Patrick Elliott's Blog, page 9
July 16, 2015
In the Beginning - The Stalker
Part Sixteen, all other parts are below, as usual.
A week of peace, Father O’Reilly could have asked for more. Still, Job had it worse and he never hid a body murdered by a vengeful cop; at least not in the written records. Despite that O’Reilly was sure he was doing the right thing. Until the phone calls started.
Two weeks without relief the calls came in at exactly nine in the morning. When he answered the voice on the other end said, “I know what you did,” then hung up. Most days it was just inconvenient. On Sunday, like today, things were bit more complicated. Nine was the beginning of mass. If he could remember to silence his phone or leave it in the office he might have been fine.
He could do neither; the infernal machine was as much a part of his life as social media was for misguided teens. It was his penance. Something inside told him the accusations bricked the next steps on his path. So he answered, listened to the condemnation, avoided screaming at the caller and went back to sermonizing.
This Sunday was different. He started plotting. He needed to change up the routine. Thankfully the mass focused around the words of Paul. That bigoted, sanctimonious prick was so easy to remember that Father O’Reilly could devote well over half his brain to how to respond on Monday.
Monday morning. Father O’Reilly was waiting. He answered his phone in that weird, twilight pause between the end of the first vibration and the beginning of the first actual ring.
“I know what you did too, Peter.”
The immediate answer and the use of the vagrant’s name caused an uncomfortable quiet. That made Father O’Reilly nervous. Maybe it was just that the man was a Peter though. As a priest giving certain names power was an occupational hazard. The bum did not give him too long to ruminate on it though.
“S’not as bad as your sins, father.”
“I leave the judgment on the weight of each sin to God alone. You have some things my…” He paused to think of a better word than partner, which wasn’t right between himself and the detective. “…Cohort would like to purchase from you.”
“I know what you want.”
“So, can we deal?”
“You can’t have them. I want to be her friend. She needs my help.”
“These are dangerous people. Those texts are better in my hands.”
“Nothing’s safe in your hands. You’re the enemy.”
“Tread carefully, my son, this is a dark path you walk. If you choose them you risk the world.”
“I’m righteous. Like you should be as a man of the cloth.”
“If you really choose them you should stop calling. My friend deals with enemies harshly. You know that since you know what I did.”
“You can’t scare the hopeless.”
Peter hung up. Father O’Reilly hoped that would be the end of it, until they sought the writings anyway. Unfortunately for him, Peter served the nemesis well. The calls kept coming.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
A week of peace, Father O’Reilly could have asked for more. Still, Job had it worse and he never hid a body murdered by a vengeful cop; at least not in the written records. Despite that O’Reilly was sure he was doing the right thing. Until the phone calls started.
Two weeks without relief the calls came in at exactly nine in the morning. When he answered the voice on the other end said, “I know what you did,” then hung up. Most days it was just inconvenient. On Sunday, like today, things were bit more complicated. Nine was the beginning of mass. If he could remember to silence his phone or leave it in the office he might have been fine.
He could do neither; the infernal machine was as much a part of his life as social media was for misguided teens. It was his penance. Something inside told him the accusations bricked the next steps on his path. So he answered, listened to the condemnation, avoided screaming at the caller and went back to sermonizing.
This Sunday was different. He started plotting. He needed to change up the routine. Thankfully the mass focused around the words of Paul. That bigoted, sanctimonious prick was so easy to remember that Father O’Reilly could devote well over half his brain to how to respond on Monday.
Monday morning. Father O’Reilly was waiting. He answered his phone in that weird, twilight pause between the end of the first vibration and the beginning of the first actual ring.
“I know what you did too, Peter.”
The immediate answer and the use of the vagrant’s name caused an uncomfortable quiet. That made Father O’Reilly nervous. Maybe it was just that the man was a Peter though. As a priest giving certain names power was an occupational hazard. The bum did not give him too long to ruminate on it though.
“S’not as bad as your sins, father.”
“I leave the judgment on the weight of each sin to God alone. You have some things my…” He paused to think of a better word than partner, which wasn’t right between himself and the detective. “…Cohort would like to purchase from you.”
“I know what you want.”
“So, can we deal?”
“You can’t have them. I want to be her friend. She needs my help.”
“These are dangerous people. Those texts are better in my hands.”
“Nothing’s safe in your hands. You’re the enemy.”
“Tread carefully, my son, this is a dark path you walk. If you choose them you risk the world.”
“I’m righteous. Like you should be as a man of the cloth.”
“If you really choose them you should stop calling. My friend deals with enemies harshly. You know that since you know what I did.”
“You can’t scare the hopeless.”
Peter hung up. Father O’Reilly hoped that would be the end of it, until they sought the writings anyway. Unfortunately for him, Peter served the nemesis well. The calls kept coming.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
July 10, 2015
It Takes a Plagairist
Okay, from the prompt this week someone suggested I should write something about Mr. Edward. For those who have not read Old Odd Ends, he is the villain in a story with no heroes. The events in this story take place about fifty years before that.
Small town, USA – Summer – 1965
Edward Edwards, Edward to nobody and Mr. Edward to everyone he met, looked up from his desk. At his age he slept about three hours a night. So he sat in the back of The Edge of the Page when he suddenly knew something was wrong. He smelled… mud and cannabis where only the scents of well loved parchment and long faded ink should be. Rising to investigate his weathered hand reached for the nearest weapon, a crudely bound grouping of pages.
He slid like a specter into the tomb silent front of his shop. Eyes still sharp as a hawk's scanned for the invader. There she was, in a small section reserved for local authors, well… author. As he suspected she was a hippie but pretty in her own way. If you did not mind dry, brittle hair and breasts hanging free because of a burned bra. Mr. Edward did not. He did not mind the long flowing peasant skirt that ran to her ankles either. He did mind her bare feet tracking mud through his business. He found her unlaundered clothes and free love scent offensive. He also minded that she was stealing from him. Mr. Edward cleared his throat.
The hippie jerked, spinning to face him. She managed to keep hold of the five books in her arms though. That impressed Mr. Edward, she understood the value of literature. She offered a coquettish smile meant to disarm him. It might have worked if he had use for sex as anything but a tool of control. He stepped forward, speaking in a voice like old paper sliding against itself.
“I see you are a fan of my protégé, Alex Tomlin. You know if you got a job you could pay for those.”
She blinked, tears forming in her eyes but not falling. “I can’t, but I just want to be friends with him.”
Mr. Edward nodded, bringing the manuscript in front of him. “I see you have his latest there, The Word Thief. Have you read it?”
“N… no.” She cast her drug-dulled eyes about for an escape. He could tell she was stupid but like many of her ilk she had an animal cunning about her. She sensed danger.
“Too many people have for it to be valuable. The value in a rare book is how few have read it. Now this first draft? Much changed between it and the end product. Enough that the story is almost completely different. Let me read you the salient points.” He flipped to the section where the monster first appeared, because there was always a monster.
