Rebecca Besser's Blog, page 70
January 11, 2013
A Year - Waiting For Disappointment
A year might seem like a long time, but it's kinda a norm in writing. Heck, we can get accepted in two weeks to a month and still have to wait a year or two for a book to see print - that's just the way the publishing world is. The waiting, though, that's a killer. It's even worse when you've waited that long and you get a negative response. The only way I've found to deal well with the "waiting game" is to keep writing and submitting. It enables me to keep my mind off the time while I'm busy doling out more of my stories. Plus, with more stories out in circulation, the more chances I have of getting an acceptance.
Now that I know my collection isn't going to be accepted and published (by that press), I'm looking around at other markets for it. Some friends on Facebook posted a couple for me to check out that appear promising. I've gone through my collection and stripped it down to all original stories - since some places won't take reprints - and am reading through it to find any mistakes I previously missed and possibly expand the stories more before sending it back out into the world.
One of the reprints it contained, I'm going to put on Amazon for about a dollar. The story is entitled, "Hall of Twelve," and is one of my all time favs that I've written; its also a strong fav of fans of my work. The story has been expanded since its printing in an anthology a couple years ago, so even if you have read it before, you might want to try it out again.
Who knows... Since I have some time off coming up, I might write a new story or two to include in my submission with a new place. I hope this time that I'll get an answer before a year has gone by!
Copyrights owned by Rebecca Besser, 2013. All rights reserved.
January 7, 2013
Setting Goals - Be Realistic
I've finally started thinking about my writing goals for 2013. Some of them remain the same, like finding an agent (something I've been working toward for awhile). But that's a big goal, with lots of little steps in front of it; it's also something I don't want to rush into. I actually see getting an agent as more of an ultimate goal which can't be achieved without building a solid foundation first, so it will remain on my "goals" list until it happens (with a lot of hard work and writing).
Most people set huge goals without thinking about how they're going to get there. Me? I set little goals I know I can achieve that propel me toward the bigger ones. Like the agent goal... I can't get an agent if I don't write something to pitch to them. I can't pitch something to them if I don't write. The book won't be written if I don't write on a regular basis. So...what should the first goal be? Writing either so much per day or per week.
You know your schedule, so you know if it would be more "realistic" for you to set yourself a time allowance per day, a word count goal per day/week, etc. The point is to set goals you know you can reach.
The "realistic" side of goal setting is very important. If you set your goal too big and have to do all the small stuff to get there, it seems like you're never making progress. When it doesn't feel like you're moving forward you get discouraged and quit. We don't want to quit on our goals that will lead us to our dreams, do we? NO! So, break down those big goals into manageable portions and celebrate when we hit every single one!
Some of the goals I've set in the past have been as varied as submitting so many stories per year, to actually doing blog posts (blog posts was my goal in 2012, and it paid off). This year, alongside my writing goals, I'm thinking of adding in Tweeting regularly. I've got a good handle on Facebook, and I'm now building my blog readership/following, so Twitter is my weakest social media link at this time. I figure I might as well put some time and effort into understanding it. After all, having a good following and platform will increase my chances of an agent in the future. 
In 2012, I also wanted to shift my attention from short stories to novels and other longer works. I managed to publish my novel, Nurse Blood, by the end of the year, so that was kinda meeting my goal there. Close enough to make me happy anyhow. I started working a part time job and wasn't able to write as much as I would have liked, so one novel was an accomplishment. I at least got it done and out into the world! SCORE!
Even so, just because I knew I needed to keep moving forward, I did write a few short stories and sent them out into the world. I had luck with a couple and am waiting to hear back from others. The main thing? I kept writing. Even though I wasn't getting the time for the larger projects I wanted to work on, I still wrote.
With all that in mind, here are my goals for 2013:
1) Start my own press.
2) Write at LEAST one short story or poem once a month.
3) Complete at LEAST one novel.
4) Tweet more and learn more about Twitter.
5) Keep working toward building a following and snagging an agent.
They may not seem like grand goals, but they will be manageable and I will be able to celebrate at least once a month that I'm keeping on track. I'm going to let my own momentum propel me forward.
Copyrights owned by Rebecca Besser, 2013. All rights reserved.
