Jessica McHugh's Blog, page 3

(#CoffinHop)

Welcome back! Are you having a beautifully bloody Coffin Hop? I certainly hope so. And I hope you left a comment on the post yesterday to enter my giveaway. Remember, you have the chance to win signed copies of my coming-of-age thriller "PINS" (18+) and my middle-grade spooky story "Play the Way Home (appropriate for all aka the antithesis of "PINS"). You can also win the ebook Collector's Edition of "Death By Drive-In," which is only being distributed during this blog hop.

Today, I'm giving you rockin hoppers a story that I originally wrote at 19 years old. Last year, I gave it much-needed revision, and it transformed from a Lovecraft rip-off called "Gainer's Beast" to this piece of the McHughniverse called "Collector." I hope you enjoy it! Don't forget to leave a comment with your email address and follow my author page at www.facebook.com/author.JessicaMcHugh.




*Deleted for Possible Publication*



Enjoy the rest of the HOP at http://coffinhop.wordpress.com
and don't forget to leave a comment below. You can win the following slices of awesomeness:

Collector (#CoffinHop)

Welcome back! Are you having a beautifully bloody Coffin Hop? I certainly hope so. And I hope you left a comment on the post yesterday to enter my giveaway. Remember, you have the chance to win signed copies of my coming-of-age thriller "PINS" (18+) and my middle-grade spooky story "Play the Way Home (appropriate for all aka the antithesis of "PINS"). You can also win the ebook Collector's Edition of "Death By Drive-In," which is only being distributed during this blog hop.

Today, I'm giving you rockin hoppers a story that I originally wrote at 19 years old. Last year, I gave it much-needed revision, and it transformed from a Lovecraft rip-off called "Gainer's Beast" to this piece of the McHughniverse called "Collector." I hope you enjoy it! Don't forget to leave a comment with your email address and follow my author page at www.facebook.com/author.JessicaMcHugh.