As Mr. Edward read about the bone like hands gripping at upper arms the girl felt them on her own. At the description of the human sized mosquito beak sliding through the spine and piercing the heart her heart was also pierced. He continued to read and the unseen creature sucked words, the very essence of life, from her body.
First she lost love and learned to hate the man she most wanted to adore her. Then feeling went, which was good because pain stopped locking a scream in her chest. Away went each word until last the thief stole life and the girl dropped to the ground.
Setting the valuable manuscript aside, Mr. Edward dismissed the Word Thief, back to the nether. He needed to step up Alex’s program. With so many hippies in love with him the boy was dangerous to have around. But first, he dragged the body back towards his office. Nothing went to waste in his shop.
#novel #shortstory #shamelessselfpromotion #author #horror #monster #writer #writing
Small town, USA – Summer – 1965
Edward Edwards, Edward to nobody and Mr. Edward to everyone he met, looked up from his desk. At his age he slept about three hours a night. So he sat in the back of The Edge of the Page when he suddenly knew something was wrong. He smelled… mud and cannabis where only the scents of well loved parchment and long faded ink should be. Rising to investigate his weathered hand reached for the nearest weapon, a crudely bound grouping of pages.
He slid like a specter into the tomb silent front of his shop. Eyes still sharp as a hawk's scanned for the invader. There she was, in a small section reserved for local authors, well… author. As he suspected she was a hippie but pretty in her own way. If you did not mind dry, brittle hair and breasts hanging free because of a burned bra. Mr. Edward did not. He did not mind the long flowing peasant skirt that ran to her ankles either. He did mind her bare feet tracking mud through his business. He found her unlaundered clothes and free love scent offensive. He also minded that she was stealing from him. Mr. Edward cleared his throat.
The hippie jerked, spinning to face him. She managed to keep hold of the five books in her arms though. That impressed Mr. Edward, she understood the value of literature. She offered a coquettish smile meant to disarm him. It might have worked if he had use for sex as anything but a tool of control. He stepped forward, speaking in a voice like old paper sliding against itself.
“I see you are a fan of my protégé, Alex Tomlin. You know if you got a job you could pay for those.”
She blinked, tears forming in her eyes but not falling. “I can’t, but I just want to be friends with him.”
Mr. Edward nodded, bringing the manuscript in front of him. “I see you have his latest there, The Word Thief. Have you read it?”
“N… no.” She cast her drug-dulled eyes about for an escape. He could tell she was stupid but like many of her ilk she had an animal cunning about her. She sensed danger.
“Too many people have for it to be valuable. The value in a rare book is how few have read it. Now this first draft? Much changed between it and the end product. Enough that the story is almost completely different. Let me read you the salient points.” He flipped to the section where the monster first appeared, because there was always a monster.
As Mr. Edward read about the bone like hands gripping at upper arms the girl felt them on her own. At the description of the human sized mosquito beak sliding through the spine and piercing the heart her heart was also pierced. He continued to read and the unseen creature sucked words, the very essence of life, from her body.
First she lost love and learned to hate the man she most wanted to adore her. Then feeling went, which was good because pain stopped locking a scream in her chest. Away went each word until last the thief stole life and the girl dropped to the ground.
Setting the valuable manuscript aside, Mr. Edward dismissed the Word Thief, back to the nether. He needed to step up Alex’s program. With so many hippies in love with him the boy was dangerous to have around. But first, he dragged the body back towards his office. Nothing went to waste in his shop.
#novel #shortstory #shamelessselfpromotion #author #horror #monster #writer #writing
July 9, 2015
In the Beginning - Written Instructions
Part fifteen in this ongoing tale.
Nicole sat at the breakfast table with her tablet in front of her. In her left hand she held a bone china cup containing her breakfast tea as she controlled the screen with her right. On the screen was newspaper from her hometown. She maintained a subscription despite the miles.
It was the first morning in a long time that she could breathe. She smelled the strong black tea as if it was a new life but her reprieve was not to last long. Many would and did say terrible things about her but Nicole still had a heart and with everything else she might be, she was still a loving daughter.
For the last week the front page had been full of her father’s death and the grisly way they found him. Today it seemed something finally surpassed news of the preacher. Until she read further. The lead story was all about some smash and grab artist named Peter. Local man steals unusual rare collection, the headline screamed. Nicole kept reading.
A local homeless man, Peter last name unknown, broke into the local bookstore, Rare Finds, late last night. Responding to the silent alarm police found the store empty and barely disturbed. The only objects removed a collection of handwritten, leather bound tomes from a local preacher who was murdered two weeks ago. An unknown party illegally sold the books, religious texts of questionable worth and obscure origin, to the shop shortly after the death. When found the suspect did not have the books in his possession and gave no indication to their location. When asked why he stole those volumes Peter replied, “I did it for the daughter. I just want to be her best friend.”
Nicole jerked back. Those books were meant for her. Her father’s original work on the prophecy was now in the hands of a degenerate. Well, not in his hands exactly. She pushed the tablet aside and took up her phone. She dialed Chester.
“We have a problem.”
He informed her he already knew about it and made a call.
“Were you able to speak with him?”
He sighed as he explained that two other men bailed the man out earlier in the day. The bum had already skipped town, presumably with the texts.
“So we have another player joining those two idiots.”
Chester agreed that it seemed that way.
“What about this thing he said? Do you think he might be or want to be on our side? Why else would he want to be my best friend?”
He was sure he didn’t know but he had a couple of ideas.
“Me being hot is only a reason for you. Get home, we need to start finding our enemies. How dangerous is this Peter, do you think?”
That was a question nobody had an answer for. Not yet anyway.
#shortstory #novel #writing #writer #author
Nicole sat at the breakfast table with her tablet in front of her. In her left hand she held a bone china cup containing her breakfast tea as she controlled the screen with her right. On the screen was newspaper from her hometown. She maintained a subscription despite the miles.
It was the first morning in a long time that she could breathe. She smelled the strong black tea as if it was a new life but her reprieve was not to last long. Many would and did say terrible things about her but Nicole still had a heart and with everything else she might be, she was still a loving daughter.
For the last week the front page had been full of her father’s death and the grisly way they found him. Today it seemed something finally surpassed news of the preacher. Until she read further. The lead story was all about some smash and grab artist named Peter. Local man steals unusual rare collection, the headline screamed. Nicole kept reading.
A local homeless man, Peter last name unknown, broke into the local bookstore, Rare Finds, late last night. Responding to the silent alarm police found the store empty and barely disturbed. The only objects removed a collection of handwritten, leather bound tomes from a local preacher who was murdered two weeks ago. An unknown party illegally sold the books, religious texts of questionable worth and obscure origin, to the shop shortly after the death. When found the suspect did not have the books in his possession and gave no indication to their location. When asked why he stole those volumes Peter replied, “I did it for the daughter. I just want to be her best friend.”
