Renee Miller's Blog, page 3

New Year, Same Me

2018 is over. I won’t say good riddance, because it had some pretty good points for me. I published books, experienced some setbacks, but over all, I think I came out ahead. It’s a nice change from the usual.

I haven’t set resolutions for 2019. Of course, I’ll try to be a good person. Try not to lose my shit as often as I did last year. Maybe I’ll even master the art of positivity. I am getting better at taking the glass half full approach. This year, I’ll try to think of that first, and I won’t use it as a way of talking myself down from the worst-case scenario mindset.

Those aren’t resolutions, though. They’re things I try to do daily, new year or not. I won’t set any writing or publishing resolutions, but I do have a few goals and decisions that have to be made.

One is a major decision I can’t discuss until I get my shit sorted out. It’s not a pleasant decision. I’ve been putting it off because I don’t want to do what I think I have to do. Cryptic, right? I’ll share more on that later, when I sort out the feelings and such. Basically, I’ve allowed a situation that is supposed to be mutually beneficial for everyone involved become one-sided, and now there are a small few giving all the effort and not getting anything in return from the larger group. Stepping out of said situation will have consequences I’m not sure I’m up to facing just yet. When I get pissed off enough, those won’t matter.

On to happier shit. I have three novels finished and ready for publication. One could be considered a novella, as it’s a little shy of the 40,000-word mark. The first is THE ONE YOU FEED, which is a generational saga that explores the question, “Is evil born or made?” It’s psychological horror, I think, with a dash of something else I can’t define. I’ve worked on it for about seven years. Longest I ever spent on any project without giving up on it. I’ve cut it from over 150,000 words to about 110,000. That was a chore, let me tell you. The writer I was seven years ago liked to write the shit out of every scene, so I had to remove all the unnecessary purple bits before I could go through and really get to rewriting it.

It’s good now. I keep saying if it doesn’t get picked up by a publisher, I’ll publish it myself. Each year, it comes close. So close. Positive rejections (there are such things) that say they loved it or the writing, but it’s not right for their market, or it’s too long (might have to trim more), or a few other reasons that made me scowl and swear a little bit. So, those make me think it deserves a little more than I can give it alone, and I resubmit. Again and again. Who knows? Maybe this time next year, if no one is interested in signing it, I’ll just bite the bullet and do it myself. Probably not.

Sometimes you have a project that can wait until its time. THE ONE YOU FEED is one of those for me at the moment.

Anyway, next is CLUSTER. Now, this is a sci-fi/horror/psychological thriller about a parasite that causes killer cluster migraines. I have had migraines since I was about 8 years old. I’ve had the minor ones that go away quickly, and I’ve had clusters that last for days where I feel like I’m definitely going to die. They’re not fun. Writing this one was tough, as I tried to be as descriptive as possible with the symptoms, so sometimes I wondered if I was giving myself a migraine just by thinking about them.

Anyway, I’ve subbed a few places. Got a couple of rejections. One was very positive, but still a no, so I’ll keep subbing it in 2019.

Finally, THE MAN FROM NOTHING was signed by Hindered Souls Press before it closed up shop. Now it’s homeless again. It’s a bizarro/dark comedy story that’s part Oz, part Wonderland and part Twilight Zone. I really love it. It’s rare I feel that way about something I’ve written, so my worst-case scenario voice keeps suggesting it sucks, because I love it so much. I just ignore that voice. She’s sometimes wrong.

I subbed this one to a couple of places and, so far, it’s not quite right. I do have a “dream” publisher in mind for this one, but they’re not open to submissions for a few months, so I guess I’ll have to wait. I’m terrible at that.

Wait. I just realized I have four, not three. HOWL, which was signed and then shit went south, so it’s also homeless now, is another I’d like to publish this year. It’s a novella about monsters, rednecks, cannibalism and weird sexual encounters, all set in the woods in the winter. I think it’s pretty cool, so maybe someone else will like it.

My goal is to publish at least one of these this year. Two would be awesome. None of them would be tragic.

That said, I have other projects almost completed. Three more novels, actually. One is a couple of chapters shy of “the end” while the other two need serious rewrites. We’ll see how that goes. I’m already at the “OMG they’re ALWAYS going to suck” phase of rewriting.

And as always, I have lots of short stories kicking around. Some suck. Some are awesome. I’ll try to focus only on the awesome ones, and make room on my submission spreadsheet for new awesome I write this year.

So, to summarize, my goal for 2019 is to keep doing what I’ve been doing. Publish something so you guys don’t forget I exist, and maybe be a big deal by the time 2020 rolls around.

Also, I’m going to be better with this blog. I say it every year, but this year, it might stick.

For now, my story HIGHER LEARNING will be released as part of Unnerving’s MIDNIGHT SNACKS series in May. You can pre-order it now, so you don’t have to worry about forgetting.

[image error]

Now, what about you guys? Resolutions? Goals? Same shit, different year?

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

It’s almost here! Christmas has crept up on us again, although I’ve noticed it’s different now that my kids are older and we don’t have the whole “I’msoexcitedIcouldpukeandcannotpossiblysleep” excitement making us crazy. They’re more like, “Don’t wake me up too early,” now. Sigh.

I work in retail too, so you miserable fucks coming out last minute have sucked all the joy out of the past week for me. Thanks a lot.

Anyway, I thought it’d be fun to share Christmas traditions, both creepy and cool. In our house, we used to leave a key hanging on the door for Santa, because we didn’t have a chimney and my smartass kids called us out on it. We never did Elf on the Shelf either, and I’m so glad we didn’t. Like I needed one more thing on my to-do list and to be honest, the little shit creeps me out anyway.

We’ve all watched Puppet Master, right?

[image error]

Chucky?

[image error]

Hello?

Just look at it.

[image error]

As a child, I imagine it would’ve traumatized me to know that a doll could get up in the middle of the night and just roam my house doing whatever it damn well pleased. These kids who love it are going to be badass adults… or psychopaths. Whatever.

Basically, it’s another way to get kids to behave during the insane days leading up to Christmas, which I totally understand. But you have to start the day after Thanksgiving! That’s October in Canada, for crying out loud. So, for two months, the elf observes and reports your behavior to Santa. Elves being elves, they can’t help but cause a little trouble, so it’s not uncommon for elves on shelves to pull pranks or make messes each night for the kids to find in the morning. Another reason for this mischief is to remind the kids that HE IS VERY FUCKING REAL AND WILL TELL SANTA EVERYTHING.

Well, Elf, I’ve got one thing to say to you:

[image error]

And don’t touch the elf or it’ll disappear. Another deliciously disturbing tidbit about the Elf? It can’t move when it’s being observed. Know what else can’t move unless you’re not looking?

[image error]

Don’t blink

Just saying.

Also, who has time for it anyway? I mean, really? Hats off to parents who are creative enough and organized enough to move the damn elf every night for like a month. I couldn’t do it. Telling my kids not to touch the damn thing would be like:

[image error]

I’ve gone on too long about the elf. Let’s get back to traditions that don’t give me the heebs. We used to let our kids open one present on Christmas Eve. I used to do the same when I was a kid, although it was almost always pajamas that we opened. Christmas pajamas. I let my kids choose a “small” gift. My reasons weren’t anything to do with tradition, though. It was meant to calm them the fuck down so I could get them into bed at a reasonable time and have all of the Santa stuff done before 2 a.m. It almost never worked.

