Gerald Dean Rice's Blog, page 80

FRM Free Experiment

I got my hands on an old Jay Rauld story (he let’s me publish anything of his I can find) and I’m trying something I haven’t done before. I’d prefer to make the story free, but Amazon won’t let me, so I decided to do DRM free and enter it in the public domain. I’m hoping these two things give it legs and carry it further than just a regular KDP Select title. We’ll see and I’ll come back to do a day-by-day tally of the results.

The Zombie Show- Getting the Word Out!

The Zombie Show has been around for about 5 weeks now and I’ve been sitting here thinking about how to best get the word out to people who haven’t gotten a copy yet. The way I see it, I’ve already done the thinking when I wrote the thing, why doesn’t someone else put in some work?

So, whoever comes up with the best suggestion on how yo reach new readers with this fabulous novella if I may say so myself, will get a free copy. This contest is completely suggestive, feel free to share this post with anyone who might like to enter.

I’ll pick a winner based on replies to this post in a week.

Dead Right, ep 1

No new Dethm8 today.  Instead, enjoy a repeat to an old WIP.  Dethm8 will be back next Friday.

 

“Okay, so you got me here,” his brother said.  “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Dell said.  “You’ll see.”  He knew there was no way he could get Wenton here without a degree of subterfuge.  He filled the other half of the glass with diet Coke and passed it over.

“Here, have a little somethin’.”

Wenton took a sip from the glass and made a face like he’d just licked the underside of a turd.

“Gah—you put any Coke in this?”  Dell flashed a smile to avoid answering the question.  Wenton took another sip and he knew his brother would finish it.  He’d always been respectful that way.  It was weird.

“So where we going?” he asked again after a few minutes.

“Place I wanna show you.”  Dell looked out the window of the limo, trying to stretch the time.  “It’s sort of a surprise.”

Dell desperately wanted to get his brother’s life on track.  He was the younger brother, but for as long as Dell could remember—way back to fourth grade, at least—he’d been self-sufficient.  Dell never could say it out loud, but his brother was smarter than him.  He’d just known how to do things that Dell didn’t until he’d seen his brother do them.  Wenton had kept him out of trouble after they were orphaned and the neighborhood kids picked on them.  He was in debt to his brother.

Now Dell felt like he could pay a little of that back.

“Surprise, huh?” Wenton mumbled.  “You’re not taking me to an intervention, are you?  Because I could stop shootin’ H whenever I want.”

Dell choked out a laugh.  Wenton was always joking like that.  At least he hoped he was joking this time.

“We got you calendared for an intervention next Thursday.”  Shit.  Dell hated working in the mayor’s office had gotten him using words like ‘calendared’.  It had never been him, but now it was like this whole other personality he’d had to adapt for work was infiltrating who he really was.

He watched the street.  They passed several people milling about, maybe prostitutes, maybe drug dealers, maybe homeless, certainly at least a few of them were dead.  He really did feel something for them, but he wondered if he was the right person for the job the mayor wanted done.  Dell sighed.

“You’re doing it again.”  He looked at his brother and made a face.  “I asked where you were taking me and you looked out the window.  You’re stalling.”  They hadn’t seen each other for a few months and it was so easy to forget there was another human being who knew him as well as he knew himself despite all the layers of bullshit he dressed himself in.  He stole another glance out the window, not sure what street they were on until they passed a sign.  Almost there.

“Really.  Can’t tell you.  But you’ll know everything soon enough.  For real.”

“Okay.”

And just like that he knew it was okay.  There wasn’t another person in the world he could have been this circumspect with who would have trusted him like this.  The truth of it was, had he told his brother what they were about to see he would probably slug him and jump out the limo the first opportunity he got, bad neighborhood or no.  And Wenton would be absolutely right to do so. 

They pulled up to a security gate.  Wenton looked around and Dell suddenly felt a wave of guilt crash down on him.  He wasn’t sure he was about to do the right thing, but it was honestly the best idea he could come up with.

The driver handed over some paperwork to the security guard.  Dell heard him speak, but couldn’t make out the words, then a voice squawked over his radio.  He handed the paperwork back to the driver and the window rolled up.

“Have a safe one,” the guard said and the gate lifted.  They pulled inside, the tires of the limo giving a staccato rap as they passed over speed bumps.  Dell looked over the half dozen or so cars in the parking lot, looking for Nibor’s BMW.  There it was.  Last car on the end.  He relaxed just a tiny bit.  They parked on the far end, the limo spreading across two parking spaces.

The driver cut the engine and got out.  Wenton reached for his door.

“Hold on a sec.”  Dell pushed his brother’s hand away.  “Enjoy the full experience.”  He eyed the glass still half full in Wenton’s hand.  “Kill that.”  He put the jack and coke up to his lips and turned it upside down and was just swallowing the last of it when the door opened.

Dell turned his knees to the door and looked back at his brother.  “After you.  Oh, and if anybody asks, you’re name is Guy LaTouche.  That’s L-A-capital T-O-U-C-H-E.”

 

Wenton’s brother always knew how to pique a guy’s interest.  Anyone else and he would have bailed long before now.  But the limo had been impressive and the way Dell set it up had been hard to turn down.