Nicole jerked back. Those books were meant for her. Her father’s original work on the prophecy was now in the hands of a degenerate. Well, not in his hands exactly. She pushed the tablet aside and took up her phone. She dialed Chester.
“We have a problem.”
He informed her he already knew about it and made a call.
“Were you able to speak with him?”
He sighed as he explained that two other men bailed the man out earlier in the day. The bum had already skipped town, presumably with the texts.
“So we have another player joining those two idiots.”
Chester agreed that it seemed that way.
“What about this thing he said? Do you think he might be or want to be on our side? Why else would he want to be my best friend?”
He was sure he didn’t know but he had a couple of ideas.
“Me being hot is only a reason for you. Get home, we need to start finding our enemies. How dangerous is this Peter, do you think?”
That was a question nobody had an answer for. Not yet anyway.
#shortstory #novel #writing #writer #author
July 3, 2015
In the Beginning - The Third Sign
Part fifteen, as usual the others are down below
Father O’Reilly sat with a corpse in a stall in a bathroom that echoed of silence and smelled of industrial cleaner rethinking his relationship with Jack. Not the association itself but taking such a servile role. Why couldn’t the cop dispose of his own bodies?
The priest waited impatiently. Midnight was late for him, for most museums as well. This was a special case, an extreme situation. The poetic justice of the refuse disposal soothed him. The fact that unlike most museums this one employed no guards set him at ease as well.
When the museum closed he waited an extra half-hour for the employees to clear out. He gripped the corpse under the armpits and dragged it from the bathroom. A beatific smile crossed his face as he looked around. The wing of the wax museum dedicated to religious figures surrounded him. It made his soul sing, one of the reasons he chose that particular rest room. Another being that it was the least visited section.
The museum radiated out from the dark chambers. In the center that house of horrors held the greatest attraction. Other exhibits radiated out like the spokes of wheel. Each section connected to an appropriate portion of murder’s row. The third reason his hiding place was appropriate. Father O’Reilly dragged the body into the inky shadows.
Like many Catholics before him, those from a different time, O’Reilly dragged a heretic’s limp body into Torquemada’s chamber. He let the body slump on the floor and shuddered. This point in the history of his faith sat like original sin on the priest’s conscience and soul. Still, it served his purposes well enough. Oh, he thought, how many men, well intentioned or not, damned themselves with such thoughts?
He shuddered violently and hardened his heart. His eyes cast about for the piece he needed. The dead, glassy eyes of the exhibit leered back at him. He imagined himself the main course at a cannibal super hosted by the Manson family with those terrible eyes bearing down on him, demanding a confession. Amongst these monsters he found what he needed.
Retrieving the body once more the priest dragged it to the iron maiden. He positions the corpse so one of the spikes rested its tip against the bullet wound in the body. Then Father O’Reilly slammed the device closed. He uttered a prayer of thanks for attention to detail, that only the figures were made of wax, and escaped this secular shrine to the past.
Jack should be happy and they could move forward with stopping this prophecy. He stopped at the first door, almost perishing of a heart attack. He saw the heads of the inquisitors, had they turned? Were they watching him? He could swear he saw wings on Torquemada himself. Then words came to him on the wind, whispering. He heard the other tortures welcoming the corpse home, as one of their own. Father O’Reilly screamed and fled hastily; unaware of the signs he did not know he had just witnessed the third.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
Father O’Reilly sat with a corpse in a stall in a bathroom that echoed of silence and smelled of industrial cleaner rethinking his relationship with Jack. Not the association itself but taking such a servile role. Why couldn’t the cop dispose of his own bodies?
The priest waited impatiently. Midnight was late for him, for most museums as well. This was a special case, an extreme situation. The poetic justice of the refuse disposal soothed him. The fact that unlike most museums this one employed no guards set him at ease as well.
When the museum closed he waited an extra half-hour for the employees to clear out. He gripped the corpse under the armpits and dragged it from the bathroom. A beatific smile crossed his face as he looked around. The wing of the wax museum dedicated to religious figures surrounded him. It made his soul sing, one of the reasons he chose that particular rest room. Another being that it was the least visited section.
The museum radiated out from the dark chambers. In the center that house of horrors held the greatest attraction. Other exhibits radiated out like the spokes of wheel. Each section connected to an appropriate portion of murder’s row. The third reason his hiding place was appropriate. Father O’Reilly dragged the body into the inky shadows.
Like many Catholics before him, those from a different time, O’Reilly dragged a heretic’s limp body into Torquemada’s chamber. He let the body slump on the floor and shuddered. This point in the history of his faith sat like original sin on the priest’s conscience and soul. Still, it served his purposes well enough. Oh, he thought, how many men, well intentioned or not, damned themselves with such thoughts?
He shuddered violently and hardened his heart. His eyes cast about for the piece he needed. The dead, glassy eyes of the exhibit leered back at him. He imagined himself the main course at a cannibal super hosted by the Manson family with those terrible eyes bearing down on him, demanding a confession. Amongst these monsters he found what he needed.
Retrieving the body once more the priest dragged it to the iron maiden. He positions the corpse so one of the spikes rested its tip against the bullet wound in the body. Then Father O’Reilly slammed the device closed. He uttered a prayer of thanks for attention to detail, that only the figures were made of wax, and escaped this secular shrine to the past.
Jack should be happy and they could move forward with stopping this prophecy. He stopped at the first door, almost perishing of a heart attack. He saw the heads of the inquisitors, had they turned? Were they watching him? He could swear he saw wings on Torquemada himself. Then words came to him on the wind, whispering. He heard the other tortures welcoming the corpse home, as one of their own. Father O’Reilly screamed and fled hastily; unaware of the signs he did not know he had just witnessed the third.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
June 25, 2015
In the Beginning - Vengeance is Mine
And now for part 14.
“I wasn’t planning on this.” Templeton croaked through a throat as dry and cracked as a Mississippi mud field in August. He did not know how long he would be alone in the room.
“Falling in love with you was the last thing I wanted.” Already on his knees he leaned over his family bible and kissed it, leaving bloody lip prints like the mark of a mistress. His body wracked at the motion, the pain from the constant beatings his dedicated companion in the dark.
“I knew our time together would end, and end bloody.” He ran his fingers over leather, tracing crimson across gilt lettering. He fell to his side and let the repressed tears of three decades fall, dampening the pages. His daughter would never receive this book, unfortunately. Thankfully his work on the prophecy was kept elsewhere.
“I am ready for this to be over, and yet, here I am, begging you not to turn the page.” His voice cracked at the end. His hand slid off the bible only to have it spring open. He sighed and shook his head. He wanted to close his eyes and refuse to see. He looked though, such was his curse and calling. His eyes landed on the random page and he shook his head again. Of course in a situation like this the book would speak of eternal life and resurrection.
“I know, it is your will. I have served the prophecy for years. I was tired before, when you forced me back into the body of my brother. I stayed the course, always knowing I walked a path that ends in the painful death of a martyr. Now I suffer for the cause. Let it end.” He sighed, and the uninitiated would believe his breath stirred and turned the pages. Templeton knew better though. The hands of angels moved the paper. His eyes landed on the word redemption. He shook his head.
