE put their heads down for five minutes? Well, that's pretty much what's happening here.

Kids, thank the armpit farter, because now I have to cull through your comments before they post.

In unison now:

"THANKS, ARMPIT FARTER!!"

Happy Holidays!

2009-12-13T14:26:00.004-05:00

I just wanted to bang out this short post to tell all my interweb friends to have a happy, wonderful holiday season. I've been holding off on posts while I figured out what sort of internet presence I'd like to have and I've got a few New Year ideas in mind.

Once the holidays end, I'm planning a five-week interactive short story which will happen here and will also post on my facebook page for others to read. I'm thinking of something like the literary version of improv comedy; I'll start off with an opening paragraph and readers can comment with verbs and nouns that hint towards where they'd like to see the story go or try to back me into a writing corner by giving me the worst possible scenario they can think of. I will not be able to argue, back out or whine, and the first five or so responders' noun and verb must be included in my next installment. The story will continue for five installments, and end, hopefully, with some sort of satisfying finale.

The second thing I have on the agenda is a mega-flash fiction drive on my twitter page where I will post 120-character fiction at least once a week. Anyone can play along, just RT your own story.

So, that's what I have planned for the future. But, for right now, I'm going to go bake like June Cleaver on crank and enjoy my house, my kitties and my man--and then later enjoy my family, friends and my yearly trek to Florida. So, look for the fun to start the second week of January.

Until then, be healthy, well, and happy, my friends!

Literary Recklessness

2009-11-11T11:22:00.002-05:00

In an attempt to get myself back into a rigid, impermeable, impervious, impenetrable writing schedule I singed up for NaNoWriMo. I started out strong, got sidetracked, then re-sidetracked, and now I'm about seventeen thousand words behind. I think it's safe to say I'm not going to "win" this year--at least not win by the organizers' definition.

In my opinion, I'm already winning; I'm planting my butt in the chair every day and writing. My prose is not the most brilliant (in fact I think it's safe to say I could let my cats tap dance across the keys for two hours with similar effect), but it is a consistent flow of semi-intelligible words formatted into sentences and paragraphs, and, hey, that's the reason I signed up for this gig in the first place.

Honestly, I'm rather enjoying this guerilla style of writing. As I have routinely stated, I am an obsessive mess. It's not that I shoot myself in the foot; I never stop aiming the freakin' gun. I organize, chart, plot, think, write, re-write, re-write, re-write, re-write. I get a paragraph down and then dissect it for four hours. I am, in many ways, my own worst enemy. This little experiment is teaching me to stop looking back (even if I have to shrink my screen to the size of my current paragraph to do it). It's teaching me that a first round of mainly crap is okay as long as I fix it later, and waiting to fix it later is even more okay. And you know what all this is making me realize?

Writing is fun again.

Who'd've thought?

The Coward

2009-09-23T16:04:00.003-04:00

This is a post I just wrote for a Red Room blog contest on saying goodbye. I'm going to share it here because I feel compelled to, and if I don't do it today, then I won't ever. Too much like picking at what's under a bandaid, if you get my drift.

*************
THE COWARD

I was a coward. Hospice had been called and my grandmother’s doctor had told us the end of her life was very near. The thought of her leaving this world left a hole in my heart, a rushing vortex of pain and disbelief. I tried to imagine my life without its most steadfast, loyal and giving part, but I couldn’t. Even though my grandmother had become frail and gaunt, even though the lack of oxygen from the COPD sometimes made her crazy—evil crazy—even though she was an entirely different woman from the stoic survivor I had grown up with, spent summers with, I couldn’t imagine her not being around.

So, I stalled.

I wasn’t oblivious to the wrongness of my choice. The guilt of avoiding my farewell chewed through me like some caustic beast, gnawing at my chest, nibbling the chasm of grief even wider. Still, I couldn’t move to do what I knew was right. If it hadn’t been for my sister pushing me to come, I probably never would have seen her again. But my sister—in the way only a sister can—told me to remove my head from the southernmost reaches of my torso, and get a move on.

Even with my marching orders in hand, I stalled. I called my best friend from high school—a frequent recipient of my grandmother’s endless generosity—and told her my grandmother was dying and that I had to go see her, but didn’t want to. Immediately, my friend stepped up, volunteering to come along, to say goodbye with me, to keep me company. Again the indecency of my actions, of publicizing such a personal interaction, weighed on me, but my fear was too great. To stand in a room and stare unblinkingly at death was a feat beyond my capabilities. My parchment-thin will sheared in half, and I brought along a human barrier.

Her bedroom was dark, save for the lamp curving over her wingback chair. She smiled and I kissed her, trying not to notice the odor of decay, not to yearn for her usual light, powdery scent. She had discarded her glasses, either too forgetful to put them on or too disinterested in the world of the living to care to see what was happening around her. My friend and I sat on the edge of the bed opposite her chair, both staring in discomfort at the gaunt figure half devoured by cornflower blue fleece pajamas. My sister had set up the meeting like a tea party, with cookies, drinks and my grandmother's old photo album. We thought the album might give her a chance for some closure, to say goodbye to the past and the people she loved. She didn’t want to hold it. So, my friend and I flipped through the pages, turning the book to her every once in a while when my memory failed to identify some smiling grayscale woman or man. My grandmother answered my questions with detached obligation, her eyes never lingering too long on any one frame.

I pushed on, knowing she didn’t want to participate, but too deeply enmeshed in the charade of nothing’s wrong to extract myself. No one ate or drank. The darkness of the room seemed to intensify, the walls closing in around us like a cage—like a box. Had my friend not been next to me, surely I would have bolted. Finally, my grandmother told me she didn’t want to look at the pictures anymore, that I should take them home with me. I clenched my teeth against the tears, as I had for so many years when she talked about dying and what she wanted me to have when she went. Back then her instructions always devolved into a joke and a retelling of how her own mother labelled the undersides of objects with masking tape so there would be no confusion as to who got what when she was gone. But, it wasn't a joke anymore. Instead of acknowledging the admission of defeat behind her gesture, I deflected the truth like Wonder Woman with her bracelets, saying she might want to have them around to look at later.

What must have been only a forty minute visit seemed to last days. The alarm clock radio by her bedside ticked away the seconds as slowly as if the internal mechanisms were succumbing to a deep freeze. Finally, I could take it no longer. I told my grandmother we had to get going. My friend said goodbye, gave her a hug and a kiss and then left the room. Alone at last, I leaned over to give her my own kiss, again missing that familiar scent, the reassuring smell of her presence. When I pulled back our eyes locked. In her gaze I saw it, I saw the goodbye that should have been said. The rush of unspoken words flowing from her eyes to mine could have knocked me over, had I let them. I leaned in and kissed her once more, then said—like I always had, like there would actually be another time—“I’ll see you later.”

She died not too many days after. My chance to redeem myself, to set things right had passed. Over and over again I have said goodbye to her in my mind, but it doesn’t count. It will never count. I had my chance and I ran. For the rest of my life I will carry those unspoken words in my heart. I will go on saying goodbye, and she will go on never hearing me.

The Walk of Shame

2009-09-01T13:36:00.005-04:00

Liz eased onto her feet. The sheet, which had wound its way around her foot sometime during the long night’s thrashings, trailed her like a train. She shook it off with impatience, more mindful of her body’s nagging soreness than the ridiculous irony of the image.

He had left before she had awoken. The room was a shambles, his belongings scattered across the floor as if abandoned in hasty disgust. In the bright morning sunshine the electric surge that had filled Liz’s heart at the apex of their encounter seemed all but drained away. She felt small, weak and exposed.

“Oh. You've awakened.” Frank stood there, hair mussed, clothes disheveled. He avoided her eyes as he gestured to the far corner. “Your dress is over there.”

“Thank you,” was all she could manage. Liz picked up the soft black garment, puddled it on the floor at her feet and then stepped in, aware of the odd pull of tightened muscles across her back. She struggled with the sleeves for a few moments, wondering if he was watching, wondering if he was aware of the toll their riotous night had taken on her. If he knew he made no attempt to assist her as she fumbled with the buttons. After a few moments of struggling she abandoned the top two, leaving a gaping V at the top of her shoulders, followed by a series of odd bulges and gaps where she had incorrectly fastened the fabric. She turned back to Frank and forced a small smile. “Better?”

