Jessica McHugh's Blog, page 2

Broke as Shit (NaPoWriMo #2)

As I'm typing this up, I now realize how appropriate it is that this poem is NaPoWriMo #2. Jeez, the first day I mention piss, and today I mention...well, you'll see. It must be all of the bizarro writing. My blog is starting to sound like a version of The Aristocrats joke.

Broke as Shit

From now on, my shit goes unpaid.
The lazy squeezes to consume the day
Waste only my time.
The smell of money is snuffed,
Leaving behind, Ramen and wine. 

There are no more pots to hide in,
No huge paychecks to pride in.
No more locks to hide logs on clocks.
Then again,
There are also no more obtrusive knocks.

Even poor, my seat will cool in summers,
Later, warm to ease my bummers,
I'll have no more questions on long digestions.
Now only
Long, luxurious Me-Time sessions. 

From now on, my shit goes unpaid.
Compensation can't come between companions,
Not two like us. 
A rowdy dream beats a whisper flush,
And the old days are down the drain.

It's a perfect fit that we're broke as shit. 

Paper Boats (NaPoWriMo #1)

HAPPY 2013 NAPOWRIMO!! Number 1, comin' at ya!

(Okay, that sounds like I'm going to pee on you. I won't. Not until you read my first NaPoWriMo poem, at least.)

Paper Boats

On a night river, the travelers release their paper boats.Floating from dock-town desks, they seek to thicken souls over feetAnd touch worlds beyond atlas edges.That moment of disconnection—when paper is on its own—incites a frightful dance. Although it was their intention, the travelers fear new docks,Shaking in how raw their ships may seem.How clumsy, how blistered,How thin or desperate to sink.In paper berths, they dispatch the pinkest pieces of their hearts—To chum the water and wait.Blood often calls the frenzy.Tooth and tentacle can drag a vessel to its death,But a tailwind can play the savior.Once the craft has left its wake upon the world and returned to its dock-town,The travelers know which libation to drink.Wine tilts for praises.Brine spills for razes,And for both,Travelers’ throats are again soaked in requests from a night river,On which no paper boat has yet sailed in full mettle.

"Odds & Ends" this way wends

Hear ye Hear ye! Author Dustin LaValley and Artist Jody Rae Adams have put together a book that Raw Dog Screaming Press will release to readers for FREE!!Pretty ballstothewallawesomesaucejones, right? (Just nod your head, and no one gets hurt.) So, without further ado, please enjoy the trailer for Odds and Ends, coming soon from Dustin LaValley and Raw Dog Screaming Press. * * *Guns, Girls, and Tattoos: a book trailer for Odds and Ends
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7hG6DRXoF4From the Back of the Book
Prepare to be ferried to an unfamiliar realm on the bony back of despair. Author Dustin LaValley takes us down face first with rapid-fire flash fiction in the form of Odds and Ends: An Assortment of Sorts. Already associated with the dark and bizarre, LaValley expands his repertoire to experiment with form and literary introspection. These harrowing meditations on the nature of the world--and the very purpose of humanity--not only provide chills, but strangely the effect of this read is vastly disproportionate to its length, leaving us with scars to contemplate for a long time to come.Advance Praise
"Extraordinary. Hauntingly poignant." -Thomas Ligotti, author of My Work Is Not Yet DoneOfficial Author Links
On Facebookhttps://www.facebook.com/dustinlavalleyauthor
Dust, In the Valleyhttp://dustinthevalley.tumblr.com/
On Twitter https://twitter.com/dustinlavalley

Malfunction (Brent Kelley's One Question Interview)

The following was written for Brent Kelley's blog. The author of "Chuggie & the Desecration of Stagwater" (which is awesome!) asked: You’re alone, cornered in a dark basement. Something horrible is upstairs looking for you, and it’s only a matter of time before it comes down those stairs. What is it?
What is it, indeed. >:) Please, enjoy my answer aka "Malfunction."