We got our Christmas Eve gift early this year. Teddy has been spreading holiday cheer for about a month now.

[image error]

That makes three dogs, two cats.

[image error]

We limit Christmas Eve visits to one or two friends/relatives as well. I just can’t do a lot of social shit, and since the holiday is about joy and happiness and all that fuzzy stuff, I figure I should do what makes me happy, which is staying at home. Christmas Day and Boxing Day are feast days, so I get my year’s worth of socialization then.

Anyway, we don’t have a lot of traditions these days. Most of them revolved around the kids, and since all but one is an adult now, we’ve been trying to adapt to a new way of doing Christmas. It’s strange and sometimes makes me a little sad.

What are some traditions you guys like to observe during the holidays? Anyone else with grown children who do something really cool that doesn’t involve me talking to a bunch of people? How about creepy traditions? Anyone find a popular tradition disturbing?

I’m still thinking about the elf. Kind of inspired to do some writing now…

 

When Your Publisher Closes

I received some sad and disappointing news this week. Hindered Souls Press, who published my novel, Eat the Rich, has closed. (You can still purchase their titles on Amazon. Click the photo for the links:)

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

[image error]

 

 

 

 

I think I’m most disappointed that you all won’t get to read Leo X. Robertson’s Jesus of Scumburg just yet. It was supposed to be released by HSP on Christmas Day. I’m currently reading it and I know it’ll find a new home. You can click the cover to read the early reviews and you’ll see why I’m confident this can’t be the end for this particular book.

[image error]

This isn’t the first time I’ve gone down this road, as regular readers of my blog know, and I doubt it’ll be the last. HSP doesn’t deserve any negativity, though. While there wasn’t much notice, there is no confusion about rights, and HSP is allowing its authors to keep rights to cover art (which many publishers don’t do) and is sending all files pertaining to works published to the authors. It’s a shit situation for everyone involved, but it is what it is. I know that everything possible was done to keep HSP going, and I hope that maybe, a little down the road, maybe we’ll see it again. Anything is possible, so join me in crossing our fingers that this isn’t the last we’ve seen of Mr. Tapia.

At first, I’ll admit I was really frustrated. Here we are again. I’ve killed another publisher. Of course, I’m joking. Obviously, the entire world doesn’t revolve around me. It should, but it doesn’t. And my shit luck isn’t powerful enough to cause problems for other people.  God, I hope it’s not. It’s just an unfortunate and common occurrence for indie publishing. Most of indie presses are very small, with a tiny staff (if they have a staff at all) selling books in a niche market, so unless the person behind the press is extremely devoted or rich, the life expectancy of these publishers is often short. Depressing, right? For me, it’s particularly sad because most of the interesting, genre busting fiction I’ve read comes from small presses. This is why it’s so important that anyone who loves an indie author should support and promote the shit out of them. The only way we get new readers is if our current ones spread the word.

[image error]

Anyway, after thinking on it for a day or so, I thought this is a perfect opportunity to share my experience with other writers so that if your publisher closes, you’ll have an idea of what you should do, once you’re through crying and breaking things. Now, I’m not a lawyer, so the legalities involved aren’t something I can advise you on. If you can afford it, consult with an attorney, particularly if the split from your publisher isn’t amicable or if you’re owed money.

If you can’t afford a lawyer and/or you don’t have an agent, and many small press authors don’t, it’s on you to protect yourself, your rights, and get what is owed to you. Sometimes, there’s not much you can do about the money. Cut your losses if this is the case, but the rest of it has to be dealt with.

First, get a letter from said publisher (an email will do, I’m told) saying that all rights have reverted back to you in regard to the works you’ve had published with them. Some will continue to sell said titles for the duration of the contract, so it’s important that all parties are clear on what happens after you part ways. The best and easiest ending is to cut ties entirely and immediately, and don’t be afraid to demand your work be pulled and no longer sold after the publisher is closed. When that’s agreed upon, in writing, follow up. Make sure that the publisher has removed your titles from all relevant outlets.

When I experienced this the first time, the titles published by my ex-publisher remained available for sale for months on Amazon and a couple of other sites. This was a problem, because for one, I couldn’t resubmit the books anywhere else as long as they were still in print. It was also difficult to publish them myself, because the duplicate titles credited to me was confusing for readers. Finally, if that book is still selling through the publisher (who is supposed to have closed up shop), then there’s money being made and it’s not going to you (unless you really luck out and are still being paid – highly unlikely). I never received a single royalty payment from that publisher, and I know the books were selling and had sold prior to its closure. I did try to get my money, but eventually, email accounts were shut down and I could no longer chase them without taking legal action. I had to decide if it was worth pursuing. In the end, I decided it was not and to look on it as a learning experience I could use to avoid such a disaster in the future.

During this process, you may have to send multiple emails, nag a little, but don’t back down. Demand the publishers pull the titles entirely, or pay you for their continued sale. Keep all correspondence between you and your ex-publisher, “just in case” things go south. Sure, you might split on good terms, but you never know what’ll happen down the line. Protect yourself, no matter what. Oh, and

[image error]

And ask questions. Tons of questions. Even stupid ones. Check your contract thoroughly. Gather as much information as you can in the early days. Why is the publisher closing? When? Is it an imprint of a larger company? If so, the parent company may continue to sell the books for the duration of the contract after the imprint is closed. So, find out if your book will still be available to buy. For how long? How will royalties be paid? When will they be paid? Who should you contact in the future if the book will remain available? If it’s not going to be available, when will it be removed from retail outlets? When will your rights revert back to you? Get specific dates and don’t be afraid to be pushy (although not rude) and get the information you need.

Okay, let’s say the rights are yours again, books are off all retail outlets and it’s like this failed relationship never happened. What now?

Make a plan.

Do NOT bad mouth the publisher. I know, it’s the only thing you want to do. But when you’re feeling all,

[image error]

You’re not in the emotional place to be vomiting any feelings publicly. Maybe try a little

[image error]

and stay away from the keyboard until you’ve calmed down and sobered up. Then, you can share FACTS, but avoid name-calling and all that nastiness, because even if you’re in the right, it makes you look like a juvenile asshole. By all means, share your experience, but try not to be petty. It’s hard, I know, but we’re professionals. I wanted to rant and rage over a couple of really shitty things that happened to me, but I didn’t. Not publicly anyway. Why not? I looked at the bigger picture, and in that picture, the short-term satisfaction I may have gained by expressing my anger wasn’t worth the long-term consequences. Other publishers, who might be interested in working with you in the future, are still out there, and may see your tantrum and decide working with you isn’t worth the drama. Keep that in mind if you’re tempted to indulge in a tantrum. You’ll thank me for this advice later.

[image error]

So, what’s your plan? Submit the books/stories somewhere else? Publish yourself? It’s up to you. I recommend you don’t just let your work die a quiet death. Someone thought it was worth reading, so do something with it. Re-vamp it, view it as an opportunity to create a new marketing gimmick, or just quietly put it back out there.