Frank’s eyes, hooded with guilt, shifted to the door. “I have work.”

Liz started to nod, but then shook her head. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I will not.” She stamped her foot. An aching throb traced up her leg. Was there anywhere on her body their transgressions had not touched? Liz caught the warning arch of his eyebrow, the downward tug of his mouth and altered her tone. “How can you act this way? After last night--?"

“I am busy, that’s all. I told you, I have work to do.”

“And you don’t have time enough to spare me a moment now that your conquest is complete? Have you checked me off of your list, yet?" He didn’t answer and Liz choked back the lump in her throat. “How can you be this way?”

“I am not being any way,” Frank said. He ran his hand through his hair, tousling it even further. “I do not have time for this.”

“And I have no inclination to allow you to leave without admitting last night was special. You… My body… Touched everywhere. Your hands traced the most intimate parts of me. Last night we connected as no others have. Admit that, and I will leave you alone.”

“Of course!” Frank shouted. “Of course it was intimate. I was there! I was! But it is no longer last night. It is tomorrow.”

“I see.” Liz fought the tears that threatened to overspill. “It is tomorrow, and you have work to do.”

“Marvelous; you’ve got it. That is only what I have been telling you for the past five minutes.”

“Then do not let me keep you one second longer.”

He slid from the room like a scolded child, his shamed relief staining the air. Liz limped past the gurney to the window. The leaded panes mimicked the tracery of stitches across her face, the fine, careful lines Frank had sewn all over her body. He had made her. From castaway corpses to single being, he had made her, infused her with this life, and then cast her aside. She pressed her forehead against the glass until it hurt, staring out at a world she would never enter, straining away from the world she would never leave.

“You’re a bastard, Frank,” she whispered. “You’re a bastard.”

You Want to Know About Heroes?

2009-08-17T10:02:00.004-04:00

This is a reposting of a "blog" entry I did for a Red Room contest about heroes. Of course, I couldn't let the dark side not have a representative. Apparently, they didn't want to hear from the dark side. Sigh.

Hee hee.

**************

I can shatter bone. With no more effort than it takes you to grab a pencil, I can pulverize your femur. With a flex of my quads I can leap to the top of your house, and with a swipe of my arm, I can topple it. As a child you gazed with longing at candy-colored comic books, wishing to be all that I already am.

They cry. All night. Voices in the dark, shouting, screaming, pleading. They scurry across the earth, unable or unwilling to pry themselves from the role of victim. "It's too hard," they say. "It's too hard. Help me."

I did, at first. To shut them up, to win myself a decent night's sleep. I saved the first one. A sweet-bodied guy with shining chestnut hair and eyes to match. As I convinced his assailants they had chosen the wrong victim, he took in the carnage I wrought with those dark, wide eyes. After the electric terror faded, after the sting of being rescued by a chick had eased from them, I found those eyes were the same as the rest of him--sweet and grateful. I let him thank me. All night. He eventually dozed off, but the screams kept coming. I stared into the blackness and wished for them to stop. The sirens echoed their wails--one passing so near it started my boy out of his exhaustion. He rolled onto his side, blinked those stupid doe eyes at me and said, "Aren't you going to help them?"

I got up fast, was out of there before the shape of my head had smoothed from the pillow. I left him lounging in bed, confident that now he was safe, his hero was going out to save the rest of the world.

I went and got a drink.

Then another.

Then another.

Behind me, some bastard at the pool table smacked his girlfriend in the face for sloshing his beer. I let him.

There were other times I felt more generous. Times when a rapist was found mangled and stuffed in a trash can. Times when a serial killer stopped killing and the cops thought they'd somehow lucked out and managed to jail him on unrelated charges. But for each of those times there were scores where I heard, and did nothing. Times when I just didn't feel like getting involved.

I can still hear them. Despite the four window air conditioners I have running at full-tilt, despite the music I play so loud it throbs my eardrums and gives me vertigo, I can still hear them screaming for me. I turn up the volume, and pray for sleep.

So, what do you think of me now, kids? Do I fit inside your hard-lined squares of colorful ink? Do my words fill in the bubbles?

Am I your hero, or what?

A Post A Month? Bad Form!

2009-08-11T11:05:00.003-04:00

The laxness of my recent postings (and visitings) is shaming me. I've always been a one-track-minder, able to focus intensely and exhaustively--but only on one thing at a time. You want me to chew gum? I'll chew gum. I'll chew the crap out of it. Just don't ask me to walk while doing it.

This post is short--painfully so. And largely without purpose, except to apologize for the lateness, to promise that I have been doing good things in the writing arena whilst away, and to stress my sincere hope for returning to regular posting as soon as I master the multitasker role.

I am on facebook, where the brevity and immediacy of contact is easier for me to handle at this point in time. So, if you're there, stop by and say, "Hey." I also have a twitter account, but if you think these updates are sad...

Until next time (when I hope to have better, more interesting things on which to expound), be good, enjoy the remnants of summer, and write and read happy!

Pencils Down

2009-06-15T14:34:00.005-04:00

I don't remember much from the time my mother fell suddenly, gravely ill a few years ago. I don't know if my brain, sensing imminent meltdown, scrapped the majority of the unpleasant details, or rather if the predictable monotony of tiled hospital hallways, harsh lights and rows of uncomfortable wooden chairs simply lent itself to melding events into one long, indistinguishable haze. Either way, the days did indeed bleed into what now seems a single, ageless track of sunlight from horizon to horizon. One of the few individual events I can recall is sitting at my parents' kitchen table, feeling detached from everything around me, idly fingering random scraps of paper that my mother had allowed to accumulate on her "desk." One piece lay separate from the rest--either from earning some elevated rank in the hierarchy of chores, or ostracized by the distasteful quality of its nature--its edges curling in as if to protect my mother's perfect, swooping script. The note said, "Bleach tub handles."

It struck me then--as it does again now as a friend's father lay on an operating table, his life teetering on the edge of devastation--the potential absurdity of a final note such as that. There was my mother, mostly dead, struggling for what little life she had left in her body, and the final message she left to us all was that the fucking shower knobs had some mildew. While I can smile at it now, I can assure you at the time those words made me confused, angry, sad and horrified. But now, after having gained a bit of distance from the situation, I'm starting to think it wouldn't have been such a final goodbye. For her, anyway.

We go through lives with the expectation of reaching very old age. We live our lives drowning in a sea of tomorrows, of laters, of getting-around-to-its. For those of us who will dodge sudden death, we will weave a tapestry of our existence for as long as we can, until someone comes along and says our work is nearly finished and soon it will be time to put it down forever. Once those words reach our ears, we'll look back at the long, interlocking threads of our lives and begin to knot off the frayed edges. But for every one loose end secured, a thousand more will catch in the breeze, mocking our attempts to seize them. Reading all the classics, learning how to surf, eating escargot just once--those once trivial wishes, made monumental with the approaching end, will never come to fruition, and so our tapestry will remain ragged, undone. And the worst is, we will be fully aware of this. We will look at our amalgamation of lazy days (the very ones we are already apathetically conscious of) and wish to have filled them with greater things, thread-knotting things, tapestry-finishing things. We know this just as we know most of our little monkey brains will acknowledge the truth of this, and continue sleeping in, slacking off and ignoring the Jeopardy countdown song playing in the background. It is a disheartening thought.

In contrast, take my mother. Fine, talking one minute, on the floor the next. Her list of tomorrows was still--to her, anyway--full of potential, stretched interminably in front of her. Those damn shower handles would be tackled at some point, as well as all the other things she'd planned to do. Had she died then, she would have left her tapestry balled on the floor, frayed and unfinished, and she would have given exactly two shits. The rest of us would have stared at that stupid little piece of paper, trying to glean some sort of mystical, hidden message from its dearth of letters, but she would have slipped away thinking everything was still in place to be finished before the big finale. And that almost seems the kinder path, kinder, at least, than being handed a ticking alarm clock and sent away to do the best one can with the remaining hours.