COLLECTOR©2012by Jessica McHugh
All my life, I've been a hunter and collector of fear.
Correction: Before this, I was a hunter and collector of fear. I spent my life searching for evil in its rawest forms, in its most terrifying forms, and collecting fearsome trophies along the way. As someone who didn't scare easily, I found the hobby to be a frolic. But a visit to Gainer's Pass changed my mind. It changed the hunt. It changed me. I'd heard the varied tales of Gainer's Pass for years. The stories spoke of a devil, or sometimes “the Devil," inhabiting the abandoned mansion upon the hill, but no one could describe the creature. The only details about its appearance pertained to the devil's ability to transform into a black fog. The fog would apparently crawl down the mountain and mangle whomever it touched, leaving them deformed but alive. I quickly dismissed that absurdity. The people of Gainer’s Pass were notoriously peculiar, so I couldn't trust much of their claims. I couldn't even trust that Gainer's Beast  really existed, but with the resurgence of “ghost-hunting” and “monster-chasing," I had to try my luck before the fakes got their hands on the big score.The rumors about the townsfolk proved true. The moment I pulled into Gainer's Pass, they peeked through their blinds. It was clearly a common occurrence due to the slats being permanently bent. My headlights seemed to unnerve them and it was obvious why. Those headlights brought uncertainty and threats to their skulking existence. The town was little more than an empty lot surrounded by desolate buildings. Nobody was out, and many of the nearby houses were dark and deteriorating. The naked trees were unnaturally arched and withered, and the bushes were no more than gnarled skeletons. As I walked down the dirt road, the illuminated houses extinguished their lights. When I drew closer, I realized they were more shacks than houses: crudely patched where the paint had chipped to reveal the rotting wood. Passing by, the curtains and blinds were abruptly shut, but I heard the floorboards creak as the inhabitants paced and whispered frantically amongst themselves. Tremendous hills flanked me. Dark and lofty with Gainer's Pass nestled between, the hills were made taller by the structures adorning them. On the left sat the remnants of a church, but I only knew it as such because of the tales. On the right hill sat the most menacing aspect of the whole crumbling town. I was naturally drawn to it. Standing at the bottom of the hill with brown grass knotted over its face, I stared at the stone stairs leading to the house. The steps were so clean. Dead grass was tangled all around them, but not one blade crossed their ivory edges. The house was also terribly clean. It was unnerving to see something so pristine when the rest of the town was in shambles."Hey!" a soft voice called. "Hey, you!"In the house to my right, two eyes peered from between the blinds. The window creaked a bit as it eased open. "Are you talking to me?" I asked and was harshly hushed. "Why are you whispering?""Ssssh!" the voice repeated. The person could have been child or adult, male or female. I couldn't tell, and I had a feeling that's how the stranger wanted it."Do you want to alert the whole town? If you know what's good for you, you'd leave right now.”"Why?" I pressed loudly."SSSH!!! For the love of God, keep your voice down. It's Harvest Night. The Beast stirs," the voice replied, quaking."But that's why I'm here, to see the Beast.”"Are you insane? Look, I know this town is some sort of magnet for you weirdo 'fear-seekers,' but not tonight. Go home. Forget about this place.""Have there been many of these 'fear-seekers'”?"Oh God yes. They used to come in droves. They'd march up to the House of Gainer with dreams in their hearts and rocks in their heads.”"And?""What do you think? They never came back, not a one. The Beast swallowed them whole and spat out the bones when he was done. They're up there, the bones. They're scattered across the yard. I haven't seen them, but others have.”“Who? I'd very much like to speak to them.”“The cemetery is behind the church,” the stranger replied.“Cemetery?”“No one ascends the hill and lives. If the Beast doesn't get them in the house, the fog gets them later.”The voice stopped for a moment, but I heard the whimper in it's pause. “I've said too much. Too much on Harvest Night. It must be my time. The Beast sees and hears all. I will be dead by morning.”“What is the Beast?”“The Devil Himself: protector and destroyer of the selfish and vain.”“I've heard Francesca Gainer was both. She's the one who founded this town, isn't she?” “And the one who destroyed it, the one who doomed us all. She summoned the Devil. She enlisted him to protect her vast fortune and increase it. With the Devil's help she built Gainer's Pass and filled it with beauty and culture. She thought she was in control, but she was only the Devil's plaything. The Beast destroyed her mind, and she destroyed us.”"Why are you all hiding?""Haven't you been listening?" the hushed voice snapped."I understand why you'd hide from the Beast, but why don’t you leave? Why don't you find a town that isn't possessed by a spook story.”"It's not just a story. The Beast is real, and because of Francesca's narcissism, we are tied to this place, tied to her. Forever. All of us share her blood, you know. For over two hundred years, we've only known each other. Bound to each other, bound to the fate Francesca built for us. But you can still escape. Forget this ill-inspired quest and you'll be safe. Go to Francesca Gainer's house and I guarantee the Beast will not make you such an offer."With that, the eyes disappeared from the blinds and the window creaked shut, but the stranger's words didn't budge. I was intrigued as usual, but I had to admit the dread bubbling beneath it. My stomach churned as I gazed up at the house. It was so glorious, so clean. It was hard to believe an atrocious demon lurked behind those marvelous walls. I imagined him dining on fine china and working to keep the place up to his high standards of cleanliness. The thought of the Devil scrubbing the floors and polishing the silver made me chuckle, conquering my dread. After all, was it really possible that  behind those pristine walls resided a demon more terrifying than any I'd encountered before? It was unlikely--and “unlikely” was precisely what drew me into the unknown. I wanted to be proven wrong, especially about Gainer's Beast. It would be the find of a lifetime, that's for damn sure.I started up the ivory stairs with a song on my tongue. The wind whistled along with my tune and I was thankful for the distraction, but when I paused in my song, it continued on without me. From the house it bounced and rolled: the music of a string symphony. It was beautiful. The harmony, the cadence, the penetrating delight: they captured me so completely that before I knew it, I had started running up the steps at full speed.Harvest Night, indeed. Silly superstitions.The music was booming when I hit the last steps. I bound over them and ran to the ivory entrance. The door knocker was a silver angel with its wings spread and its chubby hands filled with a large brass ring. The cherubic face was so detailed it was almost pink with warmth, and as the music swelled, my fingers desperately itched for the brass rang. I rapped it hard against the door and the music increased, drawing me in so intensely that I was literally pressed against it. I