Now, sometimes a publisher closing feels like a personal failure. If only your books had sold more. If only you’d done more marketing for both yourself and the publisher, if only you’d seen this coming. If only you’d gone to that other place you considered submitting it to before signing with this publisher. If only, if only, if only…

[image error]

Look, this is not your failure. Sometimes, it’s no one’s fault. Often, it’s poor management on the publisher’s end, but in some cases, it’s just the way the cookie crumbled and that’s that. However, you couldn’t have done anything to change the result. You did your job, wrote the book, did the edits, marketed your tail off, and you got a shitty deal. Don’t be ashamed or embarrassed. You tried, it didn’t work out, and you’ll try again. This is not about you, although it does feel very personal. Keep you head up and move on.

Learn from your experience. For me, there are usually signs a publisher is circling the drain. I didn’t see them at first, but it’s happened to me so many times now that I have noticed a pattern.

Publishing schedule dramatically changes.

I’ve seen this happen two ways: Sudden and noticeable increase/decrease in signed titles. With one publisher, it seemed like they were signing as many new books as possible, while others cut their new releases down to almost nothing. Both are indicators that the publisher is trying to save itself, either by selling as much as possible, or by cutting costs.

Of course, both could mean absolutely nothing. Maybe the publisher is doing extremely well. So well, in fact, that it can afford to release more titles, or it can afford to be more choosy. I think this is rare, though, and in the end, a dramatic change in the way your publisher operates is a red flag you should be aware of. There’s nothing you can do about the end result at this point, but you can start preparing for what you’ll do after you part ways.

Lack of or limited contact.

If your editor/publisher was good about answering emails, questions, etc. and suddenly goes radio silent, or takes days or even weeks to respond to your emails/messages, there’s something wrong. Maybe it’s not closing, but communication between an author and their publisher should be clear and easy. You shouldn’t have to nag your publisher for answers to questions or responses to your emails, no matter what the subject matter. If you’re having trouble connecting, there’s a problem. If this is an issue right out of the gate, I’d worry about the future of your relationship.

Payment issues.

Most publishers, including small/independent presses, have a payment schedule in place. This schedule rarely changes without good reason. Some publishers pay quarterly, some pay twice yearly, some pay every month. No matter what their schedule, if it suddenly changes, that’s a red flag. If payment is late, or you have to ask for it, be prepared for bad news down the line. If a payment doesn’t clear the bank, also a bad sign. Even something as innocuous as changing the method of payment, like going from Paypal to cheque or cash in the mail is a troubling sign.

There’s not much you can do once shit goes south, so my advice to you is to be clear on the royalty schedule BEFORE YOU SIGN YOUR CONTRACT, so that down the road, you’ll notice when changes happen, and so you know when you’re supposed to expect money. Also, ask for invoices. A reputable publisher will provide some kind of record of your book sales for all retail outlets and the royalties earned, and usually, you don’t have to ask for this. If your publisher doesn’t do this, I’d be concerned. If you get hassled over requesting an invoice, be very concerned.

Marketing

Finally, a major indicator for me that a publisher is considering packing it all in is a serious slow-down in their marketing efforts. This boils down to psychology, I think. I mean, it’s sad when you have to quit something you’ve put a ton of time and effort into, and I think for many small presses that close their doors, the knowledge that it has to happen occurs long before they finally pull the trigger. It’s a business, but for many of these people, the press is personal and depression may be a major issue in the final days. So much so that the idea of marketing anything is just too much for them. Why bother if it’s all crashing down anyway? You might think, well maybe they’d market MORE because they might try to save it. Maybe, but in my experience, the opposite happens. So, if you notice your publisher isn’t as active on social media or isn’t as keen to sell books as it once was, it could be a sign of trouble down the road. It doesn’t hurt to check in. Just a little email saying hey, what’s up? Everything okay? Maybe they’ll answer honestly, maybe it’s nothing, maybe you’ll get no response at all. Each answer will at least give you an idea of what’s going on.

And to be clear, any publisher that doesn’t attempt to promote its catalog and its authors is troubling. If yours makes no effort from the start, I’d be worried. Before you sign the contract, check the publisher’s social media pages and look for marketing terms in your contract (many include what marketing efforts are expected on both sides). If you don’t see a lot of action in terms of marketing before you sign, then you can discuss it before the deal is made  or go another route.

Now, with all that being said, in my current situation, there weren’t a lot of red flags. One, perhaps, and in the past week or so, maybe two, but leading up to this point, there really wasn’t much to signal a problem. That’s because Manuel Tapia, who owns HSP, is a stand up guy, and decided to pull the trigger immediately, rather than drag it out. He is also attempting to take care of his authors. I wish more break ups ended as amicably as this one. I won’t get into the particulars about the reasons for HSP’s closure, except to say I believe that he is doing what has to be done and if he could avoid it, he would.

What’s my plan? Well, I’ll probably publish Eat the Rich again myself. Same cover, done by A.A. Medina (who also published Syphon, one of my favorites books of 2018 with HSP), and same story. As for The Man from Nothing, the book I recently signed with HSP for release next year? I don’t know. It’s a pretty niche kind of story. Weird, dark comedy. I’m not sure I’ll find a home for it, so maybe I’ll still release it myself in the spring. My plan isn’t formed yet, as I’ve only known about this for about twenty-four hours. I’ll keep you posted.

My 2019 publishing schedule is a little more “open” now than I care to admit, so I guess I’ll get back to submitting and see what happens. I’m pretty used to setbacks now, so while I’m going to lick my wounds a bit longer, I will keep chugging along. I have to if I’m ever going to convince you all I’m a big deal.

And if any of you go through the same thing, don’t get down. Not for long anyway. Dust yourself off, do what you gotta do, and keep being awesome. It’s a speed bump. Nothing more.

[image error]

The Customer is Always Right, Unless They’re Not

Been a while, eh? I know. This is how I roll. I promise to be more diligent about posting something here regularly, and I do it for a few weeks, and then life happens and before I know it, weeks have passed without a word from me. Sorry. If it makes you feel better, just know I’m like this with relationships as well.

Anyway, as we leave Halloween and the world gears up for the Christmas season, I’m reminded why I tend to hermit in my house with my laptop and only venture outside for work: People.

I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s the weather or the moon phase or just something in the air we’re breathing, but people get mean this time of year (meaner than usual in some cases). It should be the one time we all come together. Love, tolerance, happy fucking holidays, for crying out loud. But no. Maybe you don’t realize this, because you don’t work with the public or because you’re blissfully oblivious to such things, but how we treat each other in the wonderful world of retail is a problem.

When discussing my writing, one of the most frequent questions I get is “Where do you come up with these whackjobs/assholes/miserable sons of bitches,” meaning my “villains.” The answer is simple: I’ve met every last one in one form or another. I take the basics of the shitty personalities I encounter and expand on them to craft a character that readers will enjoy reading, but at their heart, each nasty I write is inspired by someone I’ve met.

Now, you might think I’m just dealing with a few exceptions to some rule. I wish that were true. I’ve worked in customer service most of my life. I can say with absolute certainty that we’ve all gotten worse in terms of how we treat each other. Did you know that most people working in retail, the ones you see folding shirts, stocking shelves, waiting tables or running cash registers, have zero control over the prices, stock, and policies of the stores they work in? I know, it’s a crazy idea, but it’s true. They just want to pay their bills, and you behaving like a jackass isn’t going to get you any special favors. Sure, you might get a “Thanks, have a nice day,” but it’s never genuine and sometimes, those sweet smilers are picturing your most painful death as you leave.