I'm afraid it will smell the gash on my leg. Even with a towel wrapped around the cut and half a bottle of Drakkar Noir soaking in, I've seen enough of the beast's talents to know the cologne won't be enough. If it had a normal sense of smell, I might have a chance. I might even have the courage to search the basement for an exit. Instead, I huddle deeper into a bulky mountain of toilet paper, my leg stinking of my first boy/girl party.
Truthfully, I don't have the energy for much else after running all the way from Denmore Labs. I'd hoped the beast would lose interest in me, maybe get distracted by a jogger, but it seems the technician who ran 10,000 volts through its body daily wasn't an easy man to ignore. When I busted into a random house on Porter Street, I thought it might pass me by, even with the old lady screaming and smacking me with her knitting needles. But when I saw it through the curtains, its mammoth nose snorting at the trail of blood I'd left on the sidewalk, I knew it was over.
When the woman shouted, “Is that a cat on my stoop? I hate cats!” I was too busy searching for something to cover my wound to answer her. She would figure out soon enough that there are worse things in the world than having a cat on your stoop.
Any bloodthirsty animal would be enough to send someone diving into toilet paper, but this animal isn't just bloodthirsty. The mutagenic steroids administered by Denmore Labs for more than two years have transformed the tiger into a creature with the potential to be more cunning and deadly than the most talented assassins. It can be programmed to kill anyone in the world, and because of the mutations gifted by Doctor Denmore, a man I used to call a genius, this tiger can change its stripes. It can change its shape, its voice, and apparently, its allegiance. How the good doctor didn't see this coming, I will never understand. I can't call Denmore a genius anymore. I can't even call him tiger food; the beast shat him out back in the lab, in the very cage where it had spent the last two years becoming a monster. The toilet paper isn't just a hiding place anymore. I need to useit now.
It snorts at the basement door, its claws clinking against the knob as it paws at the wood. It's only a matter of time. I didn't get a good look at the door before I locked myself in the basement, but I figure the beast will make short work of it, especially after seeing how easily it tore the lady of the house apart. I had ducked back into the living room to check on her, but the tiger had beat me to it. Her body was a used tissue in its fangs, ripping and spilling snotty innards onto her unfinished quilt. At that point, its claws saw no difference between the woman and her craft project. My doomed ass deserves no less.
The door splinters, and my stomach sinks. That's it, I'm as good as dead—and I smell like shit and Drakkar Noir. Yep. It's my first boy/girl party all over again.

An Arnzealous Tale: The Right Stuff (or, the Blessing of Fat Face)

First things first. GO HERE: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/nathanrosen/michael-a-arnzens-fridge-of-the-damned-magnetic-po GIVE MONEY. BE RAD.

Until the end of January, super awesome indie publisher Raw Dog Screaming Press has declared it ARNZSTIGATION DAYS (days! days!). They've requested pieces inspired by the master of microfiction himself, Michael A. Arnzen. 

From Raw Dog Screaming Press: "Now through the end of January post a short story, poem, piece of art, excerpt from a longer work instigated by Arnzen or even a blog reflection on his influence. Then post a link here, on the RDSP FB page or send it directly to books@rawdogscreaming.com. I will share it through our page, our twitter account and collect the links in a permanent blog entry on the RDSP blog. This will support the cause and also showcase your project. Include  a link to the kickstarter:http://tinyurl.com/b4zkr5m. Invisible slimy bonus points to those who include some explanatory text such as: Be an instigator, support the Fridge of the Damned poetry magnet kickstarter."

Being a big fan, I decided to write a story inspired by Mike's story "The Curse of Fat Face." This piece really stuck with me when I read it in his collection "100 Jolts." If you haven't read the book already, what the balls have you been doing with your life?! 

Anywho, here is my story "The Right Stuff." It needs work, but at least it exists now, and I think Fat Face herself would be happy to know she didn't spend eternity in a jar on her mama's mantle. Although, I'm not sure her final destination was much better.... 