was on my toes, prepared to bolt inside when the door was opened. But no one came to open it. I knocked more forcefully and the music drilled itself into my ears. I could nearly feel each violin bow stabbing me in the brain until it was mush. I neglected the knocker and pounded on the door with my fists. When my hands felt like jelly, I opted for my fingernails and clawed at the ivory as I begged in nonsensical shrieks. In desperation, I hurled my shoulder against the door and it flew open with surprising ease. I tumbled to the floor, but I didn't let the shock consume my instinct. I quickly stood and surveyed my surroundings. The music had stopped. Not even an echo lingered. And the interior was not at all what I expected. The walls were paneled in mirrors from the mammoth room in which I stood to the hallways that branched from it. Each mirror was focused on me, each panel holding my reflection and creating hundreds of me, maybe thousands.My brain writhed in my skull, and each reflection seemed to know it. I ran to the door, but I couldn't find it. There were mirrors as far as the eye could see and no discernible exit. I stared at myself, surrounded on all sides by only me. My teeth gnashed and hands shook horribly, but my reflection stood relaxed, smirking. My own face contorted into one of terror when my reflection moved without me. It was just a jerk of the head, but it was followed by a series of disjointed spasms that ended in a grotesque rictus. I screamed as I fell backwards and scurried to find the door, but my reflections stood firm. When I stopped yelling, they continued. Their shrill cries resounded terribly from all directions, crushing me with my own voice. I was forced to the marble floor by the power of the screams, but when they stopped, I still couldn't stand. Not even from fright when my reflections stepped out of the mirrors and left the walls reflecting nothing but an empty room. They walked towards me with their heads twisting, their legs striding rigidly, and their bodies jerking unnaturally from side to side. They encircled me, grinning so forcibly they split my face and cracked my teeth. I tried to scream, but it didn't come out of my mouth. Instead, one of the reflections opened it's bloody jaws and shrieked like a banshee, cracking several mirrors. Just when they were inches from tearing into me, my disfigured clones halted. At first I thought my vision was blurring, but I realized it was them. They blurred as they quaked, and the ring of reflections spun until each entity converged into one gigantic version of me that reached the ceiling. As I cowered at its feet, the giant howled with laughter. The monster ripped out a fistful of hair that I felt tear from my own scalp. Blood oozed down my face as, with shaking fingers, I touched my hand to the bald spot. A few spiky tufts of hair remained, covered with blood and strips of skin. Part of me wished I could see myself in the mirrors; the sight might have been enough to kill my consciousness, but I was frightfully alert. The house shook violently as the reflection bellowed; I thought the building might crash down and end us both, but it wasn't house that split. The monster's scalp split with a wet snap, and from that fissure a jagged line surged down its front. The flaps of skin shed sloppily to the floor, revealing a mammoth beast with flaming eyes and glistening charcoal skin. Its tail sliced the air and cracked like a whip as it roared and sprayed reeking saliva across my face. It slammed its claws against the floor and chunks of marble flew through the air. I heaved a sigh of relief when I ducked in time to avoid a whizzing chunk, but I couldn't sigh long with the Beast's sudden swipe nearly taking off my head. I shivered madly as I scrambled away. I tripped over my feet, falling several times and slamming my chin against the floor. My teeth smashed together on impact and I spat out a stew of blood and tooth. My scalp wept into my eyes until I was running blind, and with the blood quickly filling my throat, I encountered great difficultly tasting air. I threw myself against the wall and cracked the mirror, but that wasn't good enough. I hurtled against the mirror again and again, slicing my body from head to toe, but I was too panicked to feel pain. Even when my skin gave way and the mirror tore my muscle, I pushed myself through the glass, through the stone, and came out the other side as if being forced through a sieve. When I hit the ground, a wad of bloody phlegm shot out of my mouth and air surged sweetly down my throat. I tried to push myself up from the ground, but my right arm was a sack of mashed bone uselessly coiled beneath me. Eventually, I was able to get to my feet. Several of my teeth wiggled as I coughed up more blood; a few of the roots snapped completely, giving my vomit a gritty texture that made me vomit even harder. But I was alive. Maybe I wasn't well, but I was alive. Unfortunately, that fact did not dilute my terror. I may have been alive, but I sure as hell wasn't alone.            Standing before me were the people of Gainer’s Pass. As the moonlight shone through the gnarled trees, the deformed bodies of the townsfolk were even more distorted. Their rigid gaits created jumping shadows, but as terrifying as it was, my own broken gait terrified me more. I stumbled into one of the citizens who flashed a toothless grin as she looked me up and down.“Help me!” I squealed.“Help you? But you're so beautiful,” she cackled and shoved me to the ground. “You're one of those 'fear-seekers', aren't you?”I looked up at her and she smiled sweetly before several of the townspeople grabbed me and dragged me to the nearest house. They lifted me up and held me to the window, but my eyes remained clamped shut.“I suppose you usually collect trophies from your travels. Well, now you have a whopper of one. Open your eyes, collector. This time the trophy is you.”I opened my eyes and screamed at the similar reflections in the window. The men and women, the children, me: we were all monsters. We were all deformed versions of Francesca Gainer, the Devil's plaything. I smashed my fist against the window, cracking the glass to pieces and the townsfolk into laughter. I pushed past them toward my car. I had difficultly opening the door and turning the key, but the hardest thing to do was avoid looking in the mirror. I sped out of town, only once glancing in the rear view. I was able to look beyond my monstrosity and see Gainer's Pass shrinking behind me, but the black fog pouring down the hill remained large and menacing, even as the town was miles behind.I'm safe now, but I'm not sound. Even after covering and scratching every reflective surface in my house opaque, I can't avoid what I've become. Nor can I avoid what I might have to do. I may not be able to see myself, but I can still see the Beast. Dressed in black fog, he crawls ever closer. With music and laughter, he coaxes me out into the mist, but he doesn't want to kill me here. He wants to take me home and plant me with the others on the hill. As I wanted him, he wants me for his collection.My left hand isn't the dominant one, but I'm pretty sure I could hit my target. The question is, can I end myself before the Beast closes in? Can I ignore the Devil's call? It's his Harvest Night. He wants more playthings. He wants more trophies. He wants me to put the gun down and come outside. My left hand has never been the steady one, but it will get the job done.
THE END

