Once Voice

The ship is sinking and has been for some time. I see no evidence of captain or crew. The crew is taking an extended meal break. The captain’s whereabouts are a mystery. I do the only thing I can.

I look over the railing again, begging God to let what I saw be my imagination. I receive the same result all men in my predicament do. When has anyone found a need to beseech the divine when it was nothing but their imagination? I was not the first.

The tentacles crawling up the side are not the most disturbing aspect of the scene. Each is ten times the size of a human and I see only a portion of them. They are the vibrant, dirty green of late spring leaves in New York. At the tip of each is a mouth of razor teeth the brown of dentures stained by years of bitter tea. Each has one eye faced backward to see only itself. They softly whisper in different languages, seductively creating madness and chaos; inspiring images of Babble.

More disturbing are the cracks in the hull, fissures that have existed for years. The monster or monsters embracing the boat are greedily holding it together. That cannot last, for when they slither close enough to touch they strike each other like snakes. Biting and spitting venom they battle until one falls away and the ship takes on water at an increased pace.

Tearing my eyes away I survey my fellow passengers again. I am not alone in my realization. The others have seen and broken into groups. Alone I wander amongst them. I listen for wisdom.

“The crew has sold us to the beast for their own safety.” Speak those clad in leather jackets and thick rimmed glasses.

“It visits us as punishment for idleness and acceptance of the deviants among us.” This echoes between soft, well dressed gentry casting accusing gazes.

“We must sympathize as we have brought this on ourselves in some manner.” Say folks bound in tweed, sporting pocket protectors.

I hear many opposing views. Most speaking do so with furtive glances at the ones they blame. As the tentacles creep ever closer I notice, most do not speak. Instead they continue to dance, wander, and ignore; hoping it will go away. They wait for rescue, for someone else to act. From all of them I sense fear. Voices are disparate but emotion unified.  So I speak.

“Friends and fellows we are not powerless. We possess a duty not seen in generations to set aside petty differences and act. Risk death together or face destruction alone cloaked in the cold comfort of our disdain. Follow me, defend the little we can call our own.”

I heft the nearest object I can use as a weapon. Leaning over the railing I wait for my chance to fight back. Looking around me I wonder at what my voice has done as many of my fellow passengers stand beside me.

#politicalcommentary #socialcommentary #shortstory #writing

Old Odd Ends

So it has been a few days. #shamelessselfpromotion time. Go buy the book if you haven't! If you have please review! Short one on this subject today. I am looking at putting together a book of shorts in the next month or two as well. We'll see how that works out.

My favorite short right now is the one I just wrote for a contest so I can't post that one yet. Sad, but I'll get to it later.

Anyway, yeah... links to the right. If you fall outside of those markets you can just search for Old Odd Ends on Amazon or Createspace if you prefer.


#aboutme #author #novel #thoughts #writer #writing

Cambreadth High School

Seeing Susan fall beside me I knew the battle was lost. I watched the bloodied hand of my last compatriot land near my backpack. My eyes moved to the open bag and our secret weapon inside. My mind drifted back three days.

“So set your sights lower.” Thomas said. He always had a way of understating the importance of things. He was one of mine though, one of the forgotten refuse roaming the halls of WWH.

“And then what? Vocational? The hell with that. They created this problem.” I had to make them understand.

“Wait… Explain it again. What happened at the assembly?” Susan offered me her smile. The one that always made it hard to think but I tried to relate it.

Mr. Swanson ran the teacher assemblies. His eyes shone with malice mirroring his crew’s lack of concern for students like me. Mrs. Green headed up the opposition board and they seemed to care about us. Until you noticed the earbuds they wore. Those probably explained the heads bobbing in all the right places better than actual concern.

Mr. Swanson was just finishing up a motion to send a million dollars in aid to Jefferson High. They were in the middle of a cricket war with insurgents from a community college. The motion passed with unprecedented support. I chose that moment to wave my hands like a headless lunatic having a fit. Mr. Swanson didn’t bother to call on me. He just responded.

“Student 3498, we already know your complaints. It would not be better to spend this money on extending the school lunch benefits. We have had this conversation.”

“But since all schools became boarding schools you are required to provide for us.” I interrupted.

“Only so long as you are involved in a student job. We are all very sorry you lost your TA position. Perhaps you should have been more subservient than good at your job.” His wicked smile gleamed at me, the bastard. “New business?”

“We all feel for you.” Thomas wouldn’t even look at me. “But we can’t win. The teachers have real weapons. What do we have? Pencils and tablets!”