Either way, I hope you enjoy this slice of the McHughniverse borrowed from the Arnzenation. :D




The Right Stuffor, The Blessing of Fat Faceby Jessica McHugh
Flat-Chested Charrie was a notorious bra-stuffer. In the beginning, she relied heavily on tissues and paper towels, but after watching her Bounty-filled bosoms shrink beneath the water hurled by two girls in her gym class, she was always on the lookout for the next great stuffing. So far, she’d been failed by socks, peaches, even jumbo jawbreakers she’d won in a David Hyde Pierce lookalike contest. The closest she came to normality was in gelatin and pudding-filled balloons, but something about them never felt right. Beauty, still, was never abreast.
It seemed hopeless for Flat-Chested Charrie. She would never have a boyfriend. She would never know how it felt to be suckled by a man like that feisty goat at the 4H fair three years before (and once last year).  Staring at her naked body, at the ecru nipples that receded into themselves when faced with their reflection, Charrie pondered what she could fix.
She’d always been a skinny thing. Perhaps, too skinny.
For the next several weeks, no food was off-limits. Charrie watched in wonder as her ass expanded and her belly bowed under the weight of ambition. Shiny tracks of scar tissue joined the party, stretching across her body and meeting, with jiggling kisses, stripes of irritated skin on her hips where denim punished her flesh.
Her face spread, too, mocking the rigidity of other face. Her chins waved like a pond struck by a pebble, and her cheeks echoed a bit of the splash. But as voluptuous as she became, as many ferris wheels had to be decommissioned due to her girder-bending heft, Flat-Chested Charrie remained flat-chested. In fact, her breasts took a tip from her nipples and also retreated inward, causing her empty skin to sag, cold and lonely as slaughterhouse cattle--but less desired. Clearly, that kind of fat wasn’t the answer.
While she waited for the weight to drop, she returned to old solutions. She’d never been a garish girl, which is why she liked wearing her bra ornaments so much. The hooks were always tricky to thread through her shy nipples, but once the large green and red balls were dangling from her chest, she felt a bit of her old spirit returned. Unlike tissues, the adornments were never at risk for falling out or shrinking, and thanks to a few layers of bubble wrap, breaking wasn’t likely, either. There was only was problem.
When Charrie exercised, the plastic rubbed against her sweaty chest, causing staccato squeaks. The other joggers stared at her, judging her. It seemed unfair when her stares were born of admiration. How nice they looked in their sports bras, the spandex hugging their breasts while still allowing a romantic bounce. It was a wonder she could see anything else, let alone the twinkle of a jar inside the neighboring house.
Sun on glass, that’s all it was. But it drew Charrie in like so much more. Her chest squeaked out a warning, but the jar of jelly lorded her mind.
“Can I help you?”
Charrie spun around to face ample breasts, their ivory skin prickled by the breeze. It took her much longer to see the woman who wore them. Flat-Chested Charrie didn’t know her well; just that she was over forty and lived alone. It was like looking into the future—except thatfuture had nice tits. Mrs. Face stood akimbo, mail in hand, and looked down on the girl fumbling for any lie that would get her closer to the glowing mush.
“I’m selling cookies,” she said, but Mrs. Face said nothing.
“Pizza.” Nothing.
“T-shirts.” Nothing.
“Dildos.” An eyebrow raise.
“I’m selling lots of stuff,” Charrie said, her eyes focused several inches below Mrs. Face’s face. “I have a catalog I can show you girls.”
“It’s just me, dearie. My husband left when our daughter Fatima passed. Although, it feels like she’s still here sometimes. Her spirit, I mean.” A blush crossed the bulges above her blouse, and she nodded. “Okay, I guess I have a few minutes to look through your catalog.”
She had no plan, but once inside, Charrie’s concave chest led her straight to the mantle to inspect the jar. It was filled with what looked like pink mashed potatoes and pork. The consistency was similar to the pudding that had once filled her bra, but there was more texture in the jar’s contents, more life in the lumps.
“What’s this?”
Mrs. Face’s breasts sunk lower on her ribcage. “That’s my Fatima. Beautiful, isn’t she? She never thought so. She wanted so badly to be part of something beautiful.”
Flat-Chested Charrie understood, and like any sensible girl, she came to the conclusion that she had to help Fatima Face live her dream by living her own.
Charrie was nothing if not a desperate girl. (She had Christmas ornaments hanging from her nipples, for Christ’s sake.) So, when she eyed up Fatima’s stuffing, then the letter opener on the desk, only 1% of her plan seemed like the most horrendous plan ever.   
“So where’s this catalog?” Mrs. Face asked.
“Can I have some orange juice or soda?”
“I think I have some milk.”
“Okay, but I want a lot of it. A whole glass.”
Mrs. Face didn’t try to hide rolling her eyes as she left. Flat-Chested Charrie didn’t try to hide grabbing the letter opener and snatching the human gelatin from the mantle.  She tore off her top and unhooked her festive breasts, wincing through the violence. With the letter opener braced in her fingers, she gave the jar a good swirl.
Yes. It would work. All she had to do was make an incision.
The work was done by the time Mrs. Face entered the room. Holding the flaps closed, Chesty Charrie stood more confident than ever before, the empty jar lying at her feet. It filled with spilled milk as Mrs. Face fell to her knees, crying, “Fatima…my God…” When she looked up again, her tears continued to fall, but they no longer fell heavy. There was a new lightness in the woman, something that increased as Charrie neared.
 “She’s beautiful,” Mrs. Face whispered. “You both are. Thank you for this, my dear. How can I repay you for granting my daughter's wish?"
“I’m the grateful one. If you want anything, it’s yours.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Of course. What do you want?”
Mrs. Face wrapped her arm around Chesty Charrie, offering a simpering smile as she said, “The thing is, you’re representing my daughter now. And while you look a lot better, you still need to worry about your…”
Charrie didn’t need to hear anything more.