Enjoy the rest of the HOP at http://coffinhop.wordpress.com
and don't forget to leave a comment below. You can win the following slices of awesomeness:

In the Silt (Welcome to #CoffinHop 2012!)

Welcome to the 2012 COFFIN HOP! This fantastic blog tour (which features over 100 incredibly rad writers) starts today and lasts until October 31st AKA the day I shower next.

That was a joke...kinda.

Each day, I will post horror entries, on which you should leave a comment. At the end of the Hop, I will throw all of the commenters' names into a hat and pick a winner. The winner will receive a prize pack containing autographed copies of "PINS" and "Play the Way Home," as well as an ebook copy of the Collector's EP for "Death By Drive-In," which features stories by Jessica McHugh, Red Tash, CW LaSart, Amy K. Marshall, and Axel Howerton. I might also include whatever nonsense I have laying around my house, so I hope you like cat hair and weed crumbs. ;)

Please include your email address with your comment so I can contact you if you win. If you'd prefer not to leave your email address, make sure you're following my author page at www.facebook.com/author.JessicaMcHugh. I will make the announcement there following the end of the Hop.

Without much ado, here is today's fun-filled horror installment: my creeptastic story "IN THE SILT." I've included the story below, but if you're in a listening mood, I've also included an mp3 copy of the story read by author Nelson W. Pyles on his show "Story Time at the Wicked Library." Enjoy!!