He climbed past him on his hands and knees past Dell and out the limo.  Wenton didn’t know why he that.  Maybe that was how he’d gotten out of cars when they were kids and it just stuck.  He thought to ponder it later, knowing he would probably forget about it in the next sixty seconds.  Dell swatted him on the ass and he looked back at his brother who had a, ‘Hey, I had no choice but to do that,’ look on his face.

“Come with me,” Dell had said back at the apartment.  “I want to take you somewhere.”  He’d looked his brother up and down, not certain if he was joking or not before going back to the dishes.  He knew Dell had gotten a fancy new job with the mayor’s office a few months back, but didn’t know what he did. 

“What, now?” he asked putting a wine glass in the cabinet above the sink.

“Daddy, can I have that cup?  My sippy cup?”  He’d turned to Todd.

“No, Toddy, you’re too big for those.  You’re a big boy now.”

“But you have one.”  He pointed and Wenton looked.

“Where?”

“Right there.”  Wenton picked up his coffee mug, drying upside down in the dish rack.

“No, son.  This is a coffee mug.  I drink my coffee out of here.”

Dell laughed.  “I think he’s got you, man.”

“What do you mean?”

“How does Daddy drink out of there, Toddy?  He sips, right?”  Todd nodded.  “See?  Kid’s smart.”

Wenton opened his mouth to explain how it was different, but found himself unable to come up with anything.  His son had been right and wrong.  He reached up and grabbed the sippy cup down and handed it to Todd.  So many things in his life could be summed up in so many words over the last year-and-a-half.  Right and wrong.  Two opposing ideals co-existing in a weird, quasi-harmony.

Wenton had dried his hands on his pants and looked at his brother.  “So what exactly do you want?”  He let his frustration at being underminded bleed into his tone.

“Uh, nothing much.  I just want you to come with me.  Take an hour of your time, max.”

“And where is it we’re going?”

“Ask me again when we get in the limo.”

“Uncle Dell, can I come too?”

“No, Toddy,” Wenton had answered for his brother.  “You can’t come because it’s not an appropriate place for little boys, is it, Uncle Dell?”

“No,” Dell said, but his face brightened when he reached into his suit jacket and produced a rectangular box, stooped and held it out for Todd to take.

“What is it, Uncle Dell?”

“For the life of me, I don’t know!”  Dell threw his hands up.  “Why don’t you take it to your room and open it?”  Todd took it and sauntered to his room.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Wenton had said.

“What?”

“Give him stuff every time he sees you.  He’s gonna start expecting that.”

“Well, I’m the onliest uncle he has.  I gotta make up for all the gifts he’s never gonna get from the family we don’t have.”

“Yeah, but I’m trying to do something here.  I’m going for a value system here.  You undermind that when you do that.”

“All right, all right.”  Dell held his hands up.  “Sorry.  Next time I’ll just give him a kick in the nuts.”

“You know I can’t go with you,” Wenton had said.  “It’s a Sunday night and I don’t even know any sitters.”

“Got that covered.  I’ve got a sitter.”

“Who?”

“Hanson.”

“Hanson who?”

“I get an executive protection officer.  Two of them.  Hanson can watch him while we’re away.”

“No way.  I’m not letting some guy watch my kid.”

“He’s not just some guy.”

Dell stormed to the front of the house, opened the door and ushered a big, baldheaded white guy inside and led him over to the kitchen.

“Officer Hanson, this is my brother, Wenton.”

“Evening, sir.”

“Hey.”

“See the wedding ring?  Hanson’s married.  How long you been married, Officer Hanson?”

“Twelve years.”

“Got pictures of your kids?”

“Yes sir.”  Hanson proceeded to dig out his wallet and flipped it open, producing a series of pictures.

“Wow.  Officer Hanson,” Dell began a little too loudly.  “You’ve got, what is that, four children?”

“Five, sir.”

“Five.  Your youngest there looks about the same age as my nephew.  You play catch with him?”

“I coach his little league team.”  Dell had nodded, pulling a face like he was more impressed than he was.  But Wenton knew the truth; other than Todd, his brother despised children.

“I need you to do us a favor, Officer Hanson.”

“How may I assist?”

“I need you to babysit my nephew.  Just for an hour.”

Hanson shifted for the first time since he’d come in.

“I’m-I’m sorry, sir?”

“I need you to babysit my nephew while I take my brother someplace important.  Someplace little boys don’t go.  The sooner we go, the sooner we get back, the sooner you can get home and practice that slider with your kid.”

“Well, they don’t pitch.  It’s actually t-ball.”

“Okay, but if we get done quickly, then you get home quickly.  Cool?”

“I suppose.”

Wenton grabbed his brother by the arm.  “The hell you think you’re doing?  I don’t know him.  Look, I’m sorry Mr.—Officer Henson—”

“Hanson, sir.”

“—Hanson, but I don’t know you.  And I’m sure that if you were in my position you wouldn’t be eager to let some stranger spend time alone with any one of your children.”

“Well, if I may sir,” Hanson cut in before Wenton could continue.  “I am already a police officer which requires background checks.  But any officer who is assigned to a detail with a person associated with the mayor’s office is subject to an extensive history search on par with agents in the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Wenton hadn’t known that.  It was impressive.

“Good enough for the mayor,” Dell chimed in, “good enough for us.”