After reading the note that day, I almost went into the bathroom to clean those knobs, to bleach the fuck out of them so when she got home it would be taken care of. I didn't. A spell hung over that scrap of yellow paper with its official green lines and red margins. It felt in that moment that if I set screwdriver to those knobs, if I squirted one ounce of Tilex, the thread holding her to the planet would snap and that frayed remnant would be the one to finish off the raw edge left undone by that piece of paper. I put the note back on the table, just where I had found it, and went to go see if my dad needed anything. Spell or not, my mother did recover--against the most tremendous of odds--and those fucking knobs finally got their comeuppance.

***********

To my dear, dear friend, I send out well-wishes and healing thoughts for your dad. May his tapestry continue to grow by yards and miles in the years to come.

Lightening Up

2009-06-03T12:48:00.004-04:00

A week ago I was at a nearby antique store. It's a pretty cool place, located inside a monstrous old factory. The rows of antiques flow from massive room to massive room, the walls dematerializing from sheetrock to exposed brick as the spaces become less "done" and truer to their history. The aisles loop around, taking shoppers back from the final, huge warehouse space and back into human-scaled territory. I followed the u-turn of rows--like a rainbow slumped on its side--to a veritable pot of gold. Around the corner I found waiting for me a used book section consisting with numbers of science fiction and fantasy rivaling that of any new book store. And these weren't just some grandad's old, beat-up collection of seventies serial sci-fi (although that category was represented), there were tons of modern authors like Gaiman, Williams, Salvatore, Hamilton, Harris and Reynolds. Every category from steampunk to high fantasy had a representative in attendance. I ended up grabbing an armful of two-dollar bargains, seizing the opportunity to both expand my bookshelves and explore some new-to-me urban fantasy. I also picked up a Philip K. Dick complete collection (I've been dying to read the real Minority Report), and a handful of random, easy-on-the-brain fantasy titles, including a new Redwall book from Brian Jacques (I have a thing for mice and squirrels with swords).

In all, the selection I chose was fluffier than the usual--nice, short, fun books. And that made me start thinking about the term "Summer Reading" and why we feel compelled to lighten our mental load during the hot months. Does it have something to do with our old schooltime habits? Tossing our proverbial pencils in the air as the last bell rings and turning to more leisurely pursuits? Or is it embedded in our need to shed the heavy weight of winter? As our parkas, boots and sweaters are peeled off, as our diets become leafier and infused with flavors of citrus, do we continue to jettison of all things bulky and cumbersome? As soon as March has a firm hold on us, the tables at the bookstores entitled "Beach Reads" come creeping into the center aisles. I don't go anywhere near the beach during the summer (despite the fact I live a mere twenty minutes away--it has something to do with heat, sharks and sand sticking to my sunscreen like Shake-n-Bake), but I nevertheless gravitate towards this pile of printed matter like a bird towards the equator. I like to think it's my inner Peter Pan calling the shots, the little girl who used to sit on the lush grass and read under the shade of a giant tulip poplar insisting I take some time to run through the sprinkler just for the heck of it. It's hard to deny her that urge; the pure, uncomplicated enjoyment of the shade, a nice swing, and a good book is hard to match.

Summer inspires much in all of us: a compulsion to try our hands at gardening, a yearning to put match to charcoal--and if you're from the Eastern Shore a desire to sit at a table covered in newspaper and pound the shit out of crabs while eating corn and guzzling beer. But, most of all, I think summer reminds us to find the fun in life, if only one chapter at a time.

Mixing Fantasy and Reality

2009-05-07T16:59:00.003-04:00

When I was little, I hated those squat, rainbow-hued My Little Pony toys. I was a huge fan of horses (yeah, what twelve-year-old girl isn't?) and I had a collection of sixty-odd Breyer horses. You know those horses--prancing Morgans, preening Tennessee Walkers and galloping Arabians, each perfectly detailed and accurate down to the grooves in its hooves. I used to play with them by the hour, using Barbie as an accessory. In most little girls' worlds Barbie was the main character and the horses would have been pets. But not me. Barbs was second-string, there to advance the plot, if at all. Most of the time my horses had human-free adventures. My pretend Mustang herd galloped across the open plain (the green shag carpeting of my bedroom floor), made friendships, were hunted, trapped and escaped back to freedom. And there was no place in that scenario for short-legged pink ponies with purple hair and stars on their asses. As much as I enjoyed fantasy, it had no place among my "reality."

And yet that kid eventually grew up into the chick who digs blending modern life with the fantastical. I'm not sure how or when it happened. Maybe it had something to do with overdosing on too many sword and sorcery tales. Quite possibly Joss Whedon had a significant hand in the deal. Then again, maybe it was growing up to discover the enticing mysteries of adulthood were nothing more than chains which would tether me to a daily reality that was far less than mythic. In the midst of work, finances, housecleaning and insipid routines, I think I realized everyday life lacked the mystical quality my childhood held. Toadstools were only a sign of a fungus in my lawn, rainbows meant that it had finally stopped raining, and lightening bugs were just insects trying to get their freak on. And that loss of the "what-if" portion of my imagination must have had an impact, because somewhere in my mid-twenties I ditched the mainstream novels I had been planning and went genre.

While the mundane details of my daily life still exist on a grand scale, I now have an alter-existence where the strange, wondrous and mystical happens in the modern world. It's like gaining back a lost bit of my childhood, a forgotten piece of me.

My horse collection is in my niece's possession, now. But, I can still see every one of my old friends in my mind. And the next time I let the herd roam free, you can bet there'll be some pink, yellow, and blue rumps mixed in with the rest.

My Bizarre Evening, or the New Small Town Highlander Rule

2009-04-17T09:07:00.004-04:00

Last night, Salisbury University was hosting the last event of its children's literature festival, an evening with Holly Black. The shebang started with a movie at four-thirty. After that, the timeline got sketchy, but there was to be a reception/signing and Holly speaking on the creative process at some point. Since I had already seen the movie (and, as I've confessed before, I have a packed-movie-theatre-squeamishness that probably goes back to Outbreak), I decided to pass and just show up later. The Architect got home from work right before I left and decided to join me, work clothes and all.

Mistake number one.

We walk into the event room, me and my stupid punky hair and the Architect still in his business jacket. My goal was simple; introduce myself to Holly, maybe get in a moment of small chitchat, then go listen to her speak about writing. The movie ended as we arrived, the lights had been turned back on and parents and children were milling about, checking out the author's table. One by one, heads started prairie-dogging in our direction. I looked behind me, to see if Holly was about to enter. No. I turn back to find a woman and her two kids standing in front of me, her eyes darting from the snappily-dressed Architect to me.

"Are you the author?"

Chairs in the audience creaked as I opened my mouth to reply. "Uhh, no. She's much cooler than I am. Besides, you'll probably know when she gets here because..." I motion towards the mini-stage with its spotlit podium. The lady thanked me with a smile and departed.

"You missed a shot in the limelight," bellows a man overhearing this exchange.

Big mouth (oh, I do love my big-ol-mouth) shoots back, "No thanks, I'm waiting for my own." What follows is a seemingly innocuous exchange about what I do, what I write, blah, blah, blah. But, by now people are outright staring. I nudge the Architect and say, "I think we'd better sit down."

We sit, only to find out the reception/signing thing is happening after they screen some animated short film that won the British version of an Oscar this year. While we deliberate leaving for twenty minutes to check out the campus versus watching, the lady with the kids comes back by.

"Would you sign their books?"

Holyfuckcrapwhere'dthiscomefrom? "But, I'm not the author, I'm not even published, yet."

The nice lady goes on to say she's with a program for the county's at-risk children and the kids heard I was a writer, too, and wanted my autograph. I make a joke to the girl nearest me holding out her Spiderwick Chronicles book about how she's stocking a lot of faith in the fact that I will eventually be published. She nods solemnly and I take the book, offering to sign the very back of her book, because she needs to save the front for Holly. I sign both books, talk to the kids and their guardian. All the while, a nasty, gloating little voice in my head whispers, "This is what it's going to be like." A rush of adrenaline sends my stomach to the tips of my boot, while my growing mortification at both the outcome of this event and my own unwelcome interior jubilation turn my face an unattractive shade of magenta.

The movie thankfully starts and eyes peel away from me to the screen. A few minutes in, the Architect spots the same lady spot Holly. She must have convinced Ms. Black to go outside for photos, because they all exit the room together. The Architect whispers, "Now's your chance to actually talk to her." After a moment's hesitation, I go out into the hallway (this, by the way, is so not like me. My sister had to convince me to even go in the first place, and made sure to insist I didn't hide in a corner when I did).