When it came down to beauty, there wasn’t enough human gelatin in the world.

The End

Why I Rarely Update My Blog

I'M WRITING BOOKS.

The Sky: The World #SFFSat

Today's Sci-Fi/Fantasy Saturday snippet is from the prologue of my neo-Victorian adventure, "The Sky: The World," published by Reliquary Press in 2010. If you dig alternate history, you might dig Azazian England, so feel free to nab an ebook or print copy. But no matter what, make sure to visit the rest of the sites on this lovely little blog bounce!!

It all seemed so long ago and so far away, but no matter how focused Toby was upon those blissful memories, he never stopped reaching for the hidden lever beneath his seat that would engage the Emergency Pilot System; it was their last and only hope. When he hooked his finger around a slippery piece of metal and felt the sweet click of the gear engaging, he looked to Sarah with a hopeful smile. He knew that within seconds of the system engaging, the picocrystals embedded within the plane's hull would reconstruct the fissures, and although it wouldn't be able to fly, the crystalline emergency wings would allow the Begonia to sail safely back to earth. Despite being unable to touch, Toby and Sarah truly felt together in their hope. However, following that click and their shared moment of peace, the connection was abruptly severed by the inferno that swelled around them and the screeching metal that twisted them even farther apart. He didn't have the time to ponder the reason for the EPS' malfunction as his capability for speculation had been obliterated when the sky caught fire, but it was obvious that he hadn’t expected it. The ground welcomed the Begonia with a hard “hello” and rolled the burning plane across its face in an almost condescending fashion, deceiving the wreckage into thinking that perhaps the true crash was still imminent.

Somewhere beyond everything, three souls left flesh, but from the top of his ivory tower, Doctor Azaz witnessed the ball of flame fall to earth before all others and only felt two souls depart. He knew that the pilot had been different from his wife and unborn child; different and special.

Darla Decker Hates to Wait (for Halloween) #CoffinHop

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!
And Happy last day of COFFIN HOP!! Aww, don't be so sad, Skellie, there's plenty more fun to be had!!