Listen to "In the Silt" HERE




In the SiltBy Jessica McHugh
A week before I was born, my father died in the creek behind our house. Growing up without a dad wasn't ideal, but through my mother, I grew to know and love him as people love dead celebrities. When she told stories to acquaint me with this man I'd never meet, she spoke so highly of him, what could he become but a legend in my eyes? To me, my dad was James Dean. He was Yul Brynner and Cary Grant. In reality, he was nothing like those men. He didn't drive too fast, smoke too much, or have a bad tan. He was just a man who never wanted to be a father. But my mother hadn't known that. She'd only known what he'd allowed her to know, which wasn't much. So, she fabricated the rest. Or, she was so deluded that she actually believed he was a good, caring man. Either way, as I aged, I came to realize just how inaccurate her lauding stories were.They never discussed marriage or children—I was an accident. My mom says I was a “blessing,” but now I know my dad would've argued that claim. I was no blessing to him, and I certainly haven't been a blessing to anyone else but her. “Accident” always seemed more appropriate, especially after the secrets in the creek shone some light on who my father was, and consequently, who I am. The latter is still up for debate, I guess. I'm still just dough, as people put it. But Dad is done: fully baked and risen—and fallen, of course. He was the kind of bread that was too burnt to be eaten, so much so that he took the ruined pan to the trash with him. I'd played for years in the creek before my mother told me how she'd found him there, drowned in the shallow water—or so she'd thought before flipping over his body and seeing the bullet wound. That fact clearly distressed her; sometimes she wouldn't even acknowledge it as fact. When I broached the subject, she would sometimes shake her head, as if amused by my wild imagination, and say, “Shot? No, sweetie, your father drowned. What a terrible accident to happen to such a sweet man.” But those times were unconvincing. When she trembled, when she paled, when she spoke about the bullet hole, that perfectly round tunnel in my father’s temple: those were the times she was easy to believe.You'd think I wouldn't want to visit the creek after learning my father had died there-not to play anyway. But the truth is I was more compelled. Instead of simply strolling through or splashing in the stream, I started digging in the silt. I lifted the rocks to uncover the creatures beneath, marveling at them breathing the same water that took my father's last breath. Holding them, I felt like I was holding him. Could those creatures be pieces of the soul he left behind? Surely, his last breath had to have done more than bubble.I understood that my feelings about the creek were what people called “morbid fascination,” but I didn't understand why it was supposed to be a bad thing. In the creek, I had a father. I could touch him in the stones and hear him speak, like water rushing through reeds, “Take off your socks, sweet girl. You don't want to ruin them.”
At first, I had to listen hard to catch his whispers but the more I visited the creek, the louder he became. One day, on my way to the water, I heard my father sounding an alarm like none before. Up close, I realized why. There was a boy in the creek, in my creek: throwing my rocks, crushing my crayfish, and stomping his fat feet through my father's shrieking memory. It was very wrong of him. The boy didn't know, of course, but his ignorance didn't stop my father's screams—or his own. The water did that quite nicely. Before I knew what was happening, I had the boy's hair knotted in one fist and the other full of silt—just like the boy's mouth when I smashed his face against the bottom of the stream. That was when I found the first earring in the creek. It tickled my palm and caused me to release the boy's head. I didn't notice what happened to him after I let go; I assume he set off to change his Jockeys. All I could focus on was the pearl earring on my sandy palm. Who did it belong to? What was it doing in my dad's belly? How long had it been there, waiting?No one believed the boy's story of my assault. Why would they? I was always so quiet. Like Dad, my mom often said. But he wasn't quiet to me. When I delved deeper into the creek and plucked out three more earrings, he became louder, as if trumpeting my gumption.After amassing quite a collection, my curiosity finally got the best of me. I brought the jewelry to my mother, hoping for answers. I'd never seen someone burst into tears so instantaneously. She tore the earrings out of my hand and hurled them across the room, screaming a name followed by a string of profanities. She took a few shots of rum and shook herself like a wet dog, staring at the earrings on the floor as if praying for the laser vision to incinerate them.“Where did they come from?” I asked her.She shuddered a sigh and replied, “Felicia Moore.”“Who's Felicia Moore?”“Oh,” she whispered. “She's the one who killed your father.”When I asked how Dad knew her, I expected more tears from my mother, but she clenched every muscle in her body instead. Her jaw moved as if being pried open by a vice. Then, six words creaked out.“I imagine they had an affair.”I urged her tirade, but all at once she softened and smiled. She went on to explain that although there were indiscretions, my father's conscience wouldn't allow him to cheat on his wife for long. Unfortunately, she laid it on too thick for the story to be more than a mask for the sad truth. My father had had an affair with Felicia Moore, probably a long one, and my mother refused to admit that. There was little else she was willing to disclose, especially after I asked her where Felicia Moore lived. She shook her head and said “I have no idea” with such sincerity, but her tears appeared again, fast and heavy. She could wear a mask, but she couldn't lie outright. It wasn't difficult to see the truth in her breakdown. As it turned out, locating Felicia Moore wasn't difficult, either. I found an address on the internet that wasn't too far from my house. That Saturday, I rode my bike to the other side of town to find the woman, who as far as I knew, had an affair with my father and couldn't keep her jewelry out of my creek.Felicia Moore came home while I was chipping away at the paint on her shed. I wasn't nervous about meeting her, but the activity calmed me as I waited. It reminded me of digging at the silt in the creek, peeling back the layers to get closer to the pulp: the gold. She was no doubt surprised by the young girl standing at her door, but her shock was tenfold when I opened my jewelry-filled palm. She blanched so completely even her green irises appeared to pale. She didn't have to ask me who I was or why I was there. She just opened her door, told me to take a seat, and brought me a glass of iced tea. Over the next hour, I heard the whole story: from the moment Felicia first laid eyes on my father, to the last one, minutes after she shot him dead. I expected the story of an affair gone wrong, a tale of a jealous mistress, a man trying to be devoted, and my mother caught in the middle. I expected something like I'd read in books and seen on TV, but what I got was so much worse…in the long run.Before my father died in our backyard creek, he'd had a certain appetite that he couldn't drown. An appetite for women, mostly. Felicia Moore made that part very clear, but the other aspect of his appetite took her a few tries to clarify.“He'd take me to the creek,” she whispered. “Not right away. It took a little while to convince me—the others too, apparently—but in the end, he always got his way. Even after I knew what waited for me at the creek, I followed him down there like a lovesick puppy. Like a stupid, goddamn dog. I assume it was the same for the others.”It was clear she didn't want to tell me the truth, but it was also clear she did want me to know it. I couldn't deny the strange excitement building in me. All of the creek talk made me grin, which seemed to make Felicia Moore uneasy. I urged her on as thoughts of the neighborhood boy's breath bubbling in the water filled my mind.She told me bluntly—to shock me out of my smile, I suppose. But it didn't work. I stayed serene as she told me about bending over the stream, and my father's instructions to hold her breath. Even when she described him pushing her head underwater as they had sex, I didn't crack.
“I hated doing it,” she said. “But I loved him. I wanted to make him happy. But sometimes he went too far. He held my head for down too long and scraped my face against the rocks. He got…violent.”I nodded calmly, which appeared to frighten her. Soon after, she told me to leave.“But why did you shoot him?” I asked as she tried to usher me out.She made sure I'd understood everything she'd said, and again, I nodded calmly. “May God have mercy on your soul,” she whispered, pushed me outside, and locked the door.God? There was no God in the creek. Only me and Dad. Maybe some women with bad lung capacities, too.I pedaled home with new eagerness. I wanted to get to the stream and ask my father if everything Felicia Moore had said was true—even if I already knew. My father had to have had those desires, because I had them, too. I just hadn't been able to decipher them until that point. They were just fuzzy compulsions before: the creek, last breaths, holding someone's head until his feet thrashed in manic desperation. There was so much power in the act, so much passion. It was no wonder Dad didn't try to contain it. He let it spill across the bank, flooding his world with beautiful violence. Felicia Moore hadn't understood that; I doubted any of those women had. But I knew that power, and, at last, I understood it as well as my father had. The more I thought about it, the more I thought maybe God did exist in the creek. Maybe desire lorded us all. There were many who disagreed with me on that: my mother, the police, the three boys who died while I was still honing my skills, which, unfortunately, never reached perfection. While I had a destructive mind like my father's, I had no mind for dealing with the occasional accident. I tried to hide my mistakes, but it wasn't long before the Missing Persons reports piled up and the police came knocking. My inability to lie, along with Felicia Moore's testimony about my apparent joy in learning of my father's fetish, did me in. I didn't even get to taste half of the fun had by my father.After my arrest, I wanted nothing more than to return to my creek, but that changed once the trial began. So many condemnations fell upon me, but all the while I expected a certain defense to step forward, to step up and avow my innocence, to swear that I was born this way and had no choice in the shades of my desires. I expected his voice to save me, declaring between the waves of judgment, “She is her father's daughter. She is not to blame.” But he didn't show to speak on my behalf. I was carrion before a murder of crows, and for some reason, I knew he was watching me suffer. From beneath the safety of our stream, he laughed at me, declaring that I couldn't be a daughter of his. No daughter of his would get caught.I despised him—the creek, too. I longed to drain the water, pull up every stone, and watch every minnow drown in oxygen. They'd tempted me, changed me. They'd turned an inkling of compulsion into a full-blown psychosis. True, it was a psychosis I treasured, but that didn't dull my anger, nor did it comfort my poor mother who had to sit and listen to the truth about her husband and child. When the verdict fell, it wasn't alone. One hour after I was committed for my crimes, my mother died in the creek behind our house. It would've been much quicker for her to go with a bullet like Dad had, but I suppose she wanted to know what it was like to be loved in the water, like he had loved so many others. After her death, my anger with my father faded. I no longer wished to punish him for his silence, mostly because I knew my mother would do it for me. She's in that creek now too, and I believed that once she’d punished him for the both of us, I would be free of my unhealthy compulsions. But as much as I craved that freedom, I had to admit my continued craving for the water. I still desired to pry up those stones and whisper to the man who raised me. But with such sturdy hospital walls around me, how could I ever think to see my creek again? At first, I relished the walls for keeping madness at bay, but as time passed, they didn’t seem so sturdy. In fact, they seemed like illusions: the creek in disguise. I never saw the water, of course—that would be too kind—but I did see the crabapple trees that line the bank, sometimes even the bank itself. But not the water, not the silt, not the minnows or any other scrap of life to take Dear Old Dad's place.I realize now that I will never be rid of these compulsions unless I'm proactive. I must take the creek into my own hands. I must face the beautiful monsters to save myself from becoming one. I must dip my face into the water and breathe deep.Even in musing, I am almost there. I smell the stream. I feel the soothing splashes and hear my father's voice burbling beyond the bank. No one believes me when I say how close it is, but they will. I'll show the next orderly who comes in just how close my creek can be. I'll show him the water. I'll show him the silt. I'll introduce him to Dad.
THE END