[image error]

Here are a few recent gems I’ve encountered:

There’s a man who comes to the deli counter where I work, barks out his order, usually about three to five things, and walks away. Now, this means, he’s listing a particular meat and an amount. “Five slices of headcheese, two slices of ham, six slices of turkey and ten slices of salami.” He never waits to see if the deli person is listening or even close to the counter. Then he’s upset when he has to repeat himself and his order isn’t ready when he returns. Listen, dick-smack, wait for your shit like everyone else or at least make sure you have the person’s attention before you start barking shit at them. I have him almost trained to wait, as does the deli manager, but I see him doing it to other staff, and it’s annoying.

Another man tells us about the one time he got bad turkey at our store. That one time, MORE THAN A YEAR AGO. Every single time he comes in and buys, you guessed it, more turkey, he tells us about the bad turkey he got THAT ONE TIME. What do you want from us, buddy?

We have another woman who likes to search the store for the one item we don’t have, and then asks for it. We say sorry we’re out, and then she raises a holy ruckus about how we never have what she needs. And THEN, she asks for a discount on something else to make up for the inconvenience of not having that other item. Um… no? If it was a one-time thing, I’d be tempted to feel a bit sorry about it, but it’s almost every time I see her. If you’re so inconvenienced so often, why do you keep coming back?

Best of all was the woman who screamed (yes, screamed) at me, because our store offers “multi” sales. Basically, if you buy one of something, it’s this price, but if you buy two or more, you get a discount. In this case, by purchasing two yogurts, the woman would’ve saved about forty cents. FORTY CENTS. Two bags of chips would have saved her about the same. “This is age discrimination!” she said. I laughed, because I’m sometimes not good at this stuff. “I’m serious!” This is where the screaming starts. “I am a single, senior woman, and I can’t eat two of these yogurts. I can’t eat two whole bags of chips! You’re offering deals just to young people with families, which is discrimination, and I will sue if you don’t give me these for half price.”

[image error]

So I said, “Well, first of all, you’d only save forty cents, so I’m definitely not giving you these items for half price. Second, these items are good for two weeks or more. Eat one yogurt this week, the other can be eaten next week. Same with the chips.” Worst thing to say, apparently. She went on a bit of a rant (a loud rant at the front of the store, where she held up Lane 1 for a long time) about the discrimination she faces for being an old single woman. Listen, lady, I hear you on the old part, but let’s be real. Being single has its perks so don’t you act like you have it worse than the rest of us. You get to buy those chips without the fear that some asshole kid or husband is going to eat them before you enjoy a single one, nor do you have to buy anything for anyone else to make up for the fact that you bought a treat for yourself, so you’re actually spending way less than the rest of us old ladies who have kids and spouses to feed as well as our selves. Anyway, she demanded to know who to speak to about an age discrimination lawsuit. I was tempted to say “a lawyer” but I didn’t. Instead, I directed her to the corporate website and she informed me she was never shopping at our store again. I said, “Okay, if that’s how you feel.”

NOTE: She was in yesterday. Saw me, turned the opposite direction. Whatever.

We sometimes give scraps of meat to farmers, animal shelter types, etc. It’s scrap meat. Sits in a bucket with other scraps all day.

[image error]

Imagine our surprise when a man was pissed that he too couldn’t have the scraps for his dogs. We did try to be nice about it. Offered him some, share the wealth, if you will, as long as he asked, but no, that wasn’t good enough. He just went behind the counter and took all of it one day. So, he gets no more. When he realized this, he didn’t just save his complaints for management. Oh no. My kid works in the deli and was working when he went behind the counter (By the way, that’s employees only, fucknut), and she had to say no to him. He was not nice to her at all. But hey, she’s a big girl. She dealt with it and it was over. But it wasn’t. We were at the post office. Fucknut comes in and says, “Oh, there’s the bitch who won’t let me have scraps for my fucking dogs.” My daughter was going from the postal box room into the main area as he said it. Thankfully, she didn’t hear him. But I did and I said, “What bitch? My daughter?”

He blushed, and back pedaled a bit, and then said it wasn’t fair, blah, blah, and he’d never shop at the store again. I told him, “You gotta do what you gotta do, but I’m pretty sure you can afford to buy dog food, and if you think bullying some kid outside of the store will get you what you want, you’re mistaken. It’s more likely to get you punched in the nuts.” Then I left. Small towns. They’re great.

Note: He has not been back. We do not miss him.

Sometimes, people leave part of their groceries behind. If this happens, we put them aside, usually with a note that says when they were left, and a name, if we have one. Now, we can’t hold on to this shit forever, kids. In a larger store, they wouldn’t hold them at all. Your forgetfulness is your own fault, but let’s not get into that. We do hold items left behind, because we’re nice like that. After a few days or, in some cases if the items aren’t going to expire quickly, a week or so, we’ll put the items back out on the shelves. If we don’t find anything, it usually means you didn’t leave them behind. We’ve found items in the aisles that people set down to grab something else, meaning they didn’t pay for them anyway, and sometimes, if you’re like me, you misplace the item at home or on the way home. The store is not responsible for your hectic schedule or your sleep deprived brain.

I’ve had people who believe they’ve left groceries, demand replacement of said groceries and then lose their shit when we refuse. A recent example: Woman left a bag of milk (according to her). Calls the store a couple of days later. First of all, I notice forgotten items as soon as I unload my groceries, not TWO DAYS LATER, but whatever. No milk was left at the registers that week. I told her there was nothing set aside. Cashiers don’t recall what she’s talking about. She says, “Well I left it there. I want a replacement.” I asked if she had a receipt. Nope. But because she “drops thousands” in ours store (a lie) we should just give her the milk, without a receipt or any proof she even bought it. I apologized and said I can’t do that, because some people claim to have left stuff in order to get free groceries, so we require a receipt, which doesn’t even prove they left it behind anyway, but that’s unimportant. I was told I was a thief and she’d have my job. Take it, honey. (So far, she does not have my job. I continue to wait for my replacement.)

[image error]

Oh, and sales. Jesus, I hate when we have good sales. It’s a guaranteed reason for shit and abuse. We have a sale on soup this week. Fifty cents a can. Yes, it’s a damn good sale. Obviously, everyone wants soup. Cheap soup is even better. It’s Campbell’s, right? Good shit. Gotta stock those cupboards for the apocalypse, right?

[image error]

Bad example above. I mean, like bacon is ever on sale, right? Anyway, we sold out of soup in about two days. People were coming in and buying multiple cases at a time. God forbid we set a limit, because that would’ve made them nastier. First, chicken noodle was gone, which makes people furious, apparently, then the mushroom went. Mushroom soup people aren’t as easily enraged as chicken soup people, thank God. Chicken soup people were organizing a lynching the second they realized their soup isn’t available. Mushroom soup folks just kind of muttered and glared, possibly plotted a murder or two. Then the vegetable and tomato hung around for a while longer, but soon, they were gone as well. Those people were just like, “Oh, whatever. I guess this is just my life.” Tomato and vegetable soup people are more accepting of their bad luck, you see, which is sad, but I appreciate their ability to turn the anger inward. Thanks Tomatoes and Vegetables, for not taking it out on us.