“Who’s life would I steal now? I fight for a bloody cause already. Would you have me steal my grandson’s body? If so, for what? Oh, I know the answer. To watch the terrible war from the losing side, to see the punishment of man. I would rather not, if it is all the same to you. Let me come home or let me burn, leave the world in younger hands.” He closed his eyes and lay his head on the floor next to his book. Closing it he pulled it against his chest like a teddybear. His smile was beatific as he started drifting off.
A slow creak and the smell of rage announced Jack as he entered behind the preacher.
“They chose wrong.” Jack growled.
“No they didn’t. The prophecy continues, and you get revenge for your… wife.”
The shot rang out. Jack wanted to feel bad about it, but the emptiness inside of him left no room for empathy. Thankfully disappearing a body was easier for a cop.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
“I wasn’t planning on this.” Templeton croaked through a throat as dry and cracked as a Mississippi mud field in August. He did not know how long he would be alone in the room.
“Falling in love with you was the last thing I wanted.” Already on his knees he leaned over his family bible and kissed it, leaving bloody lip prints like the mark of a mistress. His body wracked at the motion, the pain from the constant beatings his dedicated companion in the dark.
“I knew our time together would end, and end bloody.” He ran his fingers over leather, tracing crimson across gilt lettering. He fell to his side and let the repressed tears of three decades fall, dampening the pages. His daughter would never receive this book, unfortunately. Thankfully his work on the prophecy was kept elsewhere.
“I am ready for this to be over, and yet, here I am, begging you not to turn the page.” His voice cracked at the end. His hand slid off the bible only to have it spring open. He sighed and shook his head. He wanted to close his eyes and refuse to see. He looked though, such was his curse and calling. His eyes landed on the random page and he shook his head again. Of course in a situation like this the book would speak of eternal life and resurrection.
“I know, it is your will. I have served the prophecy for years. I was tired before, when you forced me back into the body of my brother. I stayed the course, always knowing I walked a path that ends in the painful death of a martyr. Now I suffer for the cause. Let it end.” He sighed, and the uninitiated would believe his breath stirred and turned the pages. Templeton knew better though. The hands of angels moved the paper. His eyes landed on the word redemption. He shook his head.
“Who’s life would I steal now? I fight for a bloody cause already. Would you have me steal my grandson’s body? If so, for what? Oh, I know the answer. To watch the terrible war from the losing side, to see the punishment of man. I would rather not, if it is all the same to you. Let me come home or let me burn, leave the world in younger hands.” He closed his eyes and lay his head on the floor next to his book. Closing it he pulled it against his chest like a teddybear. His smile was beatific as he started drifting off.
A slow creak and the smell of rage announced Jack as he entered behind the preacher.
“They chose wrong.” Jack growled.
“No they didn’t. The prophecy continues, and you get revenge for your… wife.”
The shot rang out. Jack wanted to feel bad about it, but the emptiness inside of him left no room for empathy. Thankfully disappearing a body was easier for a cop.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
June 22, 2015
Mandy's Mission
This is very different for me. I'm not entirely happy with it but the children's story jumped into my head. Wish I was a little better at the younger voice.
Mandy squinted at the face on the phone, lifting the handset to stop the annoying ringing. She squeaked out her annoyance at anyone calling at the terrible hour of eight thirty.
“Sleepun’!”
The smiling face on the phone was fun during the day but it upset her in the middle of the night. The phone made its rickety warble as it rolled towards her on plastic wheels. The voice that came through was distorted but she knew who it was. Only Tommy would call so late.
“Car’s waiting outside. Get in it. Don’t ignore me.”
Mandy rolled over, looking into the warm, loving, glass eyes staring back at her.
“Everythin’s fine, Teddy. Don’t hog the blankets. Be back soon.”
Mandy saw Tommy’s “car” outside. He was nine, spoke in proper sentences and had the plastic toy jeep. He was a dreamboat, as her mama would say. Mandy didn’t like that he made her help Flinstone it from place to place but livery was dead, as her mama also said.
“Mission?” Mandy mumbled as she rubbed sleep from her eyes.
“A money man. He needs help. Pops says the monster is riding him.”
Mandy didn’t need any more explanation. The monsters lived in closets. Kids saw them for what they were. When kids became grownups they usually stopped believing and left the monsters behind. Sometimes though, if the adult was very sad and lonely, the monster jumped out of the closet and into their body. When that happened…
“It’s po…ssess…ive him.” She sounded out the word, proud of herself for using a big’un in front of Tommy. Mandy knew bankers and lawyers were easiest for the monsters to get into. When the monster rode a person they hurt other people.
“Yep.”
“Wassa plan?”
It was the normal plan. It was Mandy’s first time carrying the weapon though. Tommy boosted her up through the money man’s window. She was very quiet as she reached out to receive the box. She heard the quiet shushing of the weapon’s workings sliding against each other. This would work.
She tiptoed to the edge of the bed. Small fingers pried open the box. Holding it high she whispered loudly.
“Wake up!”
Back in the car, mission completed, Tommy asked her how it went. Mandy smiled bashfully. Her voice soft but at least she wasn’t sleepy anymore. She looked at Tommy. He was no Teddy, but she might think about dating him when he grew up. Mama said most boys did that when they turned forty.
“No callin’ so late no more. You might wake mama and papa. They’ud worry if they knew our job.” Mandy scolded him, ignoring the question.
“Kay, but tell me. It worked?”
“Success. I released the weapon.”
“What happened?”
“Same as usual. He laughed the monster out of him.”
“I knew it! Grats on you first solo mission.”
“No monster can stand up to a box of puppies!”
#shortstory #author #experimentation #monster #socialcommentary #writer #writing
Mandy squinted at the face on the phone, lifting the handset to stop the annoying ringing. She squeaked out her annoyance at anyone calling at the terrible hour of eight thirty.
“Sleepun’!”
The smiling face on the phone was fun during the day but it upset her in the middle of the night. The phone made its rickety warble as it rolled towards her on plastic wheels. The voice that came through was distorted but she knew who it was. Only Tommy would call so late.
“Car’s waiting outside. Get in it. Don’t ignore me.”
Mandy rolled over, looking into the warm, loving, glass eyes staring back at her.
“Everythin’s fine, Teddy. Don’t hog the blankets. Be back soon.”
Mandy saw Tommy’s “car” outside. He was nine, spoke in proper sentences and had the plastic toy jeep. He was a dreamboat, as her mama would say. Mandy didn’t like that he made her help Flinstone it from place to place but livery was dead, as her mama also said.
“Mission?” Mandy mumbled as she rubbed sleep from her eyes.
“A money man. He needs help. Pops says the monster is riding him.”