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Taggy Braggy WIPness

Michael Sands tagged me in this blog game which involves searching your current WIP for the word ‘look’ and posting the surrounding paragraphs, then tagging another 5 writers to do the same.


Here's my contribution, from my bizarro sci-fi novel, "The Green Kangaroos." This is my NaNoWriMo project, but I'd already written the prologue, from which this selection was plucked. Enjoy!



“Why'd you hafta throw 'em out, Mama? Why'd you hafta hurt me like that? I can't get outside, Mama. Makes no sense anyway. It shouldn't be so damn cold. It's September, Mama. You should be at the ranch, and I should be high. Why'd you hafta ruin my high, Mama?”

The last time Mia saw her mother, the woman had looked so old, too old, but she supposed that was her fault. She didn't remember things like aging anymore. Time didn't move as it should with atlys pumping its own ticks and tocks into her heart. Mia couldn’t even remember how old she was. Aching with sickness and exhaustion was no indication of age. She'd ached the same in her twenties, in her thirties, and well into her sixties. Mama ached too--she knew it, which made her own pain that much worse. It was a constant reminder: don't you see what this does to me? Don't you see how this hurts your poor mother?

Yes, yes, Mama, so hurt. Being separated from your junk hurts too, you know.

COFFIN HOP 2012 #CoffinHop (Coming Soon!)

Welcome to the introductory 2012 Coffin Hop promotion post!! By the way, there's still time to sign up! Last year was a resounding success, so I'm jazzed to participate again this year, especially after meeting so many new inky cohorts. So, here's a little bit about what I'll be doing this year, as well as the prizes you can win from commenting on this blog.