January 2, 2013
Upcoming in 2013 - Moving Forward
I keep thinking that I should do a post to start out the new year and tell people what they should be expecting from me. So....here's the post! I'm sick right now, but getting better. Because of that my start of 2013 hasn't been as upbeat as I'd hoped for; I haven't even started planning my solid writing goals for the year. One thing I know for sure though, is that sometime this year I'll be starting my own press!
Hive Mind Press will be mine! WAHOO! Here's the logo:
You won't hear much about it until I get all my policies worked out and it is officially registered as an LLC. If you would like to visit the blog I've started for it (where submission calls will be posted) click on the logo above to visit it. There isn't anything of import posted at this time, but as I get things worked out I'll be adding news updates and submission information for open calls.
I should warn you now... Hive Mind Press is not going to be an easy market, and I won't be doing too much the first year - mostly building, etc. I do plan to have one open "free for all" call for novels at least once in 2013, just as a kick starter. Otherwise...you'll have to play by the rules that will be set forth, which will only allow a few to be eligible for novel submissions in the future. Do I have you intrigued now? LOL Like I said, once the policies are in order they'll be posted for you.
I'll let everyone know when I have things set up so you can see if Hive Mind is a place you'll want to be published with. I'm hoping that answer will be yes. Most of you who know me, know how I feel about treating people fairly and upholding high quality standards. I hope that will at least get you interested enough to consider Hive Mind. The press will be publishing novels, novellas, anthologies, and collections in horror, scifi, and bizarro (maybe a few others once things get started).
Nurse Blood by Rebecca Besser (me) is the first title to be published under the Hive Mind imprint, mostly because I'm using my writing to fuel some of the start up money for the press. So far (since being published on Dec. 5th, 2012) it is doing fairly well, and I hope the trend continues! Everyone who has read the book so far has loved it - what I want for all Hive Mind publications.
Other than that, there's not much going on of any level of excitment with me. I'm just working on some writing and living my everyday life. And even though I don't have all my writing goals planned out just yet, I wish you all the best with yours. Who knows... My new press might be in line with what you have planned!
Copyrights owned by Rebecca Besser and Justin T. Coons, 2012. All rights reserved.
December 24, 2012
Zombie Christmas Story - High Price for Hope by Rebecca Besser
Jerrold Brown sat by the small fire burning in a fifty-five-gallon barrel that had been cut in half. He watched his wife across the room, tucking in their son and daughter. Sighing deeply, he looked into the fire, thinking about Christmas. It was hard to believe it had been a year since the zombies had arrived. It was the worst Christmas Eve he’d ever experienced. He still remembered tucking the kids in that night–trying to get them to fall asleep so Santa would come. But he’d never arrived, just the rotting corpses of the animated dead.
With another sigh, Jerrold rubbed his face with both hands. His wife, Dawn, drew the blanket curtain they used to partition off the kids sleep area closed, and joined him by the fire.
“What’re you thinking about?” she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m thinking Christmas will be here in a couple of days,” he mumbled.
“And?”
“I think it’s sad that we don’t have any presents for the kids. Last year they didn’t get to open the presents we bought for them–we were too busy fighting for our lives. After a year of being sequestered in this basement we have lost all sense of hope.”
“What are you getting at?” Dawn asked, a suspicious look on her face.
Jerrold dragged his hairs through his hair, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. He knew she wouldn’t like what he was going to say next.
“I’m going to go out and get the kids presents. They deserve to have a decent Christmas, no matter what the condition of the world.”
He heard her gasp, but didn’t look up, just rushed on.
“We need food, too. I should have gone a week ago. You know it as well as I do. I might as well see if I can find some presents while I’m out there. Who knows, maybe all the zombies are gone, moved on to somewhere else in search of people to eat.”
Jerrold looked up at his wife, dreading what he might see in her expression. Tears were sliding down her sallow cheeks. It hit him again just how much they’d suffered–how much they’d had to go without. Clenching his jaw, he decided, be damned all danger, he was going to make this Christmas special for all of them, no matter what she said.
Dawn’s eyes were trained on the fire. The shifting light from the tongues of flame licking at the wood that feed it sent shadows dance over her features. She was upset. He could see that from the tightness of her jaw.
“Sweetie,” he said, caressing her wet cheek. “I have to do something. I can’t bear them not having some joy in their lives. What kind of existence is that for a child?”