REMEMBER: leave a comment on this (or any of my Coffin Hop posts) to be entered into the contest for a super rad prize pack containing "Play the Way Home," my newest novel "PINS," and an ebook of the Coffin Hop Collector's EP "Death By Drive-In." And don't forget to visit the other rad writers on the Hop. There have been some really fantastic excerpts, prize packs, and other surprises along the way, and today will certainly be no different. 
Today's post contains a youthful outing on Halloween night from the first book in my "Darla Decker" series. I hope to start submitting this book for publication next year, so feel free to let me know what you think!! So, without further ado, here's a selection from "Darla Decker Hates to Wait."
***
Halloween was one of those rare nights when the past and future wounds of schoolyard rivalry were forgotten. It was a children's holiday. Their only enemies were the adults who refused to reward them with sweets. While the younger kids gorged themselves on sugar, the big kids doled out pranking punishments for neglectful grownups. As long as the younger kids kept silent about the tricks, the bigger kids kept their teasing opinions to themselves for the night. It was a welcome arrangement for any kid who was forced to wear a costume regrettably chosen by his or her parents.Lisa was dressed as a mummy with fashionable, hot pink wrappings, but true to her nature, she wasn't fashionable alone. Between the wrapping were wounds oozing fake blood down her arms and legs. While Darla raved about the disgusting touch, Brian complimented her on how awesome her boobs looked in the costume. Despite the truce between factions on Halloween, not every snarky comment was silenced.“I didn't think you'd make it out,” Lisa said.“Me neither. But I don't really want to talk about it, if that's okay,” Darla replied. “Do you think I could stay at your house tonight?”“I wish you could, but my mom is making us go to Wayne's for the weekend. We're leaving when I get home.”“I don't understand what your mom sees in him. He's such a dork.”“I know. Maybe they’ll break up soon. He's trying to get a job in Virginia or something. My mom tried a long distance thing before and it didn't work out at all,” she said.“I remember. The guy with the weird smell, right?”“He worked in a crab house. I couldn't eat crabs for over a year because of that jerk,” Lisa said. “At least Wayne doesn't smell like crabs.”“No, but he probably has them,” Nate said as he jumped between the girls.“Aren't you supposed to be hanging out with Ricky?” Darla asked.“Knock knock,” Ricky said as he rapped on Darla's cardboard costume.She hardly recognized him. He usually blended into his surroundings like a quiet chameleon, but he really stood out dressed as a glam-rock star.“Wow, that's quite a costume,” Lisa said.“Thanks. I like yours too,” Ricky replied.Darla saw opportunity explode like fireworks between the pair. Even though she no longer had a boyfriend, she didn't plan on staying single for long; at least, she hoped not. If Nate hadn't been joking about Darla being the “girl to date,” she'd probably have a new boyfriend before the year was through, and she still wanted the same for Lisa. Anyway, Lisa probably needed something to distract her from the repeated trips to stupid Wayne's house, and Ricky Freeman could be just the thing to boost her spirits and make her and Darla as close as they used to be.Ricky was as tall as Lisa, so she couldn't complain about height, and because he was so quiet, Darla didn't think Lisa could deem him “too immature.” Based on his Halloween costume, he liked hot pink just as much as her, so they already had things in common.“What are you supposed to be?” Joey Barnes asked Ricky.“I'm kind of a mix between David Bowie and Gene Simmons from KISS.”“You look like a guy who'd want to kiss David Bowie,” Justin said.“I wouldn't blame him,” said Kelly Holbine, an eighth grader from up the street. She was dressed in a skintight catsuit that Darla didn't recognize as a cat costume until Kelly pulled on a pair of pointed black ears mounted on a headband.She hung on Brian Decker's arm, but he quickly shook her off. She then flitted to Joey, who gladly accepted her clinging. She was rumored to have dated every eighth grader in Shiloh Farms and a few of the high schoolers too. Darla didn't know any of the specifics of Kelly's short relationship with her brother, except that one day he was calling her his girlfriend and the next, she was “Kelly Whorebine.”The houses that were dumb enough to leave out bowls of candy instead of answering the door lost their offerings in the first hour of trick-or-treating, and unfortunately, the majority of the neighbors decided to be dumb that year. By the time Darla's group reached the other side of the neighborhood, many of the bowls had been emptied. Without the hunt for candy to occupy them, good behavior became hard to hold onto. The older kids dug into their bags of tricks while others played impromptu games of flashlight tag or hunkered down in the woods and began trade negotiations. Darla tried to arrange for Ricky to sit next to Lisa in the woods, but he was much more interested in playing flashlight tag with Nate. So, after a bit of protest, Darla gave up and let him go. She removed her Oreo sandwich board and dumped her candy onto the back. There was little to be done with the boxes of raisins. Other kids would take them, but they wouldn't trade for them. Sugar Daddies were a similarly hard sell, but Darla knew how much her mother liked them, so she held onto hers in the hopes of making a sugary apology later.“I'll give you a bag of jellybeans for a peanut butter cup,” Lisa said as she dangled them in front of Darla.“But peanut butter cups are my favorite.”“Mine too, and I don't have any,” Lisa whimpered.