“It’s that important to you?” Wenton said to his brother who nodded.  He had no doubt Dell loved Todd and the fact he would vouch for this police officer carried a great deal of weight.  He turned back to Hanson.  “Take off those sunglasses.”  Hanson put them in his jacket pocket. He had clear eyes.  Good.  Hopefully, he wasn’t a drinker.  “Take off that jacket too.  He removed it and Wenton saw the gun in the holster. 

“Uh-uh.”

“Sir, I’m a police officer.  I have to carry my weapon when I’m on duty.”

“Then no dice.”

“Hold it-hold it-hold it.”  Dell put his hands up again.  “How about you take the gun off and put it up on top of the cabinet?”  Wenton looked at the cop.  He nodded.

They’d gone into the bedroom so Wenton could tuck his son in, but found him under the covers, snoring soundly and smelling like perfume.

“I was going to give it to a lady friend,” Dell said when he looked at him.

 

Now here he was, still unsure what was going on and feeling tipsier by the moment.  The driver/officer was even bigger than Hanson had been, probably as wide as he and Dell if they’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking their view of the entrance as they walked behind him.

“Good evening, sirs,” a lispy man said, greeting them at the door with two guards of his own.  A breeze had kicked up, making their clothes lick in the wind.  He handed a clipboard to the officer who turned to Dell, who in turn, nodded.  He hunched over it with a pen and gave it back.  The man took the sheet off the clipboard and handed it to Wenton.

“It’s just a non-disclosure thing,” Dell hollered over the wind.  “No big deal.  Trust me, I know a pitbull of a lawyer.  If we need to break that, he can make it happen.”

Wenton couldn’t tell if his brother was telling the truth, but signed.  The man took it back, smiled at him with his other hand clapped over the top of his hat to keep from losing it.

“Let’s get inside, gentlemen.”

Dark Tower – Error

I’m listening to the last Dark Tower book and just caught a minor mistake. When Roland and Eddie catch up with Flaherty and the gang, Roland shoots Flaherty twice before Eddie mows down the next six. Then Roland shoots down the next five.

Now you’re probably thinking, ‘Well, he just reloaded and King just didn’t write it. Author’s license, I tell you, old boy’. First, don’t call me boy and second, WRONG! Just before Roland killed Flaherty, Eddie shot someone who tried to run and reloaded in the period Roland took to take buss two caps. Why would he write about one reloading and skip the other?

And there simply was no time for Roland to reload. All of Flaherty’s ka-tet got their caps peeled before they could draw their weapons.

Unless all along, Roland has had a six shooter and a seven shooter. Then, uh, nevermind.

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The Ghost Toucher Author Talks about New Book

I did an interview with Fox 2 News in Detroit in October of 2010 after the publication of my first novel, The Ghost Toucher. I couldn’t find the video, but I’m going to see if I can get a hold of it to post on the site soon. In the meantime, here’s the snippet of an article.

The Ghost Toucher Author Talks about New Book

Posted: Oct 27, 2010 8:33 AM EDT

Scary can be funny and one local author proves just that in his new book, ‘The Ghost Toucher.’

Gerald Rice stopped by FOX 2 News Morning to talk about the book. Learn more by visiting feelmyghost.webs.com

www.razorlinepress.com.

http://www.myfoxdetroit.com/story/18489986/2010/10/27/the-ghost-toucher-author-talks-about-new-book

Find more items like this at http://www.myfoxdetroit.com

Copyright 2012 WJBK

Dethm8, ep 6

The boom of the air conditioner brought a gust of cool air moments later.

“All right, the air’s back on,” Guthrie said.  One of the other biker’s had called him that anyway.  Yes, the air was back on, but something wasn’t right.  Arlene looked over at Dusty who was fidgeting as if bugs were landing on her.  She probably needed her drugs again.  With these men watching them, she probably couldn’t get to whatever it was she had in her locker.  But maybe she was feeling what Arlene was feeling.  Something had happened on the roof and Gladys was not all right.  Perhaps it was just her imagination, but at the very least, she could divide the men watching them even more and she could begin implementing her plan.

Arlene looked to Todd—yes, that was his name.  She’d served him a few times before.  He ate the same thing every time he came in, tipped the same too.  A cheeseburger with extra pickles, fried potato slices, and a dollar thirty-five—exactly twenty-percent.  Todd was slow, but Arlene had always been extra nice to him even with the poor tipping and all.  You never know when kindness will pay off, her mother always said.  Well, this time Arlene did have an idea.

Todd had an oddly unimposing way of doing things.  Much like everyone did with her, she’d underestimated him.  He was slouch-shouldered and hung his head low, preferring to shuffle behind other people rather than walk by himself.  Even with his poor posture he was a giant.  But unlike Arlene, this manner of hiding himself kept people from really noticing him, whereas she was almost always the center of attention whatever room she walked in.

She’d seen just how special he was about a month ago, though.  It was raining at the Spoon and Todd’s ride was late.  Arlene had never asked exactly who was picking the boy-man up, she’d just assumed it was a parent.  He’d just sat there for two hours, not eating, not drinking, not even getting up to use the restroom.  When he heard the horn honk from outside, he’d immediately jumped out of his booth to look.