Closing her eyes, she pressed her face into his hand and took a shuddering breath. “It’s too dangerous. I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t lose me,” he said, taking her into his arms and kissing the top of her head. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
“I can’t bear even the thought of losing you,” she whispered and wrapped her arms tightly around him. “It’s not worth the risk. I don’t want you to go. Stay for me. Please.”
Jerrold took a deep breath and rubbed her back, tears coming to his own eyes at her pleading. He eyes fell on a stick that was jutting out from beneath the curtain to the kids sleeping area. It was crudely carved to resemble a human. He remembered making them for the kids for their birthdays. Their eyes had lit up and it was the only time he remembered seeing genuine smiles on their faces since they’d been down here.
Squeezing Dawn tight, he whispers, “I have to do it–for the kids. They should have sometime to play with, something to enjoy. All they play with are those damn sticks, or what they can draw on the cement floor with charred pieces of wood from the fire. They should have more. They deserve more. What kind of childhood are we giving them?”
She pulled back and looked him in the face defiantly.
“We are giving them the best childhood we can under the circumstances,” she hissed. “It’s not like we have a choice. We are doing the best we can with what we have. Those damn zombies took everything from us, but we have our lives and we have each other. That should be enough.”
“Believe me,” he said. “I am grateful that we are all alive and together, and I’ll never be able to express how glad I was that we found somewhere that had a good supply of food and water to stay, but it’s Christmas. I really need you to understand and support me in this, I need to do this, for all of us.”
Dawn clutched at the front of Jerrold’s threadbare shirt, kneading it in her almost skeletal hands. Tears ran freely down her face and dropped on her shirt, also threadbare and almost sheer in its overuse. Choking back a sob, she buried her face in his neck and whimpered. She took a couple of minutes to get herself under control before she spoke in a pained whisper.
“When will you go?”
Wrapping his arms around her and rocking her gently, he mumbled into her hair, “In the morning. It’ll be Christmas Eve. I’ll arrive back just in time to put the presents under the tree, just like Santa.”
He laughed at the irony of the thought, as he too choked back sobs.
She nodded against his chest and clutched at him, not wanting to let go, not wanting to think about what the morning would bring, when her husband would leave their den of safety and venture out into the world that held who knew what.
They sat by the fire, crying and holding each other for hours before they added a couple more pieces of wood to the fire and went to bed. Even though they’d been careful about sex, using condoms to make sure that Dawn wouldn’t get pregnant–which they’d run out of a couple of weeks ago–they made love that night, throwing caution to the wind. The action was full of desperation. They spoke to each other with their bodies, conveying their love and their need to be with each other, hoping that the bond they created would be stronger than the separation they would face in the morning, stronger than the fear of never seeing each other again.
* * *
The next morning Jerrold was up and dressed before the kids awoke. He kissed them gently on their foreheads, brushed back their hair and said a quick prayer for them. Behind him, he heard the sound of Dawn’s bare feet padding softly across the cement floor. She paused at the curtain and sighed heavily. He could feel the tension radiating from her. Turning, he stepped up to her and wrap his arms around her, burring his face in her hair.
“I’ll be careful,” he whispered. “I promise I’ll come back.”
With a quivering breath, she nodded and pressed her face into the side of his neck. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said, pulling back and kissing her.
Wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, she stood up on her tip toes and put her soul into the kiss, making it clear to him one last time how much he truly meant to her.
Breaking away reluctantly, Jerrold picked up his 30/30 rifle and his bag, and headed for the door.
“Make sure you put these back up as soon as I’m through the door,” he said, taking down heavily pieces of lead pipe and angle iron they had at different levels of the door. “I’ll padlock the door at the top of the steps from the outside, instead of the inside. Do you remember the knock I’ll use when I come back, so that you know it’s me?”
Dawn nodded, but he was facing the door and didn’t see her.
Turning, he looked at her. “Do you remember?”
“Yes,” she said. “Three fast, two slow, three fast.”
He smiled and nodded, stepped back over to where she stood, and kissed her one last time. Looking deep into her eyes, he said, “I’ll be back tonight.”
She smiled weakly, nodded, and closed the door behind him as he picked up his rifle and bag again, and stepped through.
Jerrold stood in the shadows of the apartment building basement, waiting to hear the scraping of metal as Dawn replaced the bars on the boiler room door. They’d been lucky to find such a place to stay. They had heat, and had been draining the water out of the building’s pipes for months. He’d also feed them on what the building had to offer. Each apartment had provided canned goods and everything else they had needed. The zombies had left the building after the people who lived there had died or been turned into one of the walking dead. Now their supplies were getting low, which after a year, they couldn’t complain. But this time he would have to venture beyond the safety zone and into the unknown.