This is the point in the evening where I do meet Holly Black. She's nice. She likes my hair. Her comment turns into me telling her that people thought I was her, but I don't get to get any further because more moms have noticed she's outside and she quickly becomes swarmed. I cede my position to some wide-eyed kid being prodded forward by her mother. Finally, her escort pulls the plug and drags Holly away. But not before--oh no, not before--one of the other ladies with an at-risk kid asks me to sign her ward's book. In-Front-Of-The-Author. I bend down to explain that Holly is the author and he should go to her, but the kid's doe-eyed, holding out the damn book. So, I sign the back of Ms. Black's book in front of her. Like a big-ol-ass.

I go back in, whisper the events to the Architect. I sit for about two minutes, then feel the need to get out, as far out as possible. I retreat with a growing sense of sleaziness and shame, wondering just how many of those who hadn't witnessed this strange encounter in its entirety would go home talking of the crazy girl impersonating Holly and signing books for impressionable, innocent children.

The Architect maintains I did nothing wrong. My sister--bless her misanthropic self--thinks it's hysterical. She thinks I'm okay as long as no one goes holding a little thing in front of my heart to measure how much it's shrunk (a little Grinchy humor). I think--well, I think I probably shouldn't go out. Bad Things happen when I do. And in this small town, I should have known better. It's easy to seize power, to claim fame, because nothing much happens here.

And there should have been only one punkish, darkly inclined fantasy writer in the room that night. The 'bury can't wrap its collective head around two.

I never got to hear Holly speak, or have her sign my copy of Tithe, which is too bad because when I was learning how to write a pitch/query, I studied the back of that book for days; it's got all kinds of pointy, grabby hooks.

I'm tending to blame this whole event on my mother. Hating how tall I was when I was younger, my mother would tell me, "You're the first person they see. Walk into a room like you own it." It's a great lesson, really. But the only problem is, when you walk into a room like you own it, sometimes people are inclined to believe you actually do.

Read With Kids Challenge

2009-04-14T15:22:00.005-04:00

The good folks over at RIF (Reading is Fundamental) just sent me an email regarding this year's Read With Kids Challenge. The mission is simple--get adults to spend time reading with children. The goal is huge--log 5 million collective minutes spent reading with kids from now (well, April 1. I'm a little late) until June 30. Log your time individually, or with a team of three or more adults, and not only do you enrich a child's life (sweet), you're entered to win a trip to Disney World (double sweet). Also, the winning team gets to choose both a featured RIF program and a school in their community to win a special children's book collection. The sweetness doesn't stop!

One of my favorite moments from my vacation in Florida this past Christmas? Lying side-by-side with my niece on her bed as she quietly read one of the books I'd given her (A Little Princess, my favorite when I was her age), and I read mine. Every once in a while I'd tell her to stop and read out loud the sentence she was on. She got a kick out of that. Of course, I occasionally had to skip a sentence or two when she did the same to me--can't always play totally fair with the young ones when propriety is at stake.

I've already spouted on about the need for child literacy, and since most of you who pop by here are writers, I'll spare the lecture. But, if you've got a little carpet crawler, monkey-bar-maniac or other wee (insert cute diminutive) available, snap 'em up and get to readin'.

Have no tots with which to share the book bug? You can always send money.

RIF needs that, too.

Just because

2009-04-09T20:18:00.005-04:00

I'm not one to post pictures of my cats, but I was cleaning out the camera roll on my phone and came across this one, which always makes me chuckle.

Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Reviews

2009-04-06T12:10:00.003-04:00

I finally got my reviews from the two Amazon expert reviewers which came along with my advancing to stage two of the ABNA. First off, many thanks to those two individuals. I know it must have been difficult plowing through all those excerpts and writing reviews on each. I appreciate your dedication to this award and even more so your feeback on my work.

As far as the reviews themselves go, I'm fairly happy with them. No one said I should find another job or walk away from the keyboard, and I'm fairly certain neither of them clawed out their eyes after reading my excerpt. I already know--gods do I know--I'm a dense writer. I don't think I can change that without changing everything about myself and my style. Plus, I'm of the opinion--stop me if I'm wrong--the issue of density is on a sliding scale when it comes to fantasy and sci-fi. I also was aware I was entering a mainstream contest with a borderline horror story, and that many people would be uncomfortable with some of the content of my novel. Not a big deal. I'm not mainstream about my life and my work reflects that.

Having said that, I am taking into consideration that I might want to move my prologue a bit deeper into the story, but I'm still not sure. Is is fairer to tell people up front that some nasty things go on in my book, or should I just let them get sucked into the relative safety of Resonance and Quinn's story, then sock them with the really dark stuff once they're trapped? I don't know. I suppose if it's a point of selling the book versus shelving it, I'll have to be sneaky about the cringe factor.

Anyway, I'm posting my feeback below, if anyone wants to see what the reviewers of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award had to say about Resonance :

ABNA Expert Reviewer
Intriguing but dense

Resonance is the unusual name of an unusual girl. She is the tattooed, blue-haired twenty-something who is forced to register at the local college by her mother as the condition of Resonance continuing to live at home. This is the normal part of this excerpt. Before you arrive at Resonance's story, however, you learn about a murderer named Arhreton who is busy tattooing a woman named Not, apparently for the last time after twenty years of brutality. Another character is Quinn, who works at a funeral home and is a key player in a lot of magical goings-on.

The plot is intriguing, with lots of interesting action. The supernatural elements were a little hard to follow, though, because of the dense writing style. I had to re-read many passages just to understand what was happening.

It's a skilled effort by the author, but the story needs a little clarity and simplicity.

ABNA Expert Reviewer

This fantasy novel opened with a blood sacrifice which was a definite turn-off in my opinion. Despite my distaste for the plot as it developed, the excerpt was well-written and certainly stood out from the crowd of other entries in the competition.

I did find myself more interested in the story once Resonance and Quinn met one another- here again the strong writing overcame my reservations about the plot itself. I do believe this might work out into an interesting book, but am concerned that other readers will share my dislike of the opening. Perhaps reworking that element into the narrative at a later point would make this work more appealing to a wider audience.

For better or worse, there they are. Like I said, I'm still pretty happy with how this all turned out. And again, my thanks to those two reviewers for their honest input.

Ebooks from a reader's standpoint

2009-03-20T12:06:00.008-04:00

As a writer, I love the concept of ebooks. Those of us shuttered out of the business because of high overheads and the Bestseller Factor know the window of opportunity that could be flung wide by the success of ebooks. Lower publisher costs = bigger stable of authors. But, today I'm thinking like a reader. After all, I am one.

A while ago J.A. Konrath (a talented author and a champion of all writers) did an interview on blogger's A view from Garnet's World. In it, he states--along with a list of other criteria--ebooks will only succeed if they are ninety-nine cents or less each. Now, we can quibble over the exact number (less than a buck seems a tad low), but I think the idea is sound. Here's why:

I have a wish list on Amazon a mile long. For every book I buy, ten others go onto this list, never to be bought. I often peruse it, I sulk over it, I add a few of its ranks to my cart--and just as quickly put them back. The fact is, I don't have the free cash to put up for every single author I think I might like to add to my burgeoning bookshelves, no matter how much I'd love to support each and every one of their careers. When I do have spare cash, I tend to buy within my genre, soothing my guilt with platitudes of research and education about my specialty. And it's a shame. There are so many authors out there I've come across and dismissed, not because of any fault of theirs--on the contrary, they usually wow me with their ranges of style and concept--but because I know the cash cow can't put out much more than she already has, and most times paying the Man is more important than purchasing a novel. For instance, this morning I read a stellar excerpt from award-winning YA author, Laurie Halse Anderson's Wintergirls. It was only two pages, but I instantly fell in love with her voice. I went to Amazon, found the novel, and inserted it into the black hole that is my wish list.