“And I guess I don't have any jellybeans. Okay, it's a deal,” Darla said, and they exchanged the treats. “Wait, there's only one red jellybean in this bag and the rest are blacks. I hate blacks!”“That's so racist,” a voice said from the shadows.Her flashlight illuminated Travis Haines' face, as well as the faces of the boys behind him, one of which belonged to Jason.“I meant black jellybeans,” Darla said to Travis.“Says the girl dressed as a member of the Ku Klux Klan.”“I'm an Oreo,” she replied.“You look like a tampon to me,” Mark Rickman replied.“That's what I said,” Brian chimed as his group returned with empty egg cartons. “Okay, where did I put that extra toilet paper?”“Haven't you TP-ed enough houses?” Darla asked.“You know what they say: the show's not over till the cat lady sings,” he said. “We're going to TP Mrs. Marchio's place.”“Are you crazy?” Justin said. “You can't go to that house on Halloween. She’s a witch! She'll turn you into one of her cats!”“Don't be stupid. Marchio's house is no different than anyone else's. Besides, we're not TPing her house. We're going to get the bus,” Joey said.“You can't! Brian, you're going to get us into more trouble than we're already in,” Darla said.“You're the one in trouble, not me. Plus, it's not like we're going to get caught. I never get caught.”“You got caught last summer,” Darla said.“Like anyone but you remembers that.”“I remember,” Travis said. “You guys set off fifty smoke bombs in Officer Geers' backyard. It was hilarious.”“Brian didn't think it was so hilarious when he was grounded for a month,” Darla said.“I wasn't really grounded. I snuck out all the time,” he scoffed proudly. “Just stay here and keep your voice down. We'll be back in five minutes.”“You coming?” Mark asked Jason as he started after Brian.“I'm good. I'm gonna see if Decker will trade me some Twizzlers for a Snickers,” Jason replied.“Fat chance,” Darla chuckled, paying no more attention to the boys who thrived on tricks.“Come on, be a friend,” Jason said. Darla sighed dramatically. “Ok, I guess.”She tossed him a pack of Twizzlers in exchange for a Snickers. She loved Snickers almost as much as peanut butter cups, but she didn't mix that one in with the rest of her stash. She planned to save the sweet from Jason for as long as she could.“I'm surprised you didn't go with the others. Don't all guys love toilet papering stuff?” she asked him.“Do all girls like playing with Barbies?” he replied.“I don't.”“Me neither,” Lisa said.“So you get my point,” he said.“I loved Barbies when I was little,” Kelly said as she sucked on a Sugar Daddy.“Again, my point,” Jason chuckled.Darla couldn't help but sigh at his smarts. His pirate costume didn't hurt her affection for him either. She imagined him sailing forth to rescue her from a tower by the sea, killing all who would keep them apart, and whisking her off to a beach under sunset, where they made out for hours. She briefly wondered where the nearest sea was and if there were any nearby towers where she could wait for her dashing pirate love.“I heard you're trying out for show choir,” Jason said.“I was thinking about it.”“You should. It's pretty fun.”“You're in the show choir? How?” Darla asked.“I auditioned over the summer. My mom always said I had a nice voice, but I didn't really believe it until I got in. I didn't know if I'd like it or not, but I love it now. There are a bunch of spots opening up at the end of the year, you know, but the auditions are only a few months away. You better start practicing your 'My Country Tis of Thee.'”“Ew, do I have to sing that?”“It's either that or 'Happy Birthday.' I'd go with 'My Country Tis of Thee' if I were you. Actually, I did,” he said with a grin.“Wow, no wonder Heather and Karla are always fighting over you,” Darla said.“What do you mean?”Darla wasn't sure how to answer without revealing her crush. Instead, she popped a pair of wax lips with fangs in her mouth and growled at him. He laughed, and her heart sighed in relief.“Run!” a voice shrieked from the edge of the woods, swiftly followed by Brian and his cohorts barreling through the trees.“What's going on?” Darla asked.“Just shut up and run!” Brian yelled as he tipped her candy stash back into her bag.Despite Brian's commands, the roar of an engine stopped everyone in their tracks. The engine revved furiously, but an unfamiliar sound followed it: a high-pitched, yowling sound. “What the heck is that noise?” Darla asked, but the sudden and blinding headlights burned the question away.Toilet paper fluttered from the top of the school bus and drifted off into the night, but the face of the woman at the wheel didn't move at all. Mrs. Marchio slammed her fist down on the horn and sent the trick-or-treaters running deeper into the forest. The kids playing flashlight tag halted their game to ask what was going on, but they were pulled into the terrified flight to the other end of the woods before anyone could offer an answer.“She was in the damn bus,” Brian panted when the group came to a stop.“You saw it? You saw her?” Nate asked. Darla nodded as she pinched her stomach cramp. “Dammit! I missed it again!”“At least she didn't see you. She saw all of us,” Lisa said. “My mom is going to kill me.”“Marchio won't say anything. She never does,” Mark replied.“She seemed pretty angry,” Jason said.“Don't tell me you're scared of an old lady, Bollinger,” Travis snickered.“You were running pretty fast yourself, man.”“Only to keep up with the rest of you wussies,” he snorted.On her way to catch up with Lisa, Darla accidentally knocked against Mark Rickman.“Sorry,” she said.“Whatever, Playtex.”
I  hope you've enjoyed hanging out at No Vacation From Speculation this Halloween season. I've appreciated all of the wonderful comments and look forward to the next blog hop. The winner of the prize pack will be announced very soon, but keep those comments a-coming!! Movin' right along...http://coffinhop.wordpress.com/