“It’s not about winning.” Susan chimed in. Thank the gods she was coming around. She had a way of convincing the unwashed and disgruntled masses.

“It’s about what’s right.” I jumped in. “It’s about making a stand and hoping others can change things. We’re all going to starve anyway.”

Then Susan said the most profound thing I have ever heard.

As I donned the pack and raised my hands the teachers stopped firing. They loved submission and surrender. I approached slowly and a large unit of teachers closed in around me. Our secret weapon, a book bomb stolen from a teacher, ticked silent towards detonation in my backpack. I smiled, hoping they were all close enough. Susan’s motto ran through my head just before the world filled with white light and pain.

It’s about how many of them can we make die?

#commentary #political commentary #socialcommentary #shortstory

Echoes of Legend

The world used to belong to us, but then monsters entered the night. One of the in particular is the thing you use to scare unruly children. He brings death with no conscience or regret. It is he that so often haunts my nightmares.

I look up to see him crouched on the sill just outside the window. Murder resides in those cold eyes but the most horrifying thing is the smile that graces his alien lips. He enjoys this. He loves the terror he brings to those like me. There is glass between us but that would not stop the likes of him. Thankfully there are bars between the two of us as well.

He is known as the Brother of the Book and he believes he is righteous. In the dream he leers down at me with the implements of death hanging from the ends of his hands. The bigot truly believes we should die because we are different. My skin is different than his. I eat different foods. I see the world in shades of grey that his black and white mind cannot tolerate.

When will people learn not to judge on things like that? Why does he wish to harm us because we are different than him? Do we not deserve the chance to live and thrive as much as anyone? If I were to ask him he would scream, No, no, no! Then he would end my life.

The dream comes at least three times a week. In the end he is always tapping at the glass and I wake with a scream in my throat.

Tick, tick, tick. The sound of metal on solid glass causes my eyes to pop open. My stomach turns to water as I see the monster of my nightmares in his customary place outside my window. This time he has set tools of homicide aside and used a torch to cut through my protective bars however. With that done he is hammering at the thin layer of glass that will not keep me safe for long.

I have a moment to lament and grow philosophical. It is a short moment as the glass shatters, spraying inward to litter the room. He will not waste words, he never does. Shooting through the opening he follows the shards down to land near my bed.

I think of how it used to be. When we ruled the night, when we were legends. Those were better times but then men like him came. They determined my kind must be exterminated for the good of others. If only he could see, if they all could. Those things the condemn us for are what they have become.

Those are my thoughts as his cheap cologne fills my nose, the crunch of broken glass reaching my ears. Then he is nailing me back into my coffin with silver. Hunters will never change.

Note: The man referenced is the main character of one of my current projects.

#ghoststory #horror #shortstory #monster

Circus U

My girlfriend and I have a deal. When I meet people she has any association with they are not informed of our relationship up front. It works better that way. It makes living the dirty secrets of my life less complicated. In return I follow her advice in the other parts of my life without question.

Sometimes I hate the deal.

Like when I ended up in Women’s Studies. First year, first day, first damn class. Stupid deal.

I knew professor Kirst was insane when I walked into the class. In her three tone muumuu, hipster glasses, and wild hair she looked ready for Woodstock. Her voice was nasally and repellent. As if all of that weren’t bra burning hippie enough, she wore a homemade perfume composed of equal parts patchouli, red wine, and body odor. It was going to be a long semester.

So she sat us down in a “drum circle” and presented her getting to know you exercise. The class was small enough. I guess I’m not the only one that thought the subject was outdated and the name not at all politically correct. Anyway, she got us set up like a kindergarten class and introduced her ice breaking exercise. At least that part would prepare me for corporate America. She told us her script and where to fill in. I was on her left and it never got past me.

“Wait a minute, wait one minute.” Kirst whined in her migraine inducing tone. I already hated her.

“Yes professor?”

“Okay… your name is Jasper.”

“Yes professor.”

“You do this in a purple clown outfit and a yellow wig?”

“Correct professor.”

The rest of the students still looked stunned at my revelation. They were not reacting. This conversation was just between us. Well, all but one of the students were still, silent, and covered in looks of horror but we’ll get to the last one later. The professor continued.

“And, every day you like to go to the park and kidnap a small child?” She was suppressing a smile, assuming I was joking.

“Correct professor.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I find out what they enjoy and give them the best day of their young lives.”

“Then you return them home?”

“Oh, no professor.”

“Then you…”

“Kill them professor.”