Yes, it had been his ride.  He’d been about to bolt for the door when he’d reached skyward.  At first, Arlene had assumed something was wrong.  The way his long arm dragged slowly up, his fingers widely splayed.  The normally slack expression on his face tightened as his back bowed and he made this deep, guttural sound.  The first thing she’d thought sitting on her stool and rubbing her aching foot, was that he’d been having a seizure.  Arlene had been about to run over to him to help, though she hadn’t a clue how she would have.  He was stretched to his full size and she’d guessed he had to have been somewhere north in height of her father who’d been six-foot seven and outweighed him by a good thirty pounds of muscle.

Solid muscle.

As she’d relaxed, realizing the boy-man was just stretching, her attention had been pulled taut yet again as his shirt lifted, exposing the deepest set of a six-pack she’d ever seen.  He’d let his arm fall, but flexed both in front of him, the muscles to either side of his neck popping up as if he were about to sprout a pair of fleshy wings.  But before that shirt had come down, she’d seen something else.

Tattoos.

The markings had been very distinct and as Todd snatched up his backpack and had run for the door, she’d realized she’d even seen them before.  On TV.

Todd was the wrestler, Sinistar.

Billed from parts unknown, he wore a mask and never spoke, leaving all the talking to the little Russian man with the facial hair like pubic shavings.  Sinistar had only been on a few months, but he was an instant sensation.  He’d tossed around opponents big and small like rag dolls and had defeated all of them with a crippling move called the facecrusher in which he’d palm a downed man’s face and squeeze until he’d submitted.

Of course it was all fake, Arlene had known that since she was eight years old, but upon a Google search a day after a steel cage match, she’d learned that Sinistar had actually broken Jimmy Mambo’s cheekbone.  Jimmy’s face didn’t look quite the same after that, even after the mask came off.  One of his eyes was always a little more squinty than the other.  The big Samoan retired shortly after that.  He’d been older and a lot flabbier than the other wrestlers, but Arlene had always suspected it mostly to do with the mauling he’d gotten, literally at the hand of Sinistar.

Of Todd.

Arlene never confronted him on it, didn’t want to embarrass him or drive him away.  It was odd in the same way that meeting a celebrity was odd.  Surreal was probably a better word,  but the celebrity in question was Todd.  On the one hand he’d never attempted to use his celebrity in any way, never hinted at it.  If anything, she thought he’d be ashamed.  But the man who climbed in the ring every Saturday night on TV was an unbridled monster.  Sure, it was acting, but he was so convincing at it.  It had made Arlene believe the wrestler was real and the boy man who sat in the same booth in her section every afternoon, moon-faced and innocent, was the fake.

She would find out the first opportunity she got.  Everyone around her, including Guthrie and his group, was treating her with kid gloves as if she were still in shock.  Perhaps on a level she was, but her mind had never felt clearer.  Arlene didn’t dare speak because she wasn’t ready to reveal herself and perhaps she could work her way over to Todd and once half-forgotten, she could bend his ear and forge a plan with a man who could easily murder just about anyone who had wandered into the spoon, including these would-be kidnappers.

“Okay, so the boys should be down any minute,” Guthrie continued.  “Now I wanna hear some ideas about what we do with that.”  He pointed outside with a knife about as long as his forearm.

“And why should we help you?” Arnie said.  “You’ve given us no assurances that we will all leave here with our lives intact.”

Guthrie turned and looked at him.

“If I was gonna kill you, I wouldda done it already.  I wouldda carved your face off to make Freddy boy here talk.  You do realize he’s the only one we really want, right?”

“I gathered that.  It’s his aunt you want and you need to go through him to get to her.  Let’s cut to the chase, what are the odds of our survival if we help you find her?”

“What?  I just told you—

“I’m aware of what you said, but if we implicate ourselves in your scheme, then we have all the reason in the world to keep quiet about the whole affair.”

“Arnie!” Dusty said.  Arlene’s ears perked and she locked her eyes on him.  She was surprised she hadn’t thought of it first and it made perfect sense.  If everybody agreed to be part of the crime, then the killers, thieves—whatever they were, had no cause to do anything to them.

Guthrie folded his arms, holding the knife upright and smacking it lightly against his lips as he considered.  After a few seconds he shook his head and chuckled.

“You wanna help?  Okay, help.  You got my word that if everybody pitches in an idea, if everybody has somethin’ to say about how we can get to Freddy-boy’s dear sweet aunt, you all get to go free and clear.”  Guthrie spread his arms wide, turning to look at everyone gathered in Arlene’s little section of the Spoon.  She noticed him biting his lips, trying to hide a smile.  From the glint in his eye, she could suddenly see this was not a dangerous man by nature.  That if forced, he’d hurt someone, but even then, there would be no joy in it.  How she could tell such a thing, Arlene didn’t have a guess, but the look denoted the smile was not born out of trickery.  No, Guthrie had no intent on killing anyone and so far nobody believed him.  They thought the smile was one of a liar who had every intention of putting a bullet in every single one of them.

But just because he didn’t want to kill anybody didn’t mean nobody was going to die.

No.  Only she could prevent that.  But she might have to kill a few people first.  Or have somebody kill a few people.  Arlene looked at Todd.  Innocent, sweet, completely unimposing Todd.  He was glancing nervously out the window—no doubt for his ride.  If his mentally handicapped act was real—and Arlene was ninety-percent sure it was—then he might not understand anything that had happened—still happening.  And he might need a gentle voice to soothe him over.