Mandy didn’t need any more explanation. The monsters lived in closets. Kids saw them for what they were. When kids became grownups they usually stopped believing and left the monsters behind. Sometimes though, if the adult was very sad and lonely, the monster jumped out of the closet and into their body. When that happened…
“It’s po…ssess…ive him.” She sounded out the word, proud of herself for using a big’un in front of Tommy. Mandy knew bankers and lawyers were easiest for the monsters to get into. When the monster rode a person they hurt other people.
“Yep.”
“Wassa plan?”
It was the normal plan. It was Mandy’s first time carrying the weapon though. Tommy boosted her up through the money man’s window. She was very quiet as she reached out to receive the box. She heard the quiet shushing of the weapon’s workings sliding against each other. This would work.
She tiptoed to the edge of the bed. Small fingers pried open the box. Holding it high she whispered loudly.
“Wake up!”
Back in the car, mission completed, Tommy asked her how it went. Mandy smiled bashfully. Her voice soft but at least she wasn’t sleepy anymore. She looked at Tommy. He was no Teddy, but she might think about dating him when he grew up. Mama said most boys did that when they turned forty.
“No callin’ so late no more. You might wake mama and papa. They’ud worry if they knew our job.” Mandy scolded him, ignoring the question.
“Kay, but tell me. It worked?”
“Success. I released the weapon.”
“What happened?”
“Same as usual. He laughed the monster out of him.”
“I knew it! Grats on you first solo mission.”
“No monster can stand up to a box of puppies!”
#shortstory #author #experimentation #monster #socialcommentary #writer #writing
June 19, 2015
In the Beginning - Stigmata
Part 13, as always, previous parts are below.
Chester reached out, laying his hand on Nicole’s stomach. Their son was approaching two. With a second child on the way that touch normally soothed her. She stayed still. He realized the phone and not one of her late night cravings woke him. Plucking the cell from beside the bed, Chester mumbled a hello.
The voice that greeted him was familiar but strange. Like an old friend speaking around the barrel of a gun. The words were off too, like the man read from a script.
“There’s a car outside. Get in it. You don’t want to ignore this.”
The connection terminated. Chester blinked sleep from his eyes as Nicole rolled towards him.
“Everything okay?”
“I think your father’s in trouble. Give me two minutes then put everything in lock down. I’ll be back when I can.”
Two minutes later Chester walked towards the black sedan he first spotted from his bedroom window. Sliding into the passenger seat he was not surprised to find a priest behind the wheel. Who else drove a black sedan with the vanity plates mycross?
“What am I doing here?”
Chester asked the question as the priest pulled away from the curb. Chester looked the man over. He did not know this servant of false idols. He gripped the gun in coat pocket. Father O’Reilly spoke in a soothing voice.
“We need to talk.” He watched the road.
At least Chester knew he wasn’t going to die in a car crash.
“Spill it. If this is about what I think it is I’m not the man you want.”
“The man we want is the one who can end it. Your father in law is unmoving on that front. My partner, the one holding the gun on the preacher, uncovered some evidence indicating you might help. You’re the only one who seems to harbor doubts about this prophecy.”
“Faith requires doubt, or it wouldn’t be faith.” Chester’s voice rang false in his own ears but three years was a long time for ideas to take hold. “Let’s say you’re right and I do want to stop this though. What would you have me do?”
“Take the kids and run.”
“And, if I don’t?”
“I’m not a violent man but my partner is a bit unstable. He’s patient but he’s losing that. So the old man might die if you refuse.”
“He’s ready to die for the cause.”
As the priest opened his mouth, Chester took a calculated risk. Bringing the gun around, still in his pocket, he shot the priest in the thigh. The man’s scream overshadowed the squeal of tires when the brakes tried to lock, just barely.
The car stopped. The smell of blood mingling with leather nauseated both passengers. When he quit cursing the priest looked at Chester. The pleading wonder in his eyes looked almost like betrayal but it could not be. These men did not know each other, though they now shared a war story. Stepping from the vehicle Chester issued his second retort.
“If your partner is who I think he is tell him I’m sorry about his lover. I had nothing to do with that. I don’t like killing but if you come after my family again I might change my mind. Goodnight, father.”
Walking back towards his home, Chester had a moment of doubt. What if the priest called the cops? It didn’t seem likely though. By morning the man would probably have blood on his own hands.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #wriging
Chester reached out, laying his hand on Nicole’s stomach. Their son was approaching two. With a second child on the way that touch normally soothed her. She stayed still. He realized the phone and not one of her late night cravings woke him. Plucking the cell from beside the bed, Chester mumbled a hello.
The voice that greeted him was familiar but strange. Like an old friend speaking around the barrel of a gun. The words were off too, like the man read from a script.
“There’s a car outside. Get in it. You don’t want to ignore this.”
The connection terminated. Chester blinked sleep from his eyes as Nicole rolled towards him.
“Everything okay?”
“I think your father’s in trouble. Give me two minutes then put everything in lock down. I’ll be back when I can.”
Two minutes later Chester walked towards the black sedan he first spotted from his bedroom window. Sliding into the passenger seat he was not surprised to find a priest behind the wheel. Who else drove a black sedan with the vanity plates mycross?
“What am I doing here?”
Chester asked the question as the priest pulled away from the curb. Chester looked the man over. He did not know this servant of false idols. He gripped the gun in coat pocket. Father O’Reilly spoke in a soothing voice.
“We need to talk.” He watched the road.
At least Chester knew he wasn’t going to die in a car crash.
“Spill it. If this is about what I think it is I’m not the man you want.”
“The man we want is the one who can end it. Your father in law is unmoving on that front. My partner, the one holding the gun on the preacher, uncovered some evidence indicating you might help. You’re the only one who seems to harbor doubts about this prophecy.”
“Faith requires doubt, or it wouldn’t be faith.” Chester’s voice rang false in his own ears but three years was a long time for ideas to take hold. “Let’s say you’re right and I do want to stop this though. What would you have me do?”
“Take the kids and run.”
“And, if I don’t?”
“I’m not a violent man but my partner is a bit unstable. He’s patient but he’s losing that. So the old man might die if you refuse.”
“He’s ready to die for the cause.”
As the priest opened his mouth, Chester took a calculated risk. Bringing the gun around, still in his pocket, he shot the priest in the thigh. The man’s scream overshadowed the squeal of tires when the brakes tried to lock, just barely.
The car stopped. The smell of blood mingling with leather nauseated both passengers. When he quit cursing the priest looked at Chester. The pleading wonder in his eyes looked almost like betrayal but it could not be. These men did not know each other, though they now shared a war story. Stepping from the vehicle Chester issued his second retort.
“If your partner is who I think he is tell him I’m sorry about his lover. I had nothing to do with that. I don’t like killing but if you come after my family again I might change my mind. Goodnight, father.”
Walking back towards his home, Chester had a moment of doubt. What if the priest called the cops? It didn’t seem likely though. By morning the man would probably have blood on his own hands.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #wriging
June 12, 2015
In the Beginning – Strange Bedfellows
Part 12, as always the parts before it are down below.