Were ebooks more popular, were publishing less expensive, were Mr. Konrath's dreams of a buck novel a reality, I'd have snapped up Wintergirls (and all her other titles), along with everyone else on that list. I'd branch out, find new books, tons of them, tons of tons of them. Instead, I have to comb through my list of the dead, searching for the one name that cannot be ignored, casting aside all others like faceless soldiers from a long forgotten war. With paperbacks averaging seven bucks a pop and hardbacks, well, they're just crazy, my hands are tied. Like Mr. Konrath also said, it makes no sense that a single hardback book starts out at close to thirty bucks, while a whole season of our favorite TV shows are under twenty. Reading is just too expensive a hobby. And that is the biggest shame for writers and readers alike.

Ups and Downs, News and Such

2009-03-17T09:46:00.006-04:00

Sorry I've been absent for an extended stretch again. The warmer weather vaulted the Architect and me out of our winter hibernation and back into the renovation gig. He fixed our front door--which could have been kicked in by a toddler--and I tore down plaster and walls. I found two more dead rats--one mummified, one just a skeleton. I stepped on another nail. This time it really hurt. But, I don't seem to have lockjaw, which is nice. The big upside is that my prison of an office is now part of the openness of the rest of the upstairs floor plan and I don't feel anywhere near as confined sitting here writing as I did before. And it's nowhere near as frigid in here.

I just got news this morning that while I did make it to the second elimination round, I did not make it to the quarterfinals in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. I was really hoping to make it to the quarterfinals. Well, hoping for the part of the quarterfinals where Publishers Weekly would read my entire novel and review it. I wanted the awfulness that would undoubtedly go along with such a "win" because I wanted some brutal professional feedback by the biggest publication news source on the planet. I wanted to know whether or not to shove "Resonance" in a drawer and forget her. I wanted someone to tell me, instead of having to figure it out myself. Guess that's what I get for trying to insert divine intervention into a free will universe. Still, I'll be getting two reviews of my opening pages given by the Amazon Vine Reviewers who essentially knocked me out of the competition. Two opinions of why my book didn't work for them. That should be fairly helpful. And making it from roughly ten-thousand people to two-thousand on the strength of my pitch means--fucking finally--I don't have to stress over that thing anymore. It apparently does its job. Now I just need my novel to do the same.

It's funny how I don't feel defeated, resigned, or even belligerent. I feel just as determined as I did before, just as calm, just as focused. Have I finally reached that spot of firm belief in my work? Or is this just the first stage of rowing a big barge down a river in Egypt? I don't know. It's going to take a couple of weeks for those reviews to trickle down to me, so I'm going to just keep on keepin' on and forget all about "Resonance" for a while and push ahead with the new novel.

Building Worlds Without a Twenty-Year Lag Time

2009-03-03T10:15:00.003-05:00

In working on the backstory of my newest novel, I've strayed into the euphoric nightmare shared by most fantasy writers--world-building. It is here in the vast blackness that is potential where fantasy writers first lift their fingers over their keyboards and with the first few strokes either triumph or fail.

I believe it can go largely undisputed that J.R.R. Tolkien set the bar for fantasy world creation. His Middle Earth is so real you could plunge through the page, step onto the ground and start walking in any direction. In your travels across his landscape you would never wander into a blank area or cross a foggy, half-imagined portion of the scenery. In Tolkien's mystical land there are no gaps, no missed opportunities. Middle Earth is whole, a world as full as our own. Prete-a-habiter. The only downside to Tolkien's masterful accomplishment--it took him over twenty years to build.

So comes the task I've been struggling with for a few weeks. I have to build nine fully fleshed worlds and not be mostly dead before I'm done. There are some great resources on the Internet, of course. My current favorite is a fill-in-the-blank sort of question sheet offered by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. This sheet has been a great help to me in the past few days as I struggled to figure out what I had missed in terms of culture, geography, history and mythology. It has given me a direction, and--better still--kept me fixed on my course. There are many other resources out there, including numerous helpful sites for RPGs, and my newest inspiration, the monstrous Otherland novel series by Tad Williams. Seeing that modern, non-obsessed writers have indeed created believeable, multi-world novels is a huge comfort.

I was watching something on TV the other night (Robot Chicken or maybe Family Guy) and the characters were lampooning the fact that George Lucas is a terrible planet creator--making one only of sand, another only forest, another only ice... This easy route is the enticing lure I'm trying to evade, the pitfall I'm determined to dodge. You won't find whole languages in my book, or even histories detailing every single year since the beginning of my worlds' inceptions, but they will be whole, fleshed out and believable--with many different climate zones. And I won't be sixty when I'm done.

Maybe fifty-five.

When Funny is-- Not Funny?

2009-02-16T14:54:00.005-05:00

You give your manuscript to a beta reader or a writing buddy. They take a few days, give it back and say, "It was good. And that part in Chapter Five where she.... That was hilarious."

You blink.

Clear your throat.

Blink again.

And again.

You mutter a weak, "Thanks," and snatch back your manuscript, all the while thinking, Dillhole. Dillhole. Dillholedillholedillhole.

You walk away fuming. That part wasn't funny. That part was never meant to be funny. You poured your heart and soul into that scene, hoping it would tear the same out of your reader's chest. And they giggled. Chuckled, maybe. Who knows? There could have been a whooping fit to match a hyena.

If it hasn't happened to you already, it probably will. And I feel there are two ways to handle the situation: ignore it, or don't ignore it (mind-blowing stuff, right?).

Let's start with Don't ignore it. I feel this situation applies only if you were trying to establish the most tragic, romantic, or profound of moods. For example: You write a scene where your protagonist, after six years of searching, finally finds the home of her birth mother. She rings the doorbell and peeks through the sidelight to catch her first glimpse of the one brought her into this world, only to give her up. An older woman appears at the top of the stairs. She squints back at the familiar-seeming face, her expression of curiosity melting into one of recognition and joy. She steps forward, arms outstretched, and trips over a puppy playing on the tread below. The protagonist screams, but can do nothing to stop the horror playing out in front of her eyes. Both woman and dog tumble down the steps, a windmill of fur and extremities. They hit the landing with a sickening crunch, the window framing their deaths like a grisly postcard.

At this point, unless you happen to be one of the Python boys, you'll be wanting your reader sobbing onto the well-worn pages of your novel (not enough to smudge the lines, mind you, but enough to leave a telltale grief stain so other readers will know in advance of your knife-twisting skill). If, instead, they're holding their sides and howling, "A puppy!" between shrieks of laughter, you'll probably want to rewrite it (Scratch that. If you write anything involving puppy-tripping-tragedy, you should definitely rewrite).

Moving on to the more apt option, Ignore it:

Not everyone has the same sense of humor as you. Some people find irony in things we overlook. Some people have a very dry wit. And others are just plain weird when it comes to what they think is funny (like Adam Sandler movies). Unless no one gets your jokes and everyone thinks your drama is hysterical, just let it go. It's not worth second guessing every single reader's reaction to your work. In fact, it's impossible. Just let them find what they need in your writing, and move on. At least you're getting a laugh. It's more than you can say about I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry.

I know, I didn't have to go there.

I just wanted to.

Ten Things

2009-02-12T11:47:00.003-05:00

Last night I was thinking of where I am now versus where I was ten years ago. The difference is staggering, even to me. In honor of my nearly six years on The Shore (and nearly six years away from D.C.), I've come up with a list of what I miss about the Nation's Capital, and what I love about where I am now.

What I miss about D.C. (and its surrounding locale):

1) Accessibility. Shopping, food, great medical care--all right there.
2) Diversity. An international cornucopia of heritages, faiths and culture.
3) Free Museums, especially the Freer/Sackler galleries with their vast collection of religious icons.
4) The Uptown. An historic movie theatre with a twenty-foot curved screen, a huge balcony and velvet curtains that roll back before the show.
5) Alternative music doesn't mean Green Day--real shows, awesome bands, great venues and spectacular attendees (this applies more to Baltimore than conservative D.C.).
6) Proper county fairs. You'd think a rural county like Wicomico would corner the market on this agrarian tradition. Not so. You have to hike fifty miles north to the Delaware State Fair if you want to see a goat (and I love me some goats).
7) Commander Salamander (although I hear it has gone mainstream. Sigh).
8) Thai food. Korean food. Vietnamese food.
9) Armand's pizza in Silver Spring. Heaven on a crust.
10) MOBY DICK HOUSE OF KABOB. Yeah, losing access to a tiny little carryout place is the biggest regret I carry with me. It's was a splurge back in the day, which is why I particularly crave it for my birthday, our anniversary, any special event. Kabob E-Chehjeh over rice, Mast-o Kheyar (cucumber yogurt sauce), herb salad, flat bread and the house Doojh (fizzy yogurt drink) to wash it all down. A planet of "Yums," couldn't cover my adoration for this place.