She slowly stood and caught Guthrie looking from the corner of her eye.  “She okay?” he said as she turned and slowly headed toward Todd’s booth.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Fred said.  “Booth seats get hard on your bottom, you sit on ‘em too long.  Yeah, see she’s heading to a booth seat.  Dusty, why don’t you help her?”  Fred pronounced ‘why don’t you’ as one word—whyonchoo.  Arlene had heard him say that a thousand times, but suddenly the phrase struck her funny.  But then she realized it wasn’t the phrase, it was something else.  She was feeling something, but not with her own body.  It pulled her attention entirely away from her own actions and completely elsewhere.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa, catch her, catch her, catcher!” somebody shouted and Arlene blinked several times, her eyes slowly focusing on the ceiling.  She felt a rough arm draw from underneath her then the hard linoleum floor at her back.  The skin at her forehead and chest felt cooler than a minute ago and she realized she’d broken out in sweat.

“Must have been that stool,” someone said.

“Back up, leave her some air.”

“Here’s some water.  Don’t worry, nobody’s drunk from it.”

Someone tipped Arlene’s head up and a glass was pushed against her lips.  She drank automatically and felt the final dregs of the heat flash or whatever it had been pass like a fire dipped in water.  It would have been easy to just let them guide her to where ever they thought best and ride this whole thing out while someone else was in charge.

But shock or no, Arlene was too determined for that.  She forced her mind to focus, not her eyes because that would play into what everyone was thinking about her, especially now.  Hell, many of them were saying it right out loud.

“Poor thing, she’s still in shock.”  That was Mrs. Drury.  Her husband, Dr. Edward Drury, retired, was right beside her, a far off look Arlene could only hope to match.  He had dementia and was on the rapid decline, though Mrs. Drury kept him in a routine in hopes of retaining as much of the man she’d known and loved for the last thirty-seven years.

Hm.  That was odd.  Although she’d had the occasional light conversation with Mrs. Drury, they’d never had any such discussion about her husband’s mental health, but Arlene knew all of it to be true.  Had she read the old woman’s mind?  Was that something she could do now?

“You ready to stand, sweetie?”  One of the biker’s wrapped and arm around her shoulder and she saw him clear as day, though her eyes were mostly on the ground.  Bill Monk was a substitute teacher and amateur painter.  His wife had left him six months ago after a misunderstanding about some pictures she’d found on his laptop.  It wasn’t a big deal, he’d just found them.  It wasn’t like he’d touched himself when he saw them—only looked.  But now that damned Fontleroy and his fucking hackers—

—And just like that it was gone.  It was like a phone conversation and the line had dropped out.  Arlene looked and saw that Bill Monk was no longer touching her.  They were all watching her, like a baby making its first steps as she gingerly slid into the booth seat across from Todd.  Arlene thought she understood what just happened and if she did, all the better for her plan.  Something had happened.  Whether it had something to do with the strange man outside, she didn’t know, but she could read people through contact.  Not like a sheet of facts printed on the screen of their minds, but like in a sit down conversation if someone were inclined to tell all about themselves—cups of tea included—except it wasn’t really them they were telling about, but the idea of them.  The things they preferred to be and the things they didn’t, conveniently omitted.  That was the tricky part of it, though.  Most people were liars.  They lied about who they were even to themselves.  She’d have to be careful about what she listened to when she touched anybody, lest she believe the wrong thing about them.  Pressed the wrong button and elicited the wrong response.  Perhaps minor contact only gave her surface information.  Maybe she could dig deeper, scoop aside the dressed-up stuff people put on when they thought about themselves.

Arlene looked up shyly at all the faces pointed in her direction.  Todd fidgeted in her peripheral vision, clearly uncomfortable with all the sudden attention.  She reached out and gently grasped the hand nearest her and whispered, “Could use another glass of water.  Mighty thirsty.”  She felt rather than saw the person nod, not reading him because she wasn’t trying to read, she was trying to write.  She realized something else in the brief second her hand covered his: Arlene had also sensed everything he was sensing and feeling at the time.  She’d seen herself, looking shaken and weak—why, not even able to lift the knife and fork wrapped in the napkin left on the table next to her.  Felt his tongue lick over his upper lip as some foreign thing just below his belt tugged against his pants.  She realized it was his hard-on and how he ached to touch it, but resisted because some part of him thought better of it.  Instead, he would serve her—yes, give her whatever she asked for until she would give him what he asked for.  What he needed.  Oh, the things he would do with his tongue if only—

Arlene slipped her hand from his, seated back behind her own eyes.  Was this what every man felt when he saw her?  She’d known she’d had influence, but to experience firsthand what a man felt when he was overbrimming with lust when he looked at her, it was… intoxicating. 

Not that she would ever be interested in the man himself, just the idea that she held that much power.  The only thought she’d pushed into his mind was for him to leave and he did, but not before she’d received a significant amount of feedback in precious few seconds.

“Sit back, dear,” Mrs. Kelly said, resting a hand on her back.  Arlene flinched from it, not ready to take on another person’s thoughts so quickly.  As much as the man had pleased her, adding another person so soon agitated her.  But clearly, echoing through her mind as she ripped herself away from the forty-something year old woman who had looked upon her with envy on more than one occasion, came the word ‘cunt’.