Satisfied after he heard the last bar being placed across the door, ignoring the sobs he could hear from his wife, he mounted the steps to their second defense–a padlocked metal door that lead into the main lobby of the building. Withdrawing a small, sliver key from his bag, Jerrold quickly and quietly unlocked it. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open slowly. The hinges screeched loudly and Jerrold froze for a moment. Deciding it would be better just to get it over with, knowing the sound would have already alerted anything in the area to his presence, he jerked the door the rest of the way open and jumped through. Whipping his rifle around from where it hung on his back with a shoulder strap, he held it at ready and spun in a semi circle to check the room around him. Seconds passed and all that could be heard was his panting breath. No danger presented itself.
Turning back to the door, he quickly shut it and attached the lock to the latch he’d installed when he’d gone on his first ‘raiding’ trip. They kept it locked from the inside when they were all at ‘home’, and when he went out, he locked it from the outside.
Surveying the room again, Jerrold noticed that the only thing that had changed since the last time he’d been here, was that more plants were growing through the openings of the vacant windows, which had been shattered long ago.
It was still dark, the sun was just beginning to rise, casting a light yellow glow to the backdrop and in between the buildings he could just make out beyond the vines. Stepping carefully, holding his rifle in front of him, ready to pull it up at any moment, he advanced to the busted out glass door that had once been a grand entrance. Pushing aside the greenery, he stepped out into the world, breathing deeply of the fresh morning air, something that seemed almost foreign to him since they’d sought haven below. The sweetness and crispness of it almost made him cry, and at the same time, overwhelmed him with joy.
A bird flitted past and called to its mate, which soon joined it in a tree that had once neatly graced the sidewalk of the city, but was now growing wildly. Old Christmas lights hung from the branches, providing a ladder for the vines to climb–the tiny, twinkle light bulbs looked like alien berries waiting to be picked.
With a grin on his face, Jerrold shivered as a strong wind blew, cutting through his worn out clothes. He’d forgotten how cold it was outside when fall gave way to winter.
“First things first,” he said to himself, heading down the street to where he knew a man’s clothing store used to operate, knowing he needed a coat, gloves, and a hat if he was going to stay warm long enough to hunt for gifts and food.
The sound of his voice startled a black squirrel who’d been searching through the weeds for the last of the nuts from a small walnut tree. It chattered at him angrily as it ducked inside a faded blue BMW that was parked at the curb.
Bending down slightly, Jerrold could see that it had made itself a nice little nest in the interior, where it had dug into a rip in the seat and was not living lavishly in leather and insulation.
Chuckling and shaking his head at the absurdity, yet genius, of the upside down world that they now lived in, he continued on in search of warm clothes.
Soon he reached the store he was looking for. But, to his chagrin, he noticed that all the showcase windows of the front of the store were intact. Smeared on the inside was a dark-brown substance that he knew was dried blood, which meant someone or something could still be inside.
Jerrold stood there for a moment, indecision warring in his mind of the possible dangers of breaking the glass and alerting any zombies that might be lurking somewhere, and the possible danger of going in period when something could still be in there. A strong gust of wind easily penetrated his clothes and bit into his skin with tiny, pin like teeth, made the choice for him. He had to have something more to wear, and if he didn’t go it there, he could waste hours searching for the right items, and then hope they would fit him.
Looking up and down the street, seeing no movement, he lifted the butt of his rifle and broke one of the windows. Glass hit the pavement with a tinkling of accusation, as if angry for having been broken and disturbed after so long a silence.
Jerrold held his gun at ready and waited for a ghoul to jump out at him. He’d had it happen plenty of times before and had always come away the victor. Nothing happened. No one and nothing came from the new opening. Glancing up and down the street again, not seeing any movement, he started knocking away the jagged remains of the glass so he could get through. His hands were so numb from the cold he didn’t feel when a small sliver penetrated his palm, breaking the skin and letting out a small trickle of blood.