Each day, I will post horror entries, on which you SHOULD leave a comment. At the end of the Hop, I will throw all of the commenters' names into a hat and pick a winner. The winner will receive a prize pack containing autographed copies of "PINS" and "Play the Way Home," as well as an ebook copy of the Collector's EP for "Death By Drive-In," which features stories by Jessica McHugh, Red Tash, CW LaSart, Amy K. Marshall, and Axel Howerton. I might also include whatever nonsense I have laying around my house, so I hope you like cat hair and weed crumbs. ;)

Remember, leave comments on every blog post throughout the Coffin Hop. The more posts you comment on, the more times your name will be entered into the drawing for the prize pack.



Telemarketing is a drag, and serving jobs are exhausting. Luckily, strip clubs are always looking for new blood. Eva "Birdie" Finch is fed up with the slim pickings in local em
ployment, and the gentlemen's club/bowling alley called Pins seems to be the only option left. But learning how to strip for strangers isn't Birdie's only obstacle, especially when fellow dancers start turning up dead.

From Jessica McHugh, author of the steampunk adventure The Sky: The World and the bestselling psychological thriller Rabbits in the Garden, PINS is a post-modern coming of age thriller certain to titillate as much as terrify with a candid look at a dancer trying to find herself on a blood-drenched stage.






"Amazing things don't happen if you always follow the rules."

It's hard for Amy Muldoon to be the new kid in town, especially when the other inhabitants of Sawmill Falls seem unable to hear the mysterious orchestra emanating from the town's abandoned cinema. But Amy can't ignore the music--not the violin, the piano, or the strange boy locked inside the theater, composing a special song and hiding a painful secret.

The Next Big Thing

Prompted by author Jason Jack Miller, I have completed the following survey regarding my next big thing. To continue the chain, I shall place my almighty tag upon Red Tash, Axel Howerton, and Georgina Morales!


What is the working title of your book?
The Green Kangaroos


Where did the idea come from for the book?
Judy Blume wrote a book called "The One in the Middle is the Green Kangaroo," which deals with Middle Child Syndrome. That, added with the years long addiction my brother battled (he's the middle child) inspired me to write this story.


What genre does your book fall under?
Bizarro Sci-Fi. I know, from the inspiration above, it doesn't sound like that would be the case.


Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Perry Samson: James McAvoy

Nadine Samson: Natalie Portman

Loshi: Cillian Murphy

Serera Hall-Samson: Bryce Dallas-Howard
Benito:Tom Hardy


What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
When addicts check into Sunny Daye Institute, they check out clean...or else. 

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I have my eye on a certain publisher, but we shall see...


How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
Well, I haven't written it yet. I've toyed around with some scenes and outlined the story, but I'm saving it for my first year of NaNoWriMo


What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Crooked Little Vein by Warren Ellis


What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
There are characters called "cuntcutters" who sell pieces of their flesh to the Kum Den Smokehouse for money to buy drugs. There's also a house I've dubbed "The Horror House," which is filled with addicts and hookers. 

The PINS Playlist

The following songs appear in my newest novel "PINS," the story of a girl who, fed up with meager employment opportunities, gets a job at a strip club/bowling alley called...you guessed it...Pins!

The novel is now available in print and ebook from PostMortem-Press.com, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and elsewhere!


Here is the official PINS playlist, in order of song appearance!

“Used to Love Her” (Guns N' Roses)“Cotton Eyed Joe” (Rednex)“Pour Some Sugar on Me” (Def Leppard)“Light My Fire” (The Doors)“Santeria” (Sublime) “Rocketman” (Elton John)“Leather” (Tori Amos)“Hey Baby” (No Doubt)“Apache” (The Sugarhill Gang)“I Would Do Anything For Love” (Meatloaf)“In the Hall of the Mountain King” Techno Mix (DJ Liquid)“That's the Way we Like to Fuck” (2 Live Crew)“God Bless the USA” (Lee Greenwood)“Cha Cha Slide” (DJ Casper)“You Sexy Motherfucker” (Prince)“Jessie's Girl (Rick Springfield)“Wind of Change” (The Scorpions)“Pussy Control” (Prince)“Highway to Hell” (AC/DC)“Paradise City” (Guns N' Roses)“Centerfold” (J. Geils Band)“Closer” (Nine Inch Nails)“Oh Sherrie” (Steve Perry)“Put the Lime in the Coconut” (Harry Nillson)“The Stroke” (Billy Squier)“Satisfaction” (The Rolling Stones)“Bullet with Butterfly Wings” (Smashing Pumpkins)“Big Yellow Taxi” (Joni Mitchell)“Raise Your Glass” (Pink)“King of the Rodeo” (Kings of Leon)“Teddy Bear” (Elvis Presley)“White Wedding” (Billy Idol)“Cherry Bomb” (The Runaways)“Do You Wanna Touch Me” (Joan Jett & the Blackhearts)

#SFFSAT : From the Herald's Wearied Eye

Today's ScienceFictionFantasySaturday snippet comes from my dystopian fantasy novel, "From the Herald's Wearied Eye," published by Reliquary Press in 2010. This selection comes right after the main character Shal has delved into her memories and remembered something she'd long ago forgotten: who exactly murdered her father.