Arlene whirled and stared daggers at the woman who had gone wide-eyed, but quickly recovered, slumping her head onto her arm stretched across the table.

“So tired,” Arlene said, letting her hand fall gently on one of Todd’s powerful forearms.  At first, there was nothing.  No, not nothing, but a sheet of white.  Then there was a little boy in a green and white short-sleeved shirt and blue jean shorts yanking the sheet off a clothesline.  The little boy had a wide gap where two front teeth were wedging their way through his gumline and blond, mop-top hair.  A pale, tall woman with raven-black hair pinned up in a bun stood a few feet away in the shade of a tall tree hanging a shirt.  The boy dashed over to her and hugged around her hips, pressing the side of his head into the soft hollow of her stomach.  Her hand, still damp from the shirt, fell against the side of his face and stroked his cheek.  The boy looked up at her and she down at him—an absolutely perfect moment of love passing between the two of them.  Then her face split open and a red thing sprang out at him.

Arlene and Todd both flinched at the same time.  He blinked several times and so did she, her head rising from the table.  Most of the people had gone back to what they’d been doing a moment before, but there was a commotion over by the kitchen.  Someone yelled something, but Arlene couldn’t translate it, despite the words being spoken in English.

“What was that?” she asked Todd.  His perfect blue eyes settled on her and at first she saw no sign of recognition.  But then he narrowed them, looking her up and down before locking into her eyes.

Todd opened his mouth to speak—

—And someone on the other side of the Spoon shouted, “It’s Gladys!”

Review of Anthony Harrington’s “Frayed”

To say Frayed is a fantastic piece of fiction is to sell the story short. I absolutely loved it. Great character development and a storyline with twists all over the place. I must have suspected the main character of being the killer a half a dozen times all the way up to the last thirty pages of the book!

But Frayed does suffer from poor editing. I seriously, seriously hope the author comes back to this or hires and editor to do some clean-up because the typos are going to definitely knock some people out of the story. There are more than a few, but the story was so good I got accustomed to them after a while. Are you reading this, Mr. Harrington? fix this awesome book!

The author handles the scientry in this book with ease and without being overly heavy-handed in explanation. He makes me believe there’s a grain of truth in the stuff I know nothing about. Then he pulls back before I feel like I’ve been whacked over the head with a caduceus.

I’ve really only read one or two other authors who write in this genre and The Broken Hearts Club is absolutely one of my favorite books of any genre. Frayed easily competes with anything Ethan Black has written and I’ll definitely be buying his next book.

Fleshbags – Out Now on Amazon, B & N, and Smashwords

www.feelmyghost.webs.com

Check Out These Giveaways

I’m doing a giveaway in combination with The Zombie Times. They give away a bunch of stuff each month and you can get a copy of The Zombie Show. Just follow the instructions and best of luck to you. Oh, here’s the link.

Fleshbags – Out Now on Amazon, B & N, and Smashwords

www.feelmyghost.webs.com

Social Media

I’d like to give a little something back via social media. I got the idea from another indie author who retweets a tweet that is hashtagged with #buyindie and I want to do my own. But I’m wondering, what exactly should my hashtag be? #indieauth? #horrorauth?

I’ve been tossing the idea around for a few days and I don’t want an overly-long or clunky-sounding tag. I also don’t want to get flooded with a bazillion tweets ready and raring for a retweeting. So here goes. If it’s a pain in the butt, I’ll stop, but hopefully folks will get something out of it. Try the hashtag #indiehorror if you’re an independent horror author and if I see it, I’ll retweet you.

Dethm8, ep 5

That man with the gun sure was smart, Gladys thought anyway.  She did intend of braining whoever came with her first chance she got once they were on the roof.  Then she could probably finagle her way down the gutter or something and run for help.  Whoever that weirdo was in the car probably wanted one of them and wouldn’t bother with a little old woman.

Well, not exactly little.  Dr. Forrest had told her she needed to lay off the fried chicken and the cheese doodles, but since Ferdinand II had died, well she just didn’t feel like doing right no more.  Ever since Mr. Kelly had up passed (she refused to think of him as her husband or even Glenn after doing such a terrible thing as what he’d done to her) she’d depended on her little dogs to keep her going and with F2 stuffed on the mantle she was in a boat with only one oar.  She had to do something to get out of here and soon.  Dionysius was all alone in his crate and he was bound to be hungry soon.  What if he starved to death?

Gladys dug into the closet in the office behind Fred’s desk.  It really wasn’t a closet, more of a tall skinny locker nailed into the corner.  She reached for her tools on the shelf, remembering the gun Fred kept on the one just above it.  Gladys stood on tippy-toe, hoping she could reach it—her jumping days were long gone with her calves in the state they were in.  A skinny hand reached just above her and she gave a yip, yanking the tools back to her chest as if she’d just been seen without her top on.

“Mighty fine piece, Ma’am.”  Gladys turned to see the biker already back in the doorway, leaning against it with his arms folded, the nose of the gun poking out by his bicep.

“I didn’t know that was there.”  It sounded like a lie even to her ears.  The biker just shrugged.

“Look, can we get this over with?  I’m not too eager to be outside with that thing out there.”  He made a face as if he were realizing something.  “I dunno, it just feels… safer in here.”