Play the Way Home #CoffinHop

I hope you're enjoying the storm of awesome Coffin Hop posts and staying safe from that Sandy tramp that's about to sit her fat, wet ass down on the east coast. If you're stuck inside today (which, with the forecast, you probably should be), take the time to peruse the amazing authors that have dedicated so much time to the 2012 Coffin Hop. Share their posts, leave comments, and win prizes!
Today's post is a selection from my middle grade book "Play the Way Home," the 2nd book in the "Blue Moon Crew of Sawmill Falls" series. Make sure to check out the 1st book "From the Deep Will Rise" by Ken Cain and look out for the next book "The Crying Carousel of Sawmill Falls" coming soon!
Leave a comment on this (or any of my Coffin Hop posts) to be entered into the contest for a super rad prize pack containing "Play the Way Home," my newest novel "PINS," and an ebook of the Coffin Hop Collector's EP "Death By Drive-In." 
ENJOY!!
The stairs creaked as if scolding Amy for disturbing their long slumber. The handrail was so thick with dust her hand became drier than paper when her fingers ran along it, but she wasn't about to risk the rickety stairs without holding on to something. She didn't know what to expect on the other side of the door, but when she pushed it open and faced a dusty lobby, she sighed in relief. That was the moment a spider decided to descend from her hair. A tickle on her forehead made her hand jump to the spot, but by then, it had already crawled down her nose and squatted on the tip. Amy shrieked as she pawed at her face and did a shuddery dance that knocked the spider to the ground. Because of her frequent friendships with guys, Amy was often called a tomboy or even a straight-up boy at times, but at that moment, no one could have accused her of being anything but a girl.