“Why would you do that?” She seemed like she was starting to believe.

“Well, I anesthetize them so they feel no pain. Then I slit their throats and dispose of the bodies. I do it so they die with a happy memory and don’t have to grow up in this screwed up world. It’s better for everyone.”

“You’re sick.” She was still trying to laugh it off.

She went for her phone then. I tackled her. The other students made a run for the door. The herd was stopped by a loud click as my girlfriend, who had moved into position, locked everyone in.

It was going to be a long semester.

Sometimes I love the deal.

#dark #shortstory #horror

The Succubus

So Old Odd Ends has one of the main characters as a variation on the succubus. I got to thinking... what the hell? Why are we so obsessed with them. For a historical reference you can look here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Succubus

So they started out monstrous and gross. Over time they got sexy as hell. They are a demon that even in religions that say all demons are fallen angels they were once human. Conflicting much?

I know many people who love angels and demons in their art. I know even more who think of the succubus when they think of demons. Why the obsession? Is it just the association with sex? Is there something more?

I am seriously asking here. I love them, love using them in my writing and I am not completely sure where my obsession comes from. Normally with angels and demons I prefer to stick to the traditional. Angels are angels and were never humans, demons are fallen angels not the souls of the damned. Yet, while I will fudge this in my writing, all information says these were humans not angels. So this is an oddity to me.

Succubi, why do we love them? Why do you love them? Sound off! Do it now!







#commentary #hello #magic #thoughts #villainess #writer #writing #succubus #demons #mythology #religion

What is Horror

So I am popping off a couple of non story things here. This is a post of some random thoughts on the subject of horror.

When I was putting Old Odd Ends out there I couldn't classify it. I mean it has monsters in it. It is dark as hell. It's modern but has magic. I'm very wordy and have a strong focus on the characters. I also focus on the story because while I love a character driven story that second word is still a big part of it.

Finally an agent told me what it was. She said it was Literary Genre Fiction. I was able to further define the genre to a combination of Horror and Urban Fantasy. For those of you who do not know Literary Fiction means the author is wordy and focuses on the characters, sometimes to the exclusion of the story. Genre Fiction is your standard stuff where the story is all important and it can be further sub-classified into horror, fantasy, urban fantasy, dystopian and the like.

So I was feeling great about myself. I had some information and this agent, unlike most of them, had been very helpful to me. Even though what I wrote wasn't in her realm I did and do like her. Then I went and self published. When you classify most places, guess what. Literary Fiction is not an option, and Literary Genre Fiction is a, what the hell did you just say? Also you are limited to one or two classifications. So I had to classify as either horror, or horror and urban fantasy. I went with horror because I write for adults. I have no problem with kids reading my books but they are dark and there are some touchy subjects in them. So I want parents to be involved if their kids pick it up. Horror tends to get a more watchful eye from parents than anything with a fantasy label.

So I was annoyed at not being able to classify it right but I went on. This leads me to my thought. What is horror?

In the modern day we think of Friday the 13th and Nightmare on Elm Street. We think of shocking, gory titles without a plot or a very simple one. We also think of things that are often meaningless and slightly entertaining for a couple hours on screen or a week in print. Shock value has replaced what is scary. That bothers me. I mean it has its place, don't get me wrong but it is not the horror I grew up with and still love.

I think of horror in one of two ways. It is either the thing where you sympathize with the monster. You feel a connection and that is scary. The other is the cautionary tale, the warning that things are bad and the world is dark and there might or might not be any hope. These stories might have those shocking and gory moments in them but they might not. If you look back dystopian works have their roots in what I consider true horror. What do I think of as true horror? Well I will give some examples from both categories without identifying which they belong in.

Dracula and Frankenstein are horror. 1984 is horror and probably the beginning of the dystopian movement as well. Almost anything written by Stephen King is horror. Edgar Allan Poe (one of my personal heroes) wrote horror almost exclusively, if you consider his stories not his poems. Bradbury wrote some amazing horror stories, some set in scifi worlds and some not. Silence of the Lambs is amazing horror. Mr. Frost is a great horror movie that is always classified as a drama. I guess that is my point. You take a monster out of any horror story and people want to call it something else.

To me horror is not a bad B movie with blood and guts. What about to you? Don't be afraid, leave some comments. What kind of horror do you like? What is horror to you? What are some of your favorite horror movies and books? Which great authors did I miss?

Maybe I'm just getting ready for Halloween early.




#author #commentary #dark #hello #writer #writing #horror #thoughts