Everybody’s anatomical unconscious is doing more or less the same thing, unless they are deficient or mutated.
Father O’Reilly recoiled in horror from the words on the screen. This was how the preacher defended hate mongering and engineering the end of the world? This was how the old viper responded to an archbishop questioning his doomsday prophecy? Everybody is doing it and we’re all jerks so why not ride the wave? It sickened the young priest enough to make him question every man of faith, back to the one he served.
That doubt did not keep him from hesitating. The delay was short however. Dialing the number made him almost as nervous as teaching preschool did these days. When Jack answered on the fourth ring his speech was slurred and mushy, but who would expect any less.
“Jack, I am sorry for your loss.”
He listened and offered a heavy sigh before responding.
“I understand why you would say that. I have no love for your lifestyle but I still hate to see someone in pain.”
The alcohol on the detective’s breath was so strong the father could smell it through the phone. O’Reilly had a flash of that day in the confessional that started it all, at least for him. His doubt in the machine was not a test of faith so he silently prayed that a repeat performance not come to pass.
“You have me all wrong. I know you need your time to grieve.”
O’Reilly pulled the phone from his ear to avoid irreparable damage to the drum. When the slurring returned to a normal volume he pulled the handset back to his head.
“I’m not asking you to do anything. We both know who killed your… lover though. You’ve got a pretty personal stake in this game now.”
The sobs on the other end of the phone made the response almost indecipherable. Thankfully a priest gets used to hearing whispers through a grate that warps words and meanings.
“I’m not trying to get you back on the case. I’m calling to tell you that when you do get back to it I’m here to help you now. Just let me know what I can do.”
The shock and sudden sobering brought a smile to the young priest’s lips. It was nice to surprise people in a good way. His nod went unseen as he thought carefully about his response. Why was he getting involved? Why risk his standing in the community and his place in the church? These were what O’Reilly thought of as German questions and he would not repeat the church’s mistakes from back then.
“It’s simple, when you get a mentally unstable preacher yapping menopausally at some poor hamstrung old archbishop, while we dismantle our environment, our world and our faith due to the materialistic, pessimistic principles that the atheistic tyranny of the day is strictly sponsoring,.. it is time to look for a new story.”
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
Everybody’s anatomical unconscious is doing more or less the same thing, unless they are deficient or mutated.
Father O’Reilly recoiled in horror from the words on the screen. This was how the preacher defended hate mongering and engineering the end of the world? This was how the old viper responded to an archbishop questioning his doomsday prophecy? Everybody is doing it and we’re all jerks so why not ride the wave? It sickened the young priest enough to make him question every man of faith, back to the one he served.
That doubt did not keep him from hesitating. The delay was short however. Dialing the number made him almost as nervous as teaching preschool did these days. When Jack answered on the fourth ring his speech was slurred and mushy, but who would expect any less.
“Jack, I am sorry for your loss.”
He listened and offered a heavy sigh before responding.
“I understand why you would say that. I have no love for your lifestyle but I still hate to see someone in pain.”
The alcohol on the detective’s breath was so strong the father could smell it through the phone. O’Reilly had a flash of that day in the confessional that started it all, at least for him. His doubt in the machine was not a test of faith so he silently prayed that a repeat performance not come to pass.
“You have me all wrong. I know you need your time to grieve.”
O’Reilly pulled the phone from his ear to avoid irreparable damage to the drum. When the slurring returned to a normal volume he pulled the handset back to his head.
“I’m not asking you to do anything. We both know who killed your… lover though. You’ve got a pretty personal stake in this game now.”
The sobs on the other end of the phone made the response almost indecipherable. Thankfully a priest gets used to hearing whispers through a grate that warps words and meanings.
“I’m not trying to get you back on the case. I’m calling to tell you that when you do get back to it I’m here to help you now. Just let me know what I can do.”
The shock and sudden sobering brought a smile to the young priest’s lips. It was nice to surprise people in a good way. His nod went unseen as he thought carefully about his response. Why was he getting involved? Why risk his standing in the community and his place in the church? These were what O’Reilly thought of as German questions and he would not repeat the church’s mistakes from back then.
“It’s simple, when you get a mentally unstable preacher yapping menopausally at some poor hamstrung old archbishop, while we dismantle our environment, our world and our faith due to the materialistic, pessimistic principles that the atheistic tyranny of the day is strictly sponsoring,.. it is time to look for a new story.”
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
June 3, 2015
In the Beginning - The Dogma Gap
And now for part 11. As always, previous parts can be found below.
The new partner stirred. Glancing at green numbers on the bedside clock he noted it was two, must be AM as it was still full dark. The other side of the bed was empty. That brush on his forehead must have been Jack’s kiss before leaving. The partner brushed fingers over the sheets, not cool but cooling, on the other side of the bed. He hated waking up alone at such an hour after a wonderful week but private detectives, soon to again be cops worked when the cases did. He snuggled back down into the bed with a smile on his face, thinking of forever was a dream. He was obviously returning to those as clocks did not run backward.
“Get up!” The voice of the zealot was rough, like the kick he delivered to the partner’s ribs. “Yeah, you with the queer face. GET UP!”
The partner roused himself groggily, fighting against the ropes binding his wrists and ankles behind his back. Trying to look at the clock he realized from the rough carpet under his bare belly that it was on the other side. His eyes landed first on the zealot in his pristine church clothes. The knife made the partner wonder if this man was a jealous ex-lover, but he was too clean cut for that. When the partner saw the green numbers, now at 0:05 he realized the clock was a bomb.
The partner should do something about that but couldn’t. Instead he wept. Not due to impending death, and not over the hatred he saw in the zealot’s face. He wept for a lifetime with the man he loved lost so soon. In a small part his tears came from knowing he would die with the smell of a bigot’s gas station cologne stinging his nose.
“Why?”
“Your lifestyle is enough.” The zealot smiled with the cruel vengeance supposedly reserved for God alone. “In this case? A message must be sent.”
The partner struggled. The zealot laughed at the thought of the sodomite before him dying with rug burns on his stomach and junk. Didn’t they all go out that way though? The partner realized his only hope. He was unlikely to diffuse a bomb, but if he could free himself after the zealot left he could at least try.
“Four minutes is cutting it close for your escape don’t you think? The junior fascist league would be lost without a man of your moral caliber.”
“Shut it cock smoker. Something your kind will never understand is there are some causes worth dying for, and some things you don’t leave to chance.”
The zealot fell into hate filled silence. The partner let his tears flow again, looking the man in the eye. Men like him could never understand those tears were not shame or regret. The partner could be proud of his tears, but he would not beg or revile the man more. Let him die better than his oppressor would. Both waited for rewards they were unsure of.
____________________________________________________________________
Jack sat at the desk in his now defunct office with a bottle or what could be paint thinner and his revolver in front of him. He swallowed his pain with chasers of dime store Scotch. It was the gun he spoke to.