[image error]

I think we had one can of vegetable for an entire day. I did receive a few complaints about said can, though. They want twenty-four, not one. One is more infuriating than none. Get it out of our sight. Well, I’m sorry, one’s all we got, sir. Our order comes Mondays. On Sunday, I was informed by an irate man (he really NEEDED twenty-four fucking cans of chicken noodle soup IMMEDIATELY) that we don’t stock sale items on purpose. Apparently, we just use the sale to get them in the store, so they’ll buy other things.

Imagine that! We’re disgusting for using PROMOTIONAL TOOLS to get people to shop at our store. However, we do not purposely short stock items. Christ, do you really think we enjoy the shit and abuse we take for not having a sale item in stock? No, we do not. No one does. Also, we get whatever we’re sent for sales a lot of the time, so if we run short, there’s not much we can do about it. We try to order enough, but if the warehouse doesn’t have it, they just don’t have it. Have you been able to predict what people will or won’t buy and how much? I haven’t either. One of the main goals a retail outlet focuses on is to generate customer loyalty. Happy customers come back. Not angry ones. Short stocking intentionally goes against this basic rule of good business, does it not?

And when something rings up the wrong price, please don’t yell at the cashier. She literally scans the barcode. That’s the extent of her involvement in pricing. It’s all computerized. If the price is wrong, it’s because someone in an office somewhere, plugging in shit to change prices, fucked up. Not her. So, when you make her call the manager, don’t say “SHE charged the wrong price!” as though the poor girl intentionally tried to fuck you over by twenty cents or something. She only scanned your item. The manager will fix the price in a matter of seconds, and you can be on your way. Yes, we have to check the label to make sure it’s the price you claim it is. No, it’s not that we don’t believe you. We’re just doing our job. More than half the time, the customer has read the tag wrong, or has grabbed an item that another customer has put in the wrong shelf. And no, just because it’s in front of that tag doesn’t mean you get it for that price. If the tag identifies the product as Campbell’s chicken noodle soup and there’s a can of baked beans in front of it, you don’t get the beans for fifty cents, because the label clearly says the soup is fifty cents. Now, if it says the baked beans are fifty cents, and you get charged a dollar, that’s a whole other story. We’re sorry and we’ll make shit right. Being an asshole doesn’t magically entitle you to special treatment.

Best of all are the customers who claims to have waited fifteen minutes, or whatever, for service. This is a lie most of the time. An example: When I work the deli, sometimes I have to pee. There is no one to watch the counter for me, so I just have to time it properly. If there are no customers, I run down to the basement, where the staff bathroom is, I pee as fast as I can, wash my hands, run back upstairs, and then wash my hands again, because that’s the rule, and that takes about three to five minutes. I’ve timed it. I never shit at work, so it’s never longer than five minutes. Don’t you tell me you’ve waited fifteen minutes, Ms. Self-Important Douchebag. I know exactly how long you waited. This happens all the damn time. The second they get to the counter, realize no one is there, they have waited fifteen minutes. That seems to be the rule, multiply every second by at least fifteen minutes.

That’s not even half of it. I’m only telling you all about the most recent things we’ve gotten shit over.

There’s also the family with a bazillion kids. Mom and dad don’t work, and they and/or their kids like to steal shit, and then get pissed that we follow them around. Dad bullies the teenage boys we have stocking shelves, and treats the cashiers like garbage. Just this week he called one of the boys a name that doesn’t need to be repeated, and asked him if he thought he was tough, etc. (PS: This kid is small, weighs less than 100 pounds, and was only mopping the floor.) He got to the registers and extended said bullying to the cashier and then pretended to pull the fire alarm as he left. Go ahead, loser. Do it. I’d like to send the cops to your house. We really want you as a customer. Really worried about that complaint you might file with corporate. Fuck off.

If you’ve got nothing to hide, then you won’t mind someone DOING THEIR JOB by being visible in the store.

[image error]

Then there’s the guy who steals a single egg, a handful of coffee pods, a single pop from a case, etc. He’s annoying, but he’s good at it. We haven’t been able to catch him yet.

And let’s not forget the general disdain with which a lot of people treat anyone working in customer service. Look, I know you’re important, and your job is the shit, but someone has to work these jobs. In a lot of cases, it’s kids trying to earn money before going to college, or single parents who need flexible hours, or just people who need a second income to make ends meet and the schedules in customer service are often more accommodating when you’re working more than one job than other industries. Doesn’t mean you’re better or more intelligent than them. Without customer service employees, you’d have nothing. No one to abuse. No one to inflate your already massive ego. The customer is NOT always right and it’s not our job to bend over whenever you feel like fucking someone (unless you’re dealing with prostitutes), so fuck off. Okay? Good.

I know I’ve gone on about this for too long, but there is a point. First, to remind you all that we could be better and we should really try harder. Second, every one of these people is ingrained in my memory and usually gets a role in one of my stories in some way. Not them specifically, but a version of them, I suppose. And readers seem to enjoy them, so I guess I should be grateful that they’re assholes. Thank you, dicks of the world, for being you. You’re an inspiration.

Evil: Nature or Nurture

I spend an unhealthy amount of time thinking about evil. What is it? Why is it? How does it start? Why is one person with a specific set of life experiences evil, when another, with a similar set of experiences, turns out good? What makes a serial killer? What turns someone into a sadist? How do we get from that clean, unburdened soul of our birth to something so ugly and stained, there’s no hope of it ever being pure again?

Is evil born or created?

[image error]

This is a question I’ve yet to find a definitive answer to. I believe there are some people out there who are evil without reason. They have a good life, good parents, and nothing but positive experiences. But maybe they get bored. They’re unhappy with happy. Something triggers a thing inside them and they stop caring about what society says is right or wrong, and just do the bad things they’ve always wanted to do.

I think some people are also made evil, by bad experiences and/or people in their lives. Maybe evil is there in all of us, along with the good. Deep inside, waiting for something or someone to draw it out. This is where a combination of nature and nurture work to determine whether someone will be good or evil.

And is someone evil because they do one bad thing? Or do they have to do many bad things before the tag can be applied. For example, a woman, beaten and berated for years, suddenly snaps and murders her abuser. Is that evil? Is there no hope for her? Or a guy, so fed up with being belittled by an abusive girlfriend, finally snaps and beats her within an inch of her life. He never did a bad thing before, never will again. Should he be painted with the evil brush for reacting to what amounts to the same abuse the woman before him endured? Are either of these people evil because of one act?

It’s an interesting discussion. The guy definitely shouldn’t have raised his hand, because we all know we should use our words, not our fists. Get out. Run far. Leave that bitch in your dust. Same for the woman. Forget that abusive asshole. Killing someone is serious shit. Better to leave the loser and let the law deal with his bullshit.

It’s not that simple, though. Such situations are a bomb waiting to explode. Leaving isn’t always an option, and sometimes taking the high road isn’t either.

But enough about my hypotheticals. They’re just examples. We could ask the same of someone who steals, who lies, who hates babies and kittens and puppies… The question I’m asking is what constitutes evil? For me, evil might have a different definition than you. Maybe you think evil is someone who kills. Or maybe you believe evil is someone so selfish, they’re unable to care about another person. Maybe they don’t kill, but they make those around them suffer. To be evil, do you have to do bad things or is it enough to just think them?