What I love about the Eastern Shore:

1) Maryland Blue Crabs. And not the crap they charge you an arm and a leg for in Baltimore, but locally harvested, giant, succulent crabs.
2) Assateague Island National Seashore, with its massive white beaches, nature trails and wild ponies.
3) The towering pine trees ensure there's always a little green edging the horizon, even in the depths of winter.
4) For better (usually) or worse (one stellar example), I actually know my neighbors.
5) The ocean is twenty minutes away.
6) On nights with a celestial or lunar event, all I have to do is drive ten minutes in any direction to find myself standing in a cornfield under a velvet black sky.
7) I can drive my 1977, belt-squealing, engine-growling, eight-foot-bedded beast of a pickup and the stares I get are ones of approval, not horror.
8) Farmland is not a mythological entity.
9) Thrasher's French Fries and Anthony's Carryout roast beef sandwiches.
10) I can afford my house.

So, six years later, I've reached a happy compromise. When the yearning for city life grabs me, I jump in my car, indulge in some of my most longed-for entertainments, then I climb back in the car, and let the sparkling silvery waters of the Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries guide me, bridge-by-bridge, back home.

An Odd Thought -- The Silent Victim

2009-02-09T10:33:00.003-05:00

With so many states having cracked down on smoking in clubs, what do you think was the fate of the guy who liked to be the Human Ashtray on fetish night? Did he have to change fetishes? Maybe try being the Human Doormat? Or, does he have to go out to the little huddle of smokers by the corner of the building and lie down on the cold, wet sidewalk?

As Restless as We Are

2009-02-05T23:26:00.004-05:00

This is just a tiny bit of fluff that popped into my head after hearing (and I so wish I hadn't had to hear it) 1979 by Smashing Pumpkins.

********************************************************************************

The splintered laminate dug into her palms as she leaned over the sink, studying the void that stared back at her.

What was she doing here? And where was it all supposed to take her?

"I'm off to class, now," her roommate said from the other side of the dark, twin bureaus that divided the room. "You going today?"

She turned towards her roomate's voice. The heavy fire door slammed against the metal jamb before she could form an answer. She looked back at her reflection. She studied the absurd roundness of her cheeks in the mirror. Apple cheeks on crank. Campbell Soup Kid Cheeks. She'd never be skinny. Too much Mountain People in her for that. What was it her great-grandmother had called her mother?

Fleshy.

A compliment.

Sturdy.

Like a mule.

The reflection's eyebrow lifted. So, that took care of the supermodel option. Probably the actress, too. So--what? She knew full well what her parents wanted. Nurse. Teacher. Government worker. The first two with easier schedules for a tired pregnant woman, ones quickly enough discarded when the proper man, proper house, proper number of spawn came along. Disposable jobs. The mirrored mouth twitched in something bordering amusement. The latter option would provide great retirement benefits.

A sturdy job.

A good job.

A fleshy job.

She snorted, pushed away from the vanity, and snapped off the light.

**********

Twin bulbs flicker into illumination. She leans against another vanity. Although it is in another place entirely, the mood is unsettlingly similar. She leans forward, pulled into the bluish glow like a bug to a zapper. She studies the face before her. She had been right. She never got skinny. As for her cheeks, well, the advancing of time had neither sagged nor diminished them. Still like a hamster with a face full of seed. Forever a Campbell's Kid. As she gazes at the minute lines time has danced across the features she once thought unchangeable, she thinks back to that day. They had wanted an answer. She hadn't had one to give.

Who was she going to be?

What was she supposed to have said to that?

Whatever's on page forty-one of the Course Catalog?

You pick for me, because I haven't a fucking clue?

A bloom of teeth and gums splits the face in the mirror.

The answer to her roomate's question had been--had always been-- "No."

Another R.I.P

2009-02-05T12:52:00.002-05:00

What was going to be a regular post has now become a memorial for yet another fallen freak.

Rest in Peace, Lux Interior.

Sometimes Good Things Come in Bubbles

2009-02-03T11:31:00.006-05:00

There is much talk of how writers exist in isolated bubbles. All day we hunch over keyboards, pecking away, creating worlds we sincerely hope others may one day see. It is a sometimes difficult occupation, and quite often a fairly lonely chunk of our lives. But, on occasion, our lonely little bubbles bump into other bubbles, and things start to look up.

Last week before submitting to the ABNA was--interesting. No major drama, or anything, but just a series of mental hurdles to leap over, crawl under, and crash into. Had I been jumping through the prerequisite hoops alone, I probably would have put my head through the monitor. Thankfully, John--one of the first internet bubbles I had ever grazed--was standing by for me. In him I have found a great writing partner, a sometimes brutal, but always honest, editor, and a pretty cool friend. John, you probably don't ever drop by here--you bastard--but if by some chance you happen to stumble over this post, thanks for everything--and, uh, sorry for the, "bastard," part.

So, I submitted my novel yesterday, then moseyed back to the internet to find an email from Christina, that I had won a drawing, and that my buddy Pirate Steve--who clearly understands I'm unreliable when it comes to keeping up with posts--had dropped by to give me the heads-up. And that's when this whole post came together. I realized that yes, my week had been tough. But, it wasn't at all lonely.

This post is for all of you--the ones I've met and become friends with; the ones who pop by even when I'm a slacker about posting/viewing posts; the ones who drop me emails to see if I'm alive; and the ones who, by just floating around in their little bubbles, make me feel better about it all.

Thanks, guys.

The Shadow of Avarice

2009-01-21T12:16:00.005-05:00

For as long as I've been conscious of my surroundings, American culture has been one of greed. In fact, I think it safe to say that if Dante's' hell does exist, most of us will be stopping by the fourth level for at least a short visit. In bed last night, as my mind churned with images of this mess our country has landed in, and how we got there, my thoughts turned to Woodstock (the festival, not the little yellow bird).

Woodstock started out as a corporate venture, as most ventures do. But, as the attendance list grew, so did the ideals behind the concert. It became bigger than business suits and conference rooms, bigger than budget meetings and profit margins. It became bigger than the dollar. The weekend was shared in a spirit of love and peace, and although problems did arise, the attendees took them in gracious stride. They weathered rain, poor sanitary conditions and food shortages all because they wanted to be there, to share in the moment itself.

Fast forward to 1999. Another "Woodstock", this time--a true echo of its origin's nature--held at a Superfund site. Corporate sponsors lined up, hands out. Merchandise booths and food vendors descended like hungry vultures, each one charging far too much for the substandard wares they hawked. In the only mirror of the previous festival this paltry approximation could claim, food and water again ran short, as did sanitary provisions. This time, riots broke out. Fires were started. Women were raped. The Gen-X answer to the concert that changed rock and roll was a heinous, violent disaster.

When money becomes the sole motive of any purpose, no matter how innocuous or pure the original intent, a shadow falls. This darkness obscures the way, leaving us to wander in the pitch, hoping the direction in which we point is true. And that's what has happened to our country. We've been staggering around in the blackness of avarice, surrounded by the material things we've collected, forging for ourselves a vertiginous maze of high end cars, gated communities and the all-mighty--I hate to be forced to say this word--bling.

It is a hard lesson to learn, but a necessary one, one that extends to every aspect of our lives, our hopes. For who among the downtrodden clan of struggling writers has not dreamed of a giant advance, a throng of loyal readers, book signing lines that snake around the block? Hoping for such things is fine, as is attaining them. But, it's the method by which we go about achieving it, the intent behind our own personal Woodstocks that make the difference. At this critical point in history, where we can learn from our mistakes or doom ourselves to repeat them, we would be better off focusing on what we want out of our work on a personal level, and leave the scrabbling for material achievements to those who enjoy the shadows.