“I’m sorry loving me caused this. I know the message the preacher meant to send. I promise you though, I won’t forget or fail you. His tactics won’t work this time. His God has hardened my heart.” Jack refused to cry as he followed this toast to his lost with another shot.
#shortstory #novel #author #dark #writer #writing
The new partner stirred. Glancing at green numbers on the bedside clock he noted it was two, must be AM as it was still full dark. The other side of the bed was empty. That brush on his forehead must have been Jack’s kiss before leaving. The partner brushed fingers over the sheets, not cool but cooling, on the other side of the bed. He hated waking up alone at such an hour after a wonderful week but private detectives, soon to again be cops worked when the cases did. He snuggled back down into the bed with a smile on his face, thinking of forever was a dream. He was obviously returning to those as clocks did not run backward.
“Get up!” The voice of the zealot was rough, like the kick he delivered to the partner’s ribs. “Yeah, you with the queer face. GET UP!”
The partner roused himself groggily, fighting against the ropes binding his wrists and ankles behind his back. Trying to look at the clock he realized from the rough carpet under his bare belly that it was on the other side. His eyes landed first on the zealot in his pristine church clothes. The knife made the partner wonder if this man was a jealous ex-lover, but he was too clean cut for that. When the partner saw the green numbers, now at 0:05 he realized the clock was a bomb.
The partner should do something about that but couldn’t. Instead he wept. Not due to impending death, and not over the hatred he saw in the zealot’s face. He wept for a lifetime with the man he loved lost so soon. In a small part his tears came from knowing he would die with the smell of a bigot’s gas station cologne stinging his nose.
“Why?”
“Your lifestyle is enough.” The zealot smiled with the cruel vengeance supposedly reserved for God alone. “In this case? A message must be sent.”
The partner struggled. The zealot laughed at the thought of the sodomite before him dying with rug burns on his stomach and junk. Didn’t they all go out that way though? The partner realized his only hope. He was unlikely to diffuse a bomb, but if he could free himself after the zealot left he could at least try.
“Four minutes is cutting it close for your escape don’t you think? The junior fascist league would be lost without a man of your moral caliber.”
“Shut it cock smoker. Something your kind will never understand is there are some causes worth dying for, and some things you don’t leave to chance.”
The zealot fell into hate filled silence. The partner let his tears flow again, looking the man in the eye. Men like him could never understand those tears were not shame or regret. The partner could be proud of his tears, but he would not beg or revile the man more. Let him die better than his oppressor would. Both waited for rewards they were unsure of.
____________________________________________________________________
Jack sat at the desk in his now defunct office with a bottle or what could be paint thinner and his revolver in front of him. He swallowed his pain with chasers of dime store Scotch. It was the gun he spoke to.
“I’m sorry loving me caused this. I know the message the preacher meant to send. I promise you though, I won’t forget or fail you. His tactics won’t work this time. His God has hardened my heart.” Jack refused to cry as he followed this toast to his lost with another shot.
#shortstory #novel #author #dark #writer #writing
May 29, 2015
Let's Take It Back
So, I have been stewing on this one for a while and just have to get it out there. Mostly this is directed at men, but I hope a broader audience can take something from it too. We have lost something over the last couple of decades guys. We have lost out minds.
I don't mean that we're crazy. I mean that somewhere along the way we lost control of what we are putting in our brains. We used to be proud of what we learned and discerning in our entertainment. Even the guys who picked on nerds would pick up a book once in a while. Where the hell are we now? Not to insult either genre, because there are wonderful works in both that I think everyone should read, but are you really happy reading children's books and young adult novels to your kids or hearing about chicklit plot lines from the women in your life while never filling your head with things that matter to you?
People look at me funny when I say I mostly write for men. Those looks annoy me but they are right to give them. I mean, I have seen it multiple times recently, the studies and surveys. They show how adult males are the least likely to buy a book for themselves, much less read one. Look at the book bloggers, agents and everyone saying they are an avid reader. Their ranks are filled with women and teens because only readers go into that.What happened to us? Boys read, so why do we stop? These studies are used to prove that men don't read, so books aren't published for men.
I think that is false logic. For years the movie studios said people in their late teens through twenties were the ones who watched movies. So, guess what, movies were made only to target that audience, by the major producers anyway. They were wrong. Other demographics wanted to watch movies too. A few years back some movies got released for alternative audience (thank you Sundance for pushing the envelope) and guess what again. They did just fine. The people waiting for their movies went out and saw them and money was made so now you see more experimentation. I think books for men are like this. We don't read because there aren't that many books published for us. How do we fix it? We can't sit back and wait for someone to notice, we have to get noticed.
How are we spending our entertainment time and dollars? Not so long ago it was on magazines targeted at men, and that was fine. At least we had a voice. As more content goes to the internet and becomes free we are losing even that though. So we visit websites, spend annoying amounts of time on social media that usually makes us both depressed and dumber by the second. When we don't? Maybe we watch a movie with almost no plot and lots of special effects. More likely we watch the idiot box.
Even then, do we watch quality programs? Sometimes, maybe, enough of them are surviving that I'm starting to think our tastes are evolving. Mostly though, we watch the most mindless drivel with uninspired plots or no plots at all. When is the last time you made an hour every week to watch a good drama? How much more of your time is spent on mindless sitcoms and programs designed with a a female market in mind because you're watching it with a woman you love and pretending it counts as quality time? Here's a hint, quality time with the TV leads to conversations about the plot and the message, not how cute the stars are or a simple comment of that was good. Even worse, how much time are you spending watching so called reality television? Do we even care that our brains are screaming out in pain and strangling themselves until we can't think anymore? Do we concern ourselves with how little we gain? No, but we have to.
So how do we fix it? Take back your reading! Buy a book for yourself and read it. I don't care if it's in a genre designed for another demographic. I don't care if it's physical or on an e-reader. What I care about is us taking control of our destiny again. Buy some books so those publishing them know we want them again and actually start considering our tastes. Women are such prolific readers they have two fiction genres dedicated to them. It's time we got guy books back. Here's an even better idea than picking up something not published for you though. Pick up a book that matters.
Get something that touches, entertains, and teaches you. Want some suggestions? Sure, I can do that. Pick up a classic and decide for yourself it if's any good. Look in the genres of Horror, Science Fiction and Fantasy. There's bound to be something you'll like. If you have older tastes pick up some Bradbury, Orwell, Poe, Shakespeare, Lovecraft or Hemingway. Those men wrote for men. Want something a little more modern? Go check out some Stephen King, George RR Martin, Tom Clancy, Jim Butcher or Clive Barker. Those men do or did write to the male sensibility. I will note, I actually don't like every author I have listed but I respect them and each one appeals to a part of the male mind that wants to be engaged and entertained.
So, go buy a book this week and let them know you're out there.If you don't like any of the authors I've listed find one you do. Better yet, make a difference in someone's life and find and independent or small press author and make the day of a struggling artist a little better. I'm not saying you should buy my book, but you should, (oh come on, you knew I was going there eventually) I am saying to take back your brain. Take back your entertainment. Take back your pride and your power.