(From the grim prison of Malay, the renegade Shal plots her revenge.  Once the daughter of a proud monarch, her life has been destroyed by the craven despot Rojer Doa.  But Shal answers to a greater destiny that calls her to the amarinthine door and an inevitable meeting with the Capesman, the dark figure who shadows every deed in a cold and forbidding world.  A reckoning is coming and Shal will be it's master, or she will lose her soul trying.)

ENJOY, and don't forget to visit the rest of the sites participating in Science Fiction/Fantasy Saturday. Read the snippets, leave the love. :)
****
The Bonecruncher inched towards her with hunger in its golden glinting eyes, and slowly opened its mouth. Shal grinned as she stared at the beast and turned back to Raoul, who saw her mind and knew that murder had turned to sacrifice. He shook his head madly, begging her to stay with him, but her face turned cold as she powerfully mouthed the word “murderer” at him, and with a determined leap, dove headfirst down the throat of the immense worm.
Raoul screamed in horror as the beast’s jaws slammed closed. He was filled with chaotic thoughts of puzzlement and anger at her abandonment, but before a single thought could be resolved, a large chunk of ceiling crashed down behind him, and when he turned, he was only inches away from the menacing jaws of the Bonecruncher. Its eyes gleamed aurous, a characteristic of the race he’d never noticed before, and when its jaws opened, he felt his body petrify. It eased up on him slowly, almost tenderly, but even when he felt the teeth close around him and found himself in surprisingly painless darkness, he couldn’t move. As he slid down the Bonecruncher’s throat, his mind ran rampant, mad with thoughts and theories and furious questions, but what he heard loudest was Shal’s voice repeating her last words over and over.
“It was you, Raoul. You killed my father.”

#SFFSat: Song of Eidolons

Today's ScienceFictionFantasy Saturday features a snippet from my slipstream fantasy novel, "Song of Eidolons," which is due for re-release from eTreasures Publishing in October. New revisions, new cover, new exhilaration at peeling back the deceit to discover the secret Dags is hiding from his granddaughter, Delaney Lortal. This scene is a flashback to a conversation Dags (Arthur Dagson) has with a mysterious stranger named Lucas Otabia on the street outside of Sotheby's. Enjoy!!
(AND don't forget to visit the other sites in this lovely little blog bounce! There are some great scifi/fantasy snippets out there!)


“The book isn’t all about alchemy, you know. There’s more. A lot more," Otabia said.
“Such as?”

“Several references to the Fountain of Youth.”

“Albertus Magnus never studied the Fountain of Youth,” Dags disputed.

“Or never documented it—except in this volume. After all, the Philosopher’s Stone is equated with the elixir of life, and what does the Fountain of Youth yield if not an elixir of life?” Luc asked. At seeing Dags’ doubt, he added, “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“That’s right, I don’t,” Dags replied. “I could believe Magnus did some brief research on the Fountain, but as for the Mutus Liber—he died four centuries before the book was even written.”

“Four centuries before the book was published; you can’t be sure when it was written.”

“Logically—”

“We’re talking about alchemy and you’re thinking logically?” Luc interposed. “That’s your first mistake.”

“Yes, and my second?”

“Outright dismissal of a mysterious stranger,” Luc replied with a grin. “I assumed you a literary man, Mr. Dagson. Don’t you know a deus ex machina when you see it?”

Save the Babies

Save the Babies 
Grab all your babies and lock them up tight,The King of the Fuckwits is coming tonight.He has his dear bible and his financial mules,False facts and attacks and uterus rules. 
He says "this is this" and he says "that is that."And he adds, "You shouldn't be shaving your cat.You need pubic hair to keep demons at bay.(Jesus cared so much about your twat in his day.)
So, cinch your loose morals and don't wear short skirts,You might be asking for legitimate hurts.Don't be a baby about it, since you'll have one to glut. Just don't whip out your tits to feed it, you slut.
Conception begins when vaginas get wet,But screw the conceived when they're grownups in debt.If you can't afford college, too bad for you, guy.But there are still tons of McDonalds you can occupy.” 
So lock your front door, your bank, and your mind. The Fuckwit is coming to steal everything kind. He’ll put bans on your love if you’re caught being gay, Although he and his friends are fucking dicks every day. 
“You’re hurting the family dynamic,” he’ll crow. “Being healthy depends on the gender you blow. And just think of the kind of children you’ll raise. They might be one of the dirty minimum-waged. 
Or worse, what if they turn out gay like their dads? Sorry, choose to be gay--now that would be bad. The babies are important, most important, I mean. We mustn’t let them fall prey to the liberal lean.” 
So, rock-a-bye babies on the treetop.Let's hope you never get maced by a cop.When freedom is broken, the cradle will fall.And down comes America, babies and all.