[image error]

Maybe it depends on the motivation behind the deeds. Good intentions or bad. We can hypothesize all we want, I suppose. The truth is, we can’t really know what makes someone else tick, because we’re not them. We haven’t lived their life or felt their feelings. We can only assume, based on our own lives and our own reactions to experiences we’ve had, how they might be feeling. We can know what science has determined to be the “norm” in the abnormal psychology of an evil person’s brain. We can’t know the truth.

And this is why I love writing horror. I love that we can’t know. Not definitively anyway. We can only assume and hypothesize. Everything is a giant question with no single answer. It leaves the possibilities for terror so numerous that we have an almost bottomless pit of inspiration to draw from.

What do you all think? Is evil born or made? A combination of both? Is an evil person redeemable or have they pretty much fucked themselves once they cross that line?

It Happened AGAIN…

I’m so pissed right now, I can’t even.

[image error]

Can’t. Even.

So, of course, I’m going to rant about it. Not much else I can do, because life’s not fair, deal with it, and all that.

I love writing books. I love publishing books. I love readers. Other writers are great too. What I don’t love, is the inconsiderate and unprofessional shit that authors deal with way too frequently and how we’re expected to just swallow it all with a smile, because why? We don’t matter. Apparently. We’re told to be professional. Don’t bad mouth people, especially publishers, because Horror is a small community and you could fuck yourself if you piss off the wrong people.

And I’ve been good about this. I’ve been the better person. I don’t talk shit about anyone publicly. I don’t share details of the countless times I’ve been fucked over, and if I do, I definitely don’t name names, because it’s not professional to do so. It’s not what grownups do, right? Right. I’ve given the benefit of the doubt over and over again, no matter how poorly I’ve been treated, but you know what? Fuck that. I’ve had publishers close without notice to any of their authors until D-Day (THREE FUCKING TIMES IN A SINGLE YEAR). I’ve had them not pay on time or at all (lost count of how many times this has happened) and I’ve chased the money down, which always makes you feel great. Now, I’ve had one sign a story (my horror novella, HOWL, if anyone is wondering) and then stop all communications. Initially, I was told it was email issues, and I was understanding, despite the fact that I did try to contact them via other methods, like Facebook, etc., which aren’t affected by email issues. I waited again. A little while later, I was given a “summer” publication date, a promise that edits were on their way “within the week” and an alternate email to use.

Couple of months go by. Nothing.

I email again. “What’s up, guys?” Nothing

Another month goes by. That’s three months since the email giving me a publication date, sort of, and a promise of edits. Six months playing cat and mouse. Two months before that of absolutely nothing. You know what? I’m done. I pulled the story. the terms of the contract were voided before I sent the first email anyway, so fuck it.

Now, here I am with a novella I was stoked to publish via this publisher, that I have to find a new home for, because even if I got a reply apologizing and giving me an excuse for this ridiculousness, I’ve got no trust left in this publisher. If shenanigans are happening before publication even happens, what’s going to occur down the line with royalties, marketing and whatnot? The gut says run and run fast, no matter how good their reputation seems to be. Something’s hinky.

And it’s not the finding the new home for this story that bothers me. I can do that. Do it all the time. It’s the total lack of respect for my time and my work that pisses me off. It happens way too often and I’m tired of being the better person about it. If you change your mind about an author or story, say so. Be decent enough to say, “Hey, sorry to do this, but for whatever reason, we’ve decided not to publish your story. We’re telling you now, the second we decided, so you don’t waste your time waiting for something that’s never going to happen and can sub it elsewhere asap.”

That would’ve stung, but I’d have remained professional. No bad mouthing. No bitching. Nothing more than a “This sucks” vague-book post to my personal friends. Even now, as pissed as I am, I’m not naming names publicly, because that’s an unprofessional and bitchy thing to do.

Courtesy, guys. Is that so much to ask?

There’s a lot of shit-eating that goes on in publishing. A lot of ass kissing too. Be humble. Swallow that pride. Be fucking grateful that anyone would think your sorry ass is good enough to bother with.

[image error]

Watch what you say, who you say it to, and who you say it about. Don’t be too opinionated, but give an opinion when it matters to people who matter. Make sure it’s the right opinion, because if not, you’re screwed. We beg for publication. We beg for sales. We beg for reviews. Respectfully, of course. Humbly. And without expectation of actually receiving any of the things we’re pleading for. It’s all part of the game and I’m happy to play it. Most of the time.

Today, I’ve reached my limit.

What I’ve dealt with the past couple of years is crap I’d NEVER take from someone in “real life.” I’d never work with a person who doesn’t value me or my time, no matter how badly I needed the money. I work too damn hard not to be treated with basic respect. In this case, I was practically begging a publisher to remember they offered to publish me. And for what? A few dollars every few months? A publishing credit for my resume? We can all agree it wasn’t for respect, because that clearly isn’t on the table in this case.

“Gee, Renee, why so dramatic?” you might ask. I am probably blowing things out of proportion. I’m probably way more pissed than I should be, but I’m not great at kissing ass. I’m not great at eating shit. I do it, because I want to build enough of a career that I can afford to buy more time to write, but it’s hard. When I encounter bullshit like this, it gets harder. As I said, I work hard. Most writers do. A lot of us work a day job in addition to writing, and we have families, responsibilities, and such that we juggle while we plug away at this thing we love doing. We swallow our pride and whatever else might need swallowing, because we are professionals and that’s what we have to do to succeed. we chose this path. Yes we did. How long do we do this, though? How many times do we assume the position before we give up?

I don’t know. I’m not giving up. I’m ranting, maybe whining a little, but I’ve come too far and swallowed too much shit to just walk away.  I wanted to. Oh man, I wanted to just burn it all and forget it ever happened. But that would be stupid.

Sometimes, I just need to make room for future shit, so the old shit comes out. Have I fucked myself? Well, maybe. At least I know what I like, so it won’t be as unpleasant as previous fuckings.

[image error]

And I want other writers out there, who are sick of bending over, to know they’re not alone. We’re all here with you and we get tired too. Don’t let one bad apple spoil the thing, you know? Gotta stick to it, because we’re not quitters. Quitting is for losers.

So, fuck that publisher and the other jerks I’m sure I’ll encounter in the future. The good ones more than make up for the assholes.

Just not today. Today, I’m pissed.

STRANDED: Could you survive?

As you may have heard, my latest novella STRANDED is available for pre-order from Unnerving, and will be released on October 16th. Along with that, Unnerving will be releasing LICKING THE DEVIL’S HORN, a paperback collection that includes Stranded, as well as Cats Like Cream and Church. These covers are phenomenal, right?

Let’s do that thing where I tell you guys how a story happened. Okay? All right.

I was watching a lot of reality shows last year, including one called Naked and Afraid. There was one episode where they froze their balls off in a Canadian location (because obviously) and I wondered if any of these survival shows have ever used a truly cold region as a location. Sure, this episode got cold, but it wasn’t even close to the Canadian winter we’re used to up here. (They were naked, though, so I understand how even a bit of cold would be excruciating.) I decided survival when your snot freezes in your sinuses is definitely challenging. Imagine 30 days in an isolated location, where the air hurts your face and the animals are practically prehistoric.