As much as I would love your money and your review that is not what this is about. It is about something deeper. I want you to have a voice and to build up synapses that only reading can give you. You know, the ones that are currently firing every once in a while in the dark when you're bored in the seconds before you turn on the television and drown them out? Those ones, they are lonely and abused and they miss their imaginary friends. Even more than that, I want a different reaction next time I query an agent and say my target audience is everyone but mostly men. Instead of the assumed eye roll I want that agent to sit up and take notice. I want them to get excited and think, "Hell yeah! Men read and publishers will be all over this." I want us to be proud again, of being men and of our intellect. I want us to have something to talk about on break beyond which idiot we don't care about got kicked of which show last night.
I want us to make a difference and be proud of it as we rebuild a connected community of readers that we are currently on the outside of. I can't do it alone though. I need your help with this. So, go buy a book this week. Be careful in the choice and buy it only for yourself and the idea of making a difference with your actions. Once you do, don't hide it in the bag like you used to do with your all nude magazines. Walk out or around with it proudly in your hand as you throw away the bag, or better yet go green and tell the attendant you don't need a bag at all. That last assumes you want to make a real difference and went to a real bookstore to make sure they stick around. When someone asks what you're reading, proudly show it to them. When they ask why say it sounded good and suggest they get a copy. Then sit down and read it.
Now, I'm going to go do a little more writing and then read my own current book. Yes, it's by someone on my list above.
#commentary #socialcommentary #thoughts #shamelessselfpromotion #author #writer
I don't mean that we're crazy. I mean that somewhere along the way we lost control of what we are putting in our brains. We used to be proud of what we learned and discerning in our entertainment. Even the guys who picked on nerds would pick up a book once in a while. Where the hell are we now? Not to insult either genre, because there are wonderful works in both that I think everyone should read, but are you really happy reading children's books and young adult novels to your kids or hearing about chicklit plot lines from the women in your life while never filling your head with things that matter to you?
People look at me funny when I say I mostly write for men. Those looks annoy me but they are right to give them. I mean, I have seen it multiple times recently, the studies and surveys. They show how adult males are the least likely to buy a book for themselves, much less read one. Look at the book bloggers, agents and everyone saying they are an avid reader. Their ranks are filled with women and teens because only readers go into that.What happened to us? Boys read, so why do we stop? These studies are used to prove that men don't read, so books aren't published for men.
I think that is false logic. For years the movie studios said people in their late teens through twenties were the ones who watched movies. So, guess what, movies were made only to target that audience, by the major producers anyway. They were wrong. Other demographics wanted to watch movies too. A few years back some movies got released for alternative audience (thank you Sundance for pushing the envelope) and guess what again. They did just fine. The people waiting for their movies went out and saw them and money was made so now you see more experimentation. I think books for men are like this. We don't read because there aren't that many books published for us. How do we fix it? We can't sit back and wait for someone to notice, we have to get noticed.
How are we spending our entertainment time and dollars? Not so long ago it was on magazines targeted at men, and that was fine. At least we had a voice. As more content goes to the internet and becomes free we are losing even that though. So we visit websites, spend annoying amounts of time on social media that usually makes us both depressed and dumber by the second. When we don't? Maybe we watch a movie with almost no plot and lots of special effects. More likely we watch the idiot box.
Even then, do we watch quality programs? Sometimes, maybe, enough of them are surviving that I'm starting to think our tastes are evolving. Mostly though, we watch the most mindless drivel with uninspired plots or no plots at all. When is the last time you made an hour every week to watch a good drama? How much more of your time is spent on mindless sitcoms and programs designed with a a female market in mind because you're watching it with a woman you love and pretending it counts as quality time? Here's a hint, quality time with the TV leads to conversations about the plot and the message, not how cute the stars are or a simple comment of that was good. Even worse, how much time are you spending watching so called reality television? Do we even care that our brains are screaming out in pain and strangling themselves until we can't think anymore? Do we concern ourselves with how little we gain? No, but we have to.
So how do we fix it? Take back your reading! Buy a book for yourself and read it. I don't care if it's in a genre designed for another demographic. I don't care if it's physical or on an e-reader. What I care about is us taking control of our destiny again. Buy some books so those publishing them know we want them again and actually start considering our tastes. Women are such prolific readers they have two fiction genres dedicated to them. It's time we got guy books back. Here's an even better idea than picking up something not published for you though. Pick up a book that matters.
Get something that touches, entertains, and teaches you. Want some suggestions? Sure, I can do that. Pick up a classic and decide for yourself it if's any good. Look in the genres of Horror, Science Fiction and Fantasy. There's bound to be something you'll like. If you have older tastes pick up some Bradbury, Orwell, Poe, Shakespeare, Lovecraft or Hemingway. Those men wrote for men. Want something a little more modern? Go check out some Stephen King, George RR Martin, Tom Clancy, Jim Butcher or Clive Barker. Those men do or did write to the male sensibility. I will note, I actually don't like every author I have listed but I respect them and each one appeals to a part of the male mind that wants to be engaged and entertained.
So, go buy a book this week and let them know you're out there.If you don't like any of the authors I've listed find one you do. Better yet, make a difference in someone's life and find and independent or small press author and make the day of a struggling artist a little better. I'm not saying you should buy my book, but you should, (oh come on, you knew I was going there eventually) I am saying to take back your brain. Take back your entertainment. Take back your pride and your power.
As much as I would love your money and your review that is not what this is about. It is about something deeper. I want you to have a voice and to build up synapses that only reading can give you. You know, the ones that are currently firing every once in a while in the dark when you're bored in the seconds before you turn on the television and drown them out? Those ones, they are lonely and abused and they miss their imaginary friends. Even more than that, I want a different reaction next time I query an agent and say my target audience is everyone but mostly men. Instead of the assumed eye roll I want that agent to sit up and take notice. I want them to get excited and think, "Hell yeah! Men read and publishers will be all over this." I want us to be proud again, of being men and of our intellect. I want us to have something to talk about on break beyond which idiot we don't care about got kicked of which show last night.
I want us to make a difference and be proud of it as we rebuild a connected community of readers that we are currently on the outside of. I can't do it alone though. I need your help with this. So, go buy a book this week. Be careful in the choice and buy it only for yourself and the idea of making a difference with your actions. Once you do, don't hide it in the bag like you used to do with your all nude magazines. Walk out or around with it proudly in your hand as you throw away the bag, or better yet go green and tell the attendant you don't need a bag at all. That last assumes you want to make a real difference and went to a real bookstore to make sure they stick around. When someone asks what you're reading, proudly show it to them. When they ask why say it sounded good and suggest they get a copy. Then sit down and read it.
Now, I'm going to go do a little more writing and then read my own current book. Yes, it's by someone on my list above.
#commentary #socialcommentary #thoughts #shamelessselfpromotion #author #writer