Hope Springs Eternal, and All That

2009-01-19T10:55:00.004-05:00

This is my first big recession. Well, the first that directly affected me. When I was a kid, there were those long lines at the gas pumps, but the worst trauma that came out of that was I had to roll around in the Way Back of my Mom's Ford LTD station wagon and angst over whether or not I would make it back home in time for Kroft Superstars. Then, in 2001, there was a recession, but I didn't feel that one, either. I was in health care, so there were just as many patients before as after, and my benevolent employer had already told me I wouldn't be earning any more money with him (yeah, and I stayed two more years), so clearly there was no dent in my raises/bonuses. Since its inception, the Architect's then business was a constant struggle to keep afloat, making the crunch of hard times feel no different than what he and I had been struggling with for years. But this one--ah, this one--I'm feeling every single second of it. And, yeah, I'm more than a little scared. It goes to figure when we finally decide to be grownups and buy a house and gut the entire thing, everything goes in the shitter two months later. Sometimes when I think of it, I even feel a little sorry for myself. Then, I think of Nana.

Nana was my great-grandmother. When I was old enough to appreciate her, she was already pushing ninety, and was a self-proclaimed, "Wheezy, woozy, wobbly old bitch." Nana was born before the turn of the century--not this past one, but the one that used to sound so impressive to young ears. Nana survived two world wars, a depression, the early death of her husband, and rebounded from loss of a breast to cancer in a time when the odds of surviving were clearly out of her favor (and reconstructive surgery was a laughable proposition). She watched one son go to war, and a son-in-law follow. She worked as a telephone operator, and still managed to bake two pies and a cake every week for her family. She saw it all, from the highest of highs, to the lowest of lows. And when my thoughts turn to Nana, I think to myself that if that old bitch could weather rough seas, then so can this young one.

Every generation has its tale of woe. From World War II, to Vietnam, to right now. It's only natural that if one lives long enough, one will see hard times, along with the good. So, instead of wishing it wouldn't happen, I will instead wish that we each live long enough to see the bad, and then live long enough to watch our country climb back to the top.

On a related topic (and the tinfoil-hat-type living inside me is shouting that it's still too early to celebrate), tomorrow is the day when change comes. If I were to allocate my excitement, it would be 35% for the new guy, and 65% for the fact the other one will be gone for good. I'd post this tomorrow (when the inner foil-head girl will finally be silenced--about this topic, anyway), but I'm planning on parking my ass on the sofa and watching the changing of the guards in real-time. It's the first time I'll have ever bothered to watch the festivities, so you can guess just how excited I really am for the changeover to occur.

Below is my celebration song (no actual video content, sorry). I have waited a long, long time to play it. If you're less than enthused about the coming changeover (or offended by Bad Words), skip it.

The lyrics (for those of you that don't understand metal-speak):

Ministry Lyrics
The Last Sucker Lyrics

Just So We're All Clear

2009-01-09T15:51:00.003-05:00

A short, yet illuminating video** (because I'm too lazy to write anything useful today):

Oh, and taking a chance on any of the thousands of new writers with zero credentials, but mind-blowing novels--now THAT'S

**Thanks again to my personal, internet-scouring evil flying monkey, "X" for finding this video

Back--and as Always, in Black

2009-01-07T15:11:00.006-05:00

I departed sunny Florida on Sunday, the fourth, leaving behind a huge, four-bedroom house, a hot tub, fully functional indoor climate control, and some of the prettiest, sunniest days I have ever witnessed. I arrived back on the good ol' Eastern Shore fifteen hours later, and haven't seen the sun since. It's been rainy, drizzly and cold. The wind blew so hard while we were gone that bits of our exposed insulation popped out of the studs. Currently, the rain is pinging against the vent pipe of the pellet stove, reminding me with every drop that I'm not in Oz, anymore. Still, I'm happy. My low ceilings feel cozy and snug compared to the soaring ten, twelve foot ceilings in my brother-in-law's house. My trailer-width living room glows softly with the combined ambiance of the firelight and red-lighted Christmas tree--no, I haven't taken it down, yet. My books, stacked up in piles as they are, are a welcome sight after spending a week in a house where the only books to be found were on a tiny kids' shelf, and another private collection consisting of only James Patterson novels.

Don't get me wrong. I had fun down there. There was horseback riding--something I haven't done for nearly twenty years. I scuffed the crap out of my combat boots climbing an orange tree to reach a handful of huge, perfectly ripe fruits. I took photographs as my extended family raised a cloud of dust chasing chickens in a vain attempt to get my mother-in-law's rooster some company. I raided a cigar shop for boxes and came out loaded with many containers which have since solved my desktop organizational issues--one even holds my beloved index cards. On New Year's Eve I tasted some white lightening, got in the hot tub, and then bore witness to a drunken old man (who, despite my evil inclinations to do otherwise, shall not be named) stripping down to his ultra brief-briefs and climbing in to join me. I think I might be a little mentally scarred from that one, though.

Now I'm back, mercifully without a trace of suntan, and am ready to hit this year full force. I'll be putting Resonance in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest this February. I'm not expecting much to come of it, but one never knows which way the winds might blow. I'll also be hitting up some more agents in the next few weeks and moving forward with my next two novels. The insane asylum which was my computer room is now much more conducive to creativity--mostly thanks to the Architect, who finished insulation in the attic/loft, so I could move some shit around and make space for more clutter storage.

Despite the persistent gloom outside my windows, I'm in a pretty optimistic mood. My favorite sore point, Captain Jackass, has his days numbered at thirteen, and then we'll have a brand new sheriff in town. For being such a pessimistic stick-in-the-mud, I'm surprisingly giddy/hopeful about our new administration. Of course, the economy is the big nasty hiding under the bed for all of us, but, the way I figure, even if jobs go away and my house is taken back and everything material goes in the shitter, it's still just stuff. As long as I have the Architect and my kitties, everything else is just stuff. And I'm pretty sure I can get more of that somewhere along the way.

Yeah. I'm ready to move forward, and I don't mind sayin' I'm feelin' pretty groovy.

Traditions

2008-12-23T10:58:00.004-05:00

When I was little, my grandmother lived two doors down. When I was a bit bigger, she lived ten minutes away. Even so, she always stayed the night on Christmas Eve, arriving in the late afternoon, her car as laden as Santa's sleigh with a multitude of jumbo trash bags filled with presents. She would cart this enticing jackpot into the house, plop it all behind the tree, and then settle in to wait out the long night with us. And even though my grandfather had died on Christmas Eve when I wasn't yet three, she never showed anything but her usual gruff good nature. Even when I was older and we were good friends, I never asked how many nights she had cried herself to sleep in my narrow twin bed while I tossed in gleeful anticipation on our basement couch, and she never told.

One year in the eighties (when home computers were just emerging on the scene, and my entire family sported Ogilve home perm, brillo-pad-heads) my grandmother brought out an enticing package. After much speculation, my brother and I decided the monitor-shaped item could only be a Commodore 64 (kids really can't grasp the concept of items coming in packing boxes and other superfluous nonsense, you know). Cementing our certainty was my grandmother's cryptic comment, "This is for the whole family." So, of course, our disappointment was palpable when we opened the package to discover Trivial Pursuit and its companion, the Genius Edition, bundled together. Yet, in retrospect that gift was far better than a computer ever could have been. First off, it was more fun than typing C:Run over and over again, and, more importantly, it provided a tradition of Christmas Eve trivia that lasted for many years.

I'm no longer a kid. Thankfully, all traces of my fried poodle head have vanished. My grandmother is gone, and long before her went our family's ritualistic pursuit of trivia. Time continues forward and, willingly or unwillingly, we must follow along. As I've grown, new Christmas Eve traditions have bloomed where old ones died: helping Mom fill the nieces' and nephew's stockings, watching movies until way after midnight (and praising all the powers in the universe when none of them involve Chuck Norris), and--my personal favorite--getting a good buzz on with Dad.

Speaking of new traditions, I have three dozen truffles to finish coating, and a crazy amount of packing to do for our trip first to my parents', then on south to Florida. I hope each of you enjoy your holidays in your own way--be they quiet or boisterous, simple or strange--and may your memories be as happy as mine.

Meet the Krampus

2008-12-18T11:18:00.005-05:00

Were you one of those children bored with the saccharine goodwill oozed by corporational profit-driven Christmas ad campaigns? Was the threat of getting a lump of coal and a couple of sticks not nearly enough to deter you from accumulating a hefty tally of pre-holiday misdeeds? Did you ever just look at that big, red sleigh and know something was missing? If so, allow me to introduce you to the Krampus.