The Arctic has a lot of land that’s unexplored and completely barren. What if we dropped a few suckers on an island up there? No one and nothing for miles and miles… scares the shit out of me.

Well, that alone wasn’t enough horror, so I looked into a few legends that originated with the people indigenous to the arctic regions, and I came across the Wendigo and the Amarok.

The Wendigo is part of Algonquin folklore, and means ‘evil spirit that devours mankind.’ Some legends say they were once human, but naughty things like greed, lust, murder and such have turned them into these ugly creatures whose hunger for human flesh will never be sated.  I love me some wendigos, don’t you?

Now, the Amarok is a giant wolf from Inuit folklore. It hunts alone, unlike your typical wolf, and kills anyone foolish enough to hunt alone at night. Some sources say the Amarok originated with stories about dire wolves (which, apparently, is an extinct species of dog), and of course that caught my interest, because Game of Thrones. I didn’t realize these magnificent beasts actually existed. Did you?

Anyway, not wanting to use something that’s been done and done again, I tweaked these legends, so Stranded’s monsters are the best of both (in my opinion, of course) and a few extra details to heighten their awfulness. Add some moral lessons about greed, lust, envy and other deadly sins, and Stranded took on a new shape.

And then I harassed a couple of writer friends while outlining to make sure I wasn’t the only one who loved the idea. Yes, I totally outlined, because you can’t make up a legend, craft an entire game with multiple players, or use such a fantastic setting without some planning and research. Sadly, it still didn’t do a lot of good, because when Eddie at Unnerving got hold of it, there were issues that needed addressing. For example, I still screwed up the damn location. I know where it is supposed to happen, but when I described it in the story, it was just bad. Back to the maps and the research for me.

Actually, there was a lot of bad in the draft, but thanks to some honest feedback, and a bit of ego damage, I rewrote the bad out of it. Once again, thank God for editors.

What I’m saying is this story was a lot of work from beginning to end, and it’s one I’m pretty proud of.

So, pre-order your copy now and while we wait, tell me, do you think you could survive 30 days in an arctic hell?

October’s Deviant News and Books

Deviant Dolls has some new books, cheap reads and we’re giving away at least one book EVERY DAY in October. Check out the post!

Deviant Dolls

We’ve got a few new books coming in October as well as some cheap Halloween reads and FREEBIES!

First, get ready for C.M. Saunders’ newest release, a reissue of “Dead of Night” on the 1st of October.

Young lovers, Nick and Maggie, decide to escape the city for a romantic weekend deep in the idyllic countryside. The excursion soon degenerates into a maelstrom of terror when one of them comes face to face with a centuries-old civil war soldier. Together, the couple flee into the wilderness, but soon find themselves engaged in a mortal battle with a group of long-dead Confederate bushwackers.

It’s available for pre-order now so get it.

PJ Blakey-Novis has some exciting news for October as well. First, the October issue of Indie Writers Review will be a special Halloween issue. Keep your eyes on the Facebook page to get more details on…

View original post 557 more words

Rejection Depression

 

One of the toughest things about this industry is forcing yourself to keep going when it seems that everyone is telling you to stop.

Some of you can’t even write, because the weight of rejection can leave you feeling depressed. I mean, who wants to do something you’re constantly told you’re not good at? Right? I get that. However, the more you whine, the less likely you’re going to sit your ass in a chair and get to work. Whining is kind of addictive. The more attention you get, the more you feel inclined to bitch a little bit more. It’s normal. Human, as they say.

[image error]

But rejection is rarely about you. Keep that in mind. Maybe you find that more depressing. I don’t know. The truth is, when readers don’t buy your book or publishers/agents turn down your submission, it’s rarely about you personally. Even bad reviews aren’t usually about the author. They’re about the reader and the reader’s experience while reading a story. The author doesn’t come into it unless we’re stupid enough to respond to said review.

I’ve had a ton of rejection. In my experience, 9 out of 10 submissions I send out end in rejection. 9 out of 10!! That means, for every 100 I send, at least 90 will be a no. (I choose to view it as “But 10 are a yes, and that’s awesome.) When I was submitting to agents, that number was even more depressing. I stopped trying to get an agent, because it made me doubt everything I thought I knew and, to be honest, made me miserable. I guess I’ll explain that one right now, because I’ve been asked this a few times recently. Why don’t I have an agent? Because, for me, after years of sending queries, I realized the indie or small press route was a better fit for what I was writing. Many of my agent rejections noted that what I sent was great, but not something they felt they could sell commercially. So, I was doing it right, but I had the wrong genre? I don’t know. What I know is that I’ve had more success (although not a shit ton of money) forgoing the big time traditional market. So, I adjusted my goals and I’ve been much happier. Does that mean I’ll never try again? Of course not. I never say never.

My point is, I know where you’re coming from and I understand the utter hopelessness this industry can sometimes make you feel. However, if you give up, or throw yourself a pity party, or you’re sitting there waiting for the “Big Idea” to just happen, you’re going to continue to be depressed and blocked creatively. The whole tortured artist myth is just that; a myth. In reality, that kind of stress makes most of us shut down, so it’s understandable that the ideas just won’t come. Don’t indulge the drama queen in you. Be a grownup and work for it. Seriously, if you really want something, it’s almost never easy.

Instead of bitching and moaning or feeling sorry for yourself, write. Anything. A blog post. A shitty little flash fiction piece no one will ever see. A grocery list. ANYTHING. You have to at least try every day to write. Even when it sucks. That’s the only way that big idea is going to materialize. Your brain (or your muse, if you prefer) needs to keep working at it.

And be positive. To yourself, you can gripe all you want. That publisher is a fucker. That reader is an asshole. You hate everything. Go on. Get it all out. But do it privately and keep writing while you do it. Hey, here’s a fun idea. Write an essay about the unfairness of it all. Let it sit a day. Go back and read it. I’m willing to bet you’ll stop whining when you see how you come across to others, and you might even realize it’s not as dire as all of that. Maybe you’ll re-evaluate your priorities and goals, and come out of it with a clearer idea of what you want out of publishing, or a more positive outlook. Who knows? No one does unless you try.

Story Time: Breaking Up is Hard to Do

**WARNING: Adult content. If you are not an adult, or you’re an adult who doesn’t like erotic or graphic things, stop reading now. **

 

BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

 

[image error]

The sandwich remained on the counter for two days. Sicily made it for him. Her very last act before she died. Food allergy, they said.

When he returned home from the hospital that morning, Gary went to bed and slept like the dead. That night, he remembered the sandwich and put it in the fridge, next to the new jar of mayo. Didn’t really know why. Just couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. It was proof of his perfect crime. He still saw her licking the contaminated mayo from her thumb, smiling at him as she pressed the knife into the bread. The sight of her lips swelling was etched into his brain. Then they turned blue. She made a noise, scratched at her neck as she ran to the bathroom.

Choking.

Opening the medicine cabinet.

Falling.

Pleading for the EpiPen he’d kicked just out of her reach.

He stood over her.

Watched her die.

He called the police after tossing the mayo he’d contaminated with peanut oil in the trash and setting a new jar next to the sandwich. Told them he just arrived home. Found her dead.

Perfect crime.

The house was too quiet now.

Time to move on.

Find a new woman.

“Gary,” he heard her whisper. “I’m cold.”