“Uh-huh,” she said dumbly, but she recognized the truth in what he had said.  Even though that Roscoe character had been killed, the car had come just short of driving through the Spoon, almost as if it had stopped on a dime.  And the front was just about all glass, it could have easily and killed half the people in here.  Gladys followed the man until they were back behind the counter, wondering why that was.

“Okay, Petey,” the biker said.  “Let’s go.”

Petey had a red and white headband on and smiled.  He looked young and stupid, made even younger and dumber when he palmed the counter and leapt over to their side.  The first man waved to their leader who nodded back at him and turned to Gladys.

“What?” she said when he stared at her.

“Lead the way, Ma’am.”

“Oh.”

She led the two men to the back and they had to stop to let Fred and two bikers pass as they dragged Roscoe’s dead body toward the cooler.  Fred was swearing just above his breath.  One of the men behind her whistled.

“Ain’t no way to go.”  Had to have been Petey.  His voice was nasally and high, the others was smooth, the words well-rounded.  She half turned her head toward him.

“Are you from around these parts?”  Gladys asked more to get her mind off the corpse being set next to all those patties than out of curiosity.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said.  “Grew up in Mendy, as a matter-of-fact.  That the roof access up there?”

“Oh, um, yes.”  Gladys stepped as gingerly as her thirty extra pounded frame would allow over the off-on blood streak Roscoe’s body had left behind.  She walked up to the ladder but before she could begin to climb, the man was right next to her, gentling her aside.

“If you don’t mind, Ma’am,” he said, going ahead.  They were smart.  At least a little bit.  She had a mallet inside her tool satchel and could have walloped both of them as they popped out of the access like that old Whack-a-Mole game.  This was going to be her chance, though.  She just had to watch for it.

“Young man, may I ask your name?  I mean, if we’re going to be forced together in this situation then we may as well know what to call one another.”

He looked down at her.  “It’s Jackson, Ma’am.”

“Well, Mr. Jackson—”

“No-no.  Just Jackson.  Mr. Jackson was my grandfather and if you’ll pardon my language, he was an asshole.”  He opened the roof access and climbed out and Gladys realized she’d known a Jackson who was about ten years or so older over in Mendy who could have been described as being that word by many people. She tucked that away in case it might come in handy in the very near future.

She turned to Petey.  “Young man.  I am absolutely positive you are going to be a gentleman until I have made it onto the roof.”

“Huh?” Petey said.

“She means stay off the ladder until she’s up here,” Jackson said.  “So you won’t see up her skirt.”

“But why would I want to—” Petey pulled a face that looked like how a sputtering engine sounded.  Gladys put the satchel over her shoulder and climbed.  When she reached the top, Jackson had a hand out and helped her the rest of the way.  That posture alone cinched it for her.  She did know this boy’s grandfather.  Or at least had.  She’d seen him in a similar pose several times.  He’d had a tendency of knocking people down with his fists and having the audacity to help them up as if they’d only tripped.  But on Jackson it came off as a true kindness.

“Seems fine.”  Jackson looked around, a worried stitch between his brows.  What he was looking for was anybody’s guess.  She took his hand and ascended into the mock-furnace that was outside.

“Of course it’s fine.  That man is down there.  We’re up here.”  Petey climbed up, that dumb grin back on his face.  Jackson nodded, to her or Petey she wasn’t sure.  “The rooftop unit is over this way.  Gladys surged past Jackson, passing by several structures she wasn’t entirely sure what they did.  Even though she believed what she’d just said, it felt different out here than inside.  Her heart fluttered—suddenly, she didn’t feel safe.  Gladys was suddenly reminded of a childhood game, but she couldn’t quite remember what it was called or how it was played.

“Here it is,” she said, approaching the unit.  She used a screwdriver to wedge the panel open.  Jackson leaned in to look and she realized he was close enough she could have easily stabbed him through the eye.  Maybe she would have if it had been Petey looking, but she had a strange affinity she couldn’t quite explain.  It was odd considering he’d been a complete stranger who was holding her hostage ten minutes ago and now he was the grandson of one of the most awful human beings she’d ever met.

“I need a little room here.”  She didn’t, but wanted him to move back just the same.  Gladys glanced over her other shoulder and Petey wasn’t anywhere in sight.  Jackson must have picked up and looked around for him.

“Ay, Petey, don’t get lost!” he called.  Gladys got down to her work and after a minute had figured the problem.  She was mostly through correcting it when she heard footfalls behind them, rapidly approaching.

“Man, I don’t have a good feeling about this!” Petey said.  “I wanna get back down in the restaurant.

“Just cool it,” Jackson said.  “We’ll be done soon.  Right, Ms. Gladys?”  She picked up on the fear creeping into Jackson’s voice and she felt the same.  It felt wrong out here.  Gladys had to suppress the constant urge to look over her shoulder.

“Movin’ just as fast as I can.”

“It’s that thing!” Petey said.  “It’s up here!”

Gladys felt sudden cold in the sweltering heat, racing through her.

“Ma’am, can you hurry?”

“I’m trying.  I’m trying!” she plead as if he’d threatened her.  Twice her hands fumbled, the second time she succeeded in slicing her index with the flathead screwdriver.  She blocked everything out as best she could and concentrated as best she could.  Had she had the patience for book-learning, she could have gotten her license and worked her own heating and cooling business.