The music began again and startled Amy so completely she dropped to the floor and crawled into the concessions booth. The music was louder than ever before because it was coming from the auditorium, mere feet from where Amy was shaking in her shoes. The piano's tempo lagged behind the drum and flute, but the blowing of a brass instrument helped the piano find the beat. Unfortunately, when it found the beat, it lost the tune.

Amy pushed herself up from the floor, past the shelves of dust bunny concessions and to the counter littered with pamphlets for movies labeled as new releases, despite the fact that they were from the year Amy was born. The door to the theater fought her to open, but Amy knew from experience that those kind of doors needed opening most of all. She slipped inside, bombarded by music but not much else. The ragged seats were empty and the movie screen rolled away over the stage, upon which there sat a group of displayed instruments: a saxophone, a violin, a flute, a drum, and a piano. While the piano had an actual player, the rest of the music came from tape recorders set along the stage. The pianist was hard to see, so Amy crept closer to the stage. Her foot caused the aisle to creak, and the piano stopped. Amy dropped behind one of the seats as he walked to the tape players and hit “stop” on each, silencing the instruments one by one. She hadn't gotten a good look, but he appeared only a few years only than she. Amy peeked out to see his eyes move across the empty audience, but when he took a step toward the stage's edge, she ducked down completely and waited, whether for a tap on the shoulder or the music's continuation, she didn't know. Luckily, it was the latter. Amy looked over the seat to see the boy hit “play” on the last tape recorder and take his place on the piano bench again. The instruments joined in their own time, with the piano coming in last. His fingers moved clumsily across the keys, striking a few wrong notes, but he eventually found the song. The melody was complete and beautiful. Amy had never heard something so lovely—and up until then, with everything she'd seen in the past, she'd never beheld something so amazing as what happened next.

As the music swelled from the tape recorders and the piano, the instruments on the stage started to shake. The shaking led to breaking, and when pieces from each instrument snapped free, they began to float. Amy clapped her hand over her mouth to stop from yelping. It was a good thing she did, because floating wasn't all the pieces did. They flew to each other and combined—no, assembled. Like a tornado, the parts swirled and built what appeared to be a person. An incomplete person, but a person nonetheless. It had a definite female shape, too. Violin strings made the hair long and flowing, and the body was granted a certain curve from the violin's own. The snare drum made the skin ivory, and the chest visibly pounded with its rhythm. But the shape didn't hold. When the boy hit several wrong chords at once and lost the melody, the pieces began to spin apart. The composition broke down until the cyclone was just a cloud of chaos. The boy slammed his fist on the piano and the pieces fell to the ground, skidding back to the instruments from whence they came.

Amy was again at war, but it was so much tougher than a door or a padlock. Instead, she battled with the decision to step forward or back away. It was a decision she had wrestled with several times before, in places similar to the cinema, but this was the first decision of its kind in Sawmill Falls. She knew what she'd ultimately decide, but she also hoped it would be the first and last time in the new town. After she discovered what made those instruments create what looked like a woman, Amy Muldoon would devote herself to making new friends instead of following mysteries.

If you enjoyed this selection, make sure to leave a comment. You could win a signed copy!! And be sure to continue a-hopping. There are many cool coffins to visit!! http://coffinhop.wordpress.com/

The Last Dance with Darling #CoffinHop

                       ooh, that looks finger-lickin' good...                                   i hate you, skullface.


Hey, potential winners, have you left a comment for the chance to win signed copies of my coming-of-age thriller "PINS" and my middle-grade ghost story "Play the Way Home"? You HAVEN'T?! What the balls, Buster Brown? You should probably get on that. But before getting on that, GET ON THIS:

THE LAST DANCE WITH DARLING
This poem was recently published by Red Fez Magazine, so I'll direct you to their site. It's a special Halloween issue, so feel free to peruse the rest the issue has to offer. There's some good stuff, to be sure.http://www.redfez.net/poetry/1704
ENJOY!!Don't forget to bounce on over to the other rad writer sites on this oh-so-rockin Coffin Hop! There are fun contests and oodles of awesome prizes to be won!!  http://coffinhop.wordpress.com/