Yep. That's a baby in his bag, and he ain't deliverin' it, either.

The Krampus is a companion to Santa Claus in some European traditions. He's the yin to the yang, the devil to Nick's savior. He's the enforcer, the allocator of punishment. The Bad Ass. In many traditions, the Krampus is more mischievous than wicked, laying down a single silver branch in lieu of presents to represent the offending child's misdeeds. But, in other traditions, he carries a bundle of sticks for kid-whipping. In some instances he goes so far as to drag along chains, rattling out the rhythm to which he will later pummel the little ingrates. He even has a night, December fifth (or sixth, depending on where you look). Because loud, obnoxious boys like to be loud, obnoxious drunks, the holiday has been taken over by inebriated young men who dress up in their Krampiest best and take to the streets, beating the crap out of people with sticks for the hell of it. Apparently, it's not a good night to be a young woman and need anything from the local store.

Despite his spiraling decline into an excuse to get drunk (ring a spiked, eggnogish Christmas morning bell to anyone?), I find the Krampus fascinating. Not only does this mean--oh happy day--that Santa hauls around his very own nasty demon, it also means the Krampus' existence removes all vindictiveness from the Jolly Man's shoulders. And I like that. Santa can forever remain the symbol of unconditional generosity, and the Krampus will deal with the putting of boots up tiny backsides.

Knowing the Krampus is wandering out there, ready to smack me in the head with a fistful of linked steel has indeed inspired me to rein it in for the next few days. Maybe even lay off the "f" word. Well, at least cut it down to every two words, or so. In case you're still disinclined to be good, for Krampus' sake, here are a few more images:

Thanks once again to my suitably nefarious friend, X, for turning me on to the wonders of the Krampus. Happy Krampus Day, X, and the same to all of you.

Rest in Peace, Gorgeous

2008-12-12T09:29:00.004-05:00

She broke the rules while wearing a corset. She plowed through the pop culture blonde bombshell stereotype like a Mack Truck. Now thousands of girls run around wearing her bangs, sporting halter tops and cuffed jeans, while tattoos of her curvaceous body and impish smile peek out from under their long, sleek hair. Never a legend in the traditional sense, but a legend just the same.

Rest well, Ms. Page.

Stereotype This

2008-12-10T12:53:00.004-05:00

I usually love where I live. It's quiet, slow-paced, and people are generally very friendly. However, once in a while I come across someone who just doesn't "get" me, someone who, for whatever reason, feels it necessary to take it upon themselves to poke at me like I'm a bizarre insect, to prod into my cage with their pointy stick until they elicit the behavior they seem to feel I should have displayed at the outright, the behavior they have assigned to individuals with my appearance.

Steve did a great post a while ago on stereotypes in writing, and their necessity. As art echoes life, I understand the need for stereotypes in society, for neat little boxes to insert people into so that they may be understood better: athletic; beautiful; nerdy; normal; devil worshipper. You know, all the usuals. I understand that without the means to sort and categorize the world around us, humanity would lose much of its ability to function. Boxes have a purpose. They help keep our minds from overloading. I get that. I just wish we all could follow basic kindergarten rules and be nice and keep our sorting mechanisms to ourselves.

To the charming lady I ran into in the store yesterday, here's an educational video to help you out. Enjoy.

(Bad words here, kiddies... Get Mom and Dad's permission before clicking. Or just don't tell them I was the one who taught you how to say them)

Back from the Void

2008-12-01T11:05:00.003-05:00

Well, I've managed to crawl out of the sucking (in so many ways) blackness of technological meltdown just in time to say I hope all my American friends had a happy Thanksgiving. My evildoer cohort/benefactor, "X", came through and I have a monitor to use until the new iMac's come out in early January, at which time I will have a brand-spanking-new computer on which to play Sims... Ahem, I mean write.

Thanks to everyone for their well-wishes in my absence. I'll be back to doing the rounds of blogs in a day or so. I have one last mission to accomplish before settling back into the writing routine--climbing into the fifteen-foot long, six-foot wide, peaked space that is what's left of our attic (which was stuffed to the gills with everything we owned when we started renovations) and finding the Christmas decorations stored at the very back. While I'm at it, I suppose it would behoove me to locate my party clothes, as the Architect's firm is having its annual gathering on Friday, and all my festive clothing is trapped somewhere amongst the rubble. Oh, and on that note, allow me to give a piece of advice to anyone getting ready to renovate; don't smash the crap out of your closet until you have an official place to stash your duds. Boxes, trash bags and your grandmother's old powder-blue suitcase with the jacked-up zipper are paltry substitutes for proper storage.

I'm looking forward to getting back into the loop, catching up on everyone's brilliant posts and getting my writing going again.

Thanks again, X, for the loan. I promise the cats aren't getting hair on it.

Much.

Around, just mostly unavailable

2008-11-12T09:26:00.003-05:00

Sad to say, it seems my monitor is on the brink of--if not already toppled into the chasm of--death. So, until further notice, I'll be noticably absent. I can still get emails on my cell (and obviously can type very painful short posts on its teeny, tiny screen). I'm hoping this matter can be resolved quickly and with little pain, but I'm not holding out too much hope for this eight year-old machine.

Great. Now my eyes are crossed.

Have a good one.

Be Afraid...

2008-11-04T15:44:00.002-05:00

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

2008-10-31T00:31:00.004-04:00

Happy Halloween, everyone. If you haven't before, check out my Halloween-themed flash fiction in my three previous posts. Then, to give you a better horror fix, follow the posted links embedded at the top of my stories, "Empress of the Fescue" and "Problem Child" to a cornucopia of shiver-inducing tales penned by some crazy-talented writers.

If you're more of a visual type, take a gander at this horror movie homage by Rob Zombie (while still in his hot phase), then "I walked with a Zombie" by Wednesday 13--fun treats for you boys and ghouls!

Rob Zombie |MTV Music

Halloween Flash Finale

2008-10-28T15:38:00.004-04:00

Well, Halloween is almost at hand and I've come up with a final flash piece to contribute to Charles' Halloween Horror Flash Fiction-a-thon. This one's been hiding in my files almost as long as The Empress.

If I don't get around to writing another post this week, have a Happy Halloween. Listen to some spooky music, light a bonfire, dress up as the creature you've always wanted to be. Oh yeah, and go get some candy for me (Baby Ruth's are the preferred donation).

************

The Love of the Job

Like a mechanical mosquito the needle hammered into his flesh, drawing out slick smears of crimson, depositing various shades of gray in return.

Remember Nikky, this spot is mine.

Those had been the last words spoken to him by his grandfather, Sid "the Ink" Shepherd, as the dying old man patted the final bit of virgin skin on Nick's motley arm. Now only the walls' collection of flash stood as silent witness to the fulfillment of that promise, the memorialization of Nick's mentor, despite the torturous regret it fostered.

The job was going horribly wrong.

Nick's sweat-slicked right hand clung to the battered, duct taped armrest as his defiant left arm steadily worked his grandfather's prized shader across his flesh. He could no more stop its progress than will the frenzied staccato of his heart to slow. The needle buzzed into his skin with hot, jabbing intensity. The newly injected ink swarmed through the dermis, breaking lines here, joining others there, willfully reshaping his chosen design to suit its own undisclosed end. Nick could do nothing but watch.

After hours of slow agony, the maniacal tension in Nick's arm dispelled and the shader clattered to the floor. His stomach knotted with trepidation, Nick grabbed a handful of rough paper towels and wiped away the sanguine and ebony swirls. From its place in the center of his forearm, the grayscale visage of his grandfather stared sternly up at the collection of lewd cartoons pinned to the ceiling. Like a slow moving wave, the skin on Nick's arm gathered and broke, folding over his grandfather's eyes as dark, hooded lids. The tattoo gave a slow blink and then rolled its gaze down, sweeping back and forth, studying its new incarnation. Sweat ticked down Nick's face as the eyes--those eyes wrought by his own hand--turned upwards to bore into him. With a careful stretch of its mouth, the tattoo gave Nick an admonitory scowl.

"Your shading is shit, boy."