Just his imagination. Wouldn’t be human if he didn’t feel a bit of guilt over her passing. He didn’t want it to come to murder, but she was impossible to get rid of. Too damn nice.

Forgiving.

Loving.

He tried to break it off.

Cheated.

Partied.

Insulted.

Berated.

Pushed.

Slapped.

She forgave every sin.

Probably forgave him for killing her.

“So cold,” Sicily said again.

Gary sipped his beer. Sounded like it was coming from the fridge. Stupid. Why would Sicily’s ghost hide in the fridge?

“Please, Gary,” she said. “Hold me one last time.”

He set the can of beer on the counter and opened the door. The ham sandwich sat on its blue plate on the top shelf. The light made it seem like a halo surrounded the whole grain bread. He hated that shit. Sicily said fiber was good for him, though. She cared about his health.

“I want you,” the sandwich seemed to whisper.

He felt his dick press against his jeans and slammed the door closed.

Stupid.

Crazy.

Overtired.

Gary picked up his beer and walked to the living room. Bit of hockey and then lights out. He’d feel better in the morning.

##

Gary dreamed of the sandwich. He saw the pink slabs of meat, smooth and shiny, much like Sicily’s freakishly flappy labia. He used to love her vagina, though. Made her different. Not different enough in the end, but for a while he’d been happy with it.

In the dreams, she continued to complain about the cold. Begged him to help her warm up. He thought maybe she was in the sandwich.

No.

She was the sandwich.

He imagined himself taking it out of the fridge. Stroking the labia-meat that poked out of the bread, feeling the slick, cold mayo, his murder weapon, slide over his cock as he gently shoved it between the slices of bread.

And he came.

Woke up.

Wet sheets.

Sticky belly.

Gary grimaced. What a thing to get off on. He got out of bed. It was still dark. The clock on the nightstand flashed 3:04.

He had to piss.

In the bathroom, he left the light off. Stood over the toilet and pissed. The sound of pee hitting water made him feel normal. The dream was dumb, yeah, but at least he hadn’t really fucked the ham sandwich.

“Gary…” Sicily whispered. “I miss you.”

“You’re dead,” he told the voice and then flushed the toilet.

“I’m so cold. Warm me up again.”

Again? He needed a drink.

Ten drinks.

Gary went to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Inside, the sandwich was as he left it, although the top slice of bread was a little askew. He straightened it, grabbed a beer and then closed the door.

##

For ten days, Gary dreamed about fucking the sandwich. It dried out slowly in that time. The meat withered at the edges. Blue fuzz sprouted here and there on the bread. Still, he couldn’t toss it out.

He imagined Sicily calling to him during the day from her cold tomb. Begging him to rescue her. Make her warm again. He took leave from work, after thinking about the sandwich got him so hard, he almost came all over himself during a meeting.

Stressed.

Guilty.

Sorry.

He shouldn’t have killed her. Didn’t want to kill her. She didn’t give him much of a choice. He tried to end it, but she sweet-talked her way back into his life. Did whatever she could to make him happy.

Gave.

And gave.

Finally, he couldn’t stand the thought of taking another thing from her, so he made the decision. Poured the peanut oil into the mayo. Suggested ham sandwiches for lunch. She wasn’t hungry but made him one anyway. He panicked. Would he have to force it down her throat?

Then she’d licked the mayo from her fingers.

It was like she wanted to die, because she knew he put a lot of thought into how he’d kill her. Sicily’s only goal in life was to make him happy.

Gary remembered the moment as clearly as if it’d happened just seconds ago. Her tongue glided along her hand. Dainty. Always delicate. It lapped up the smear of mayo, and then slid across her lips.

Hard again.

He imagined her picking up a piece of ham from the plastic wrap, rubbing it on her tits. Her vagina. Then sliding it between the bread. A bit of herself left behind to haunt him. She cut the tomato, sucked the juice from her fingers, and gently laid two slices on top of the ham.

He pictured her fondling the meat again. Squeezing the entire tomato over her tits. Those had been perfect. He’d miss them.

Suddenly, he held the sandwich again. The bread crumbled, but he managed to slip his dick between the slices. Felt the cold embrace of the now leathery ham and slickness of the mashed tomatoes. He moved his hands, sliding the sandwich back and forth, faster and faster, until tiny bursts of light danced in front of his eyes.

Gary woke in front of the fridge. The door was closed. His thighs were covered in semen. Did he just…?

“Eat me,” Sicily said. “Or I’ll never go away.”

She used to whisper that, “eat me,” when they made love. He liked it at first, but it was her only move. The dirtiest she could be.

Disappointing.

Unsatisfying.

Good to be rid of her.

Gary opened the fridge. He should toss the sandwich in the trash, but he couldn’t. It’d still haunt him. Better to get rid of it properly. Sure, it was a bit moldy, but if he ate around the blue spots, it couldn’t hurt him. It’d been in the fridge, right?

Sure.

Absolutely.

Just do it.

He picked up the sandwich. The bottom slice of bread had ripped in two. On top, his fingers fit perfectly into three small indentations on each side. Odd. The ham looked okay. Little hard at the edges. The mayo looked a little milky. Mayo was good forever. Wasn’t it?

Never seen milky mayo…

Pushing aside the snapshot of the dream that fluttered around his brain, Gary bit into the sandwich. Tasted okay. He picked off the moldy spots of bread, tossing them on the floor, and then took another bite. The mayo was bitter, and… kind of tasted like old pennies. Rusty, metallic, with a bit of… salt. He couldn’t quite define the taste, but it was nothing like mayo.

He swallowed. Two bites in, and the sandwich was a third gone. Soon, it wouldn’t haunt him anymore, and he could get on with his life.

“Take it all,” he heard Sicily whisper.

Gary took another bite. He pulled a chunk of greenish tomato from between the ham and the bread and tossed it on the counter. Another bite.

Should get a beer.

Almost gone.

Thought it’d be drier, but the meat remained moist in the middle.

Milky mayo might give him the shits, but no one ever died from eating spoiled condiments.

Gary swallowed. Took another bite. He chewed. Something tickled his lip.

He set the remainder of the sandwich on the counter and stuck out his tongue. He pried the tickly bit from his mouth and held it up to the light.

Black.

Wiry.

Hair.

“Fuck,” he said and spat out the chewed-up mess in his mouth.

Gary gagged. Coughed. Stared at the hair—the pubic hair—tucked between his thumb and index finger, and he gagged again.

He hadn’t been dreaming. Well, he had, but must’ve been sleepwalking. Hadn’t done that since childhood.

“Did you like the mayo?” he heard Sicily ask.

Gary stared at the corner of sandwich left on the counter. If the pubic hair was his, then the mayo…

He pulled the bread from the top of the sandwich. The filmy coating on top of the ham…

Wasn’t mayo at all.

Gag.

Vomit.

Repeat.

He couldn’t stop. Again and again, his stomach heaved, until a piece of unchewed ham lodged in his throat. He tried to swallow it back down, but took a breath at the same time, forcing the piece of ham into his windpipe.

Choking.

Falling.

“Is this irony?” he wondered as he fought for air that wouldn’t come.

The room darkened. He felt his eyes bulge, like Sicily’s had, and accepted his fate. Even from the grave, she refused to let him go.