“Ms. Gladys, Ma’am, I think we need to go.”

“Almost done.  Don’t think we came here just to run away before the job was done.”

Jackson licked his lips, but only nodded at her.

“Petey, cool it.  Maybe if we stay quiet, it won’t know we’re here.  What was it doing, anyway?”

“It was makin’ these sounds—I don’t know, I couldn’t see its head.”

Gladys took a glance over her shoulder at the two men behind her and saw Jackson stepping side-to-side, gripping the gun he’d taken from Fred’s office in his hand.  If there were a time at all to make a break for it, then it was coming up.  She screwed a panel back in place, dropped the flathead back in the satchel and grabbed the mallet with her hand still inside.

“Let’s go, Jackson.”  He turned and looked at her and nodded who in turn patted Petey on the back and they moved forward.  They moved a little too fast for her to keep up, which was fine.  One of three things was about to happen: Jackson would go down first with Petey tight on his heels, Jackson would go down and Petey would let her go first, or Petey would go down and Jackson would let her go down.  If they both went down without her she could head straight for the ladder and make a break for her car, parked in back.  If Jackson went first she would smash Petey’s head with the mallet and if Petey went first she’d just run.  For some reason she didn’t believe Jackson would do anything, that he might say something, but wouldn’t actually do anything to stop her.

They were almost at the access when Gladys bumped into Jackson.

“What?” she called too loudly.

“Ma’am,” he whispered, “please be quiet.”  There was something about the tone of his voice that compelled her to step around his shoulder to see what he was seeing.  It didn’t make sense in that it wasn’t completely abnormal.

She’d seen a dog in the middle of the night by the roadside tearing out the entrails of a dead elk by the roadside and obviously, she’d seen the man no more than fifteen feet away from them, but what he was doing—

Petey vomited.  A soft, wet sound and Gladys saw him from the corner of her eye lurch forward and meet whatever had come out of him with the palms of his gloved hands.  Her heart began a slow revving up in her chest until she got a light, fluttery feeling in her wrists and the heels of her hands until she began making fists to chase the sensation away.

The man with the motorcycle helmet was on one knee, tearing the flesh off a hunk of meat wearing a cream suit jacket spattered with blood.  It looked familiar until the necklace she’d complimented and the French-manicured hand with a butterfly ring dragging around in semi-circles as the man ate clicked something in her brain and she realized who he was eating.

The oddest part was he still had his helmet on.

“Don’t move, Petey,” Jackson said, stiff at her side.  “Don’t!”

“Fuck this shit, I’m gettin’ back inside!”  He threw Jackson’s hand off him and stepped forward.  The man in the helmet either didn’t notice or didn’t care and Jackson and Gladys looked at each other.  She certainly didn’t want to be the only one left if Petey actually made it, but she wasn’t in a rush to get eaten, either.  All thought of escaping the roof had been abandoned especially considering she’d have to pass that man to get to the ladder.

Petey reached for the access door.  The man shook his head, tearing a hunk of flesh free from the dead woman’s torso.

“Oh,” Gladys said, unintentionally.  The man’s head turned.  Petey froze and she felt Jackson go completely still at her side.  Gladys couldn’t swallow properly.  Her heart felt too large and cold in the center.  She tried to control her breathing, but her lungs felt already full—she couldn’t fill them with enough oxygen when she breathed in and felt instantly on the verge of suffocation when she breathed out.  This was panic—an appropriate time for such a reaction, but she forced herself to hold still.

The man was watching Petey.  He growled, although she’d never heard a sound like that before.  It sounded… metallic.

“Petey, get back,” Jackson whispered.  “Get back here right now.”

Petey shook his head.  He was going for it.  Gladys didn’t know why, but she knew he would have been safer standing with them.  That maybe if they were all at the access door at least the first two people down would have made it.

But Petey took one last step and in the process of blinking her eye, it—Gladys could no longer fool herself into believing this was a man—was on him.  She still had the after-image of it kneeling and eating that poor woman as it was tearing into Petey.

He screamed and Jackson pumped his arms by his sides as if revving himself to throw himself at the thing attacking his friend.  He went and Gladys caught a glimpse of Petey being thrown from side to side as it held him in its hands.  It still had its helmet on as it chewed into him and she saw how it could heat with it on: the helmet had to have been its head because its the crease open to where its ears should have been revealed dozens of jagged, cloud white teeth spilling out of the red-red cave of its mouth.

Petey was still screaming and Jackson was shouting as well and underneath, Gladys could hear the horrible sounds it was making as it was eating the younger man.  As quickly as she could, she made her way past the three of them, sweat prickling down her back as the fingertips of her left began tingling.  She must have fainted because she was suddenly looking at the roof tile from inches away.  Gladys’ legs were still going, but she was pretty certain she wasn’t on her feet.  Petey’s screams had ceased, but what was more terrifying (in a detached sort of way) was Jackson was quiet too.  The only thing she could hear was that thing eating.  She didn’t know whether to hope he’d left her here alone or was busy being lunch.  Her breathing was shallow and quick and she was certain she was on the verge of freezing to death.  She must have done a hell of a job with the a/c.