Entering the store, he hurriedly located what he needed. He found himself a new pair of jeans, a shirt, underwear, socks, boots, a coat, gloves, and a hat, piling them in the center of the store, where he could see all around him. Quickly he shed his worn out clothes, donned his new apparel, and took out his old hunting knife, adding it to his new outfit in case he did meet a zombie. Leaving his old clothes laying on the ground where he’d taken them off, he grabbed some more clothes and shoved them into a shopping bag he found behind the counter. Knowing that he couldn’t carry them around all day because he would be collecting more items he decided to jog them back down the block and leave the bag outside the door to the basement sanctuary.
While Jerrold had been searching through the racks of clothing, the small sliver of glass had come free from his hand, but he still hadn’t noticed. Unknowingly he began a blood trail, starting with the glass, to the racks, to the clothes he left lay, and the counter where he’d gotten the bag. The gloves he’d chosen were thick, and they absorbed the red liquid, only to start dripping around the cuff after he’d left the bag at the basement door. He didn’t think anything of it, as now his hands were warm and his palms were sweating.
Jerrold decided that clothing and food should be top priority for this trip, even though he wouldn’t return without presents. He just knew that finding appropriate gifts would take longer, and if he got his ‘duty’ done first, then he would have more time to ‘shop’.
Turning to the right this time when he left the building, he went to a department store he knew would have clothes for his entire family. There were plenty of shopping carts sitting around, so he used one to procure clothing for his family. Having not seen any zombies for a while, he started to let his guard down. He assumed they’d moved on to where they thought people might be more numerous.
Christmas decorations and fake snow were on all of the displays, some still standing and some destroyed. Strings of lights dangled drunkenly from cash registers, and Santas that had been placed close to the windows had faded from red to pink, where the sun had bleached them through the summer months. Seeing these relics reminded him of last year–of what a disaster Christmas had been.
After getting all the clothes the cart could hold, he paused to think of anything else they might need. Batteries came to mind. He searched around the counters where he remembered having seen batteries when he’d shopped there long ago, but there were none. The empty racks stared back at him menacingly, as if mocking his stupidity for thinking he’d find something there.
All the snacks and candy bars were gone as well. There was nothing of use or value.
Pushing the overloaded cart out of the store was harder than he’d first thought it would be. There was so much stuff knocked over and in the way, the wheels kept getting stuck and he had to continually clear a path. It was at one of those times, while he was bent over pulling an inflatable snowman, that had deflated long ago, from beneath the wheels that a noise from behind him alerted him that he was not alone.
Slowly he stood erect, sliding his rifle strap off his shoulder he prepared to fire. Spinning suddenly, he brought the butt of the 30/30 tight into his shoulder, and looked down the sights with the ease that only comes from practice.
Standing no more than ten feet from him was an old woman and a young boy, but they were no longer human. The wasting of their flesh released a stench that he should have noticed and probably would have if he hadn’t been constantly moving. But the fact of the matter was, he was accustom to the smell of death, he’d been living with it for a year now, and it wasn’t something he noticed anymore.
They stared at him, the little boy holding the old woman’s hand like they still thought they were living and he was going on a shopping trip with grandma.
The stand off ended when the old lady hissed and her dentures fell from her gapping, rotted mouth. Her cheek split and her bottom jaw slid from its sockets to dangle below her face by loose, flapping skin.
She darted forward at Jerrold, as if it was his fault she was falling apart. Not seeming to realize that she was still holding the boys hand, she ripped his decaying arm off as she came for Jerrold, the only fresh meat she’d seen in months. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have any teeth, or that she could no longer bite, she attacked him anyway.
Not wanting to draw unneeded attention, Jerrold quickly side stepped the woman, and grabbed the long knife that was strapped to his thigh. As he spun, he brought the blade down into the back of the old woman’s head, penetrating her skull with a sickening squish. She was so rotten that she was literally falling apart.
Amazed at how easy it had been to kill her, for a moment Jerrold just stood there marveling at the corpse, and didn’t pay any attention to the boy.
Suddenly, a shriek sounded–it was high pitched and angry. Turning toward the sound, Jerrold saw the boy had climbed up onto an empty rack and was about to propel himself at the him.
Jumping back and losing his balance when he slipped in the black blood that had oozed out of the old woman, he landed hard on the marble tiled floor, the knife fell from his grasp and slid a few feet away. For a few moments he couldn’t move, the breath had been knocked out of his body, and he’d jarred his back.
In those precious moments, the boy took advantage of the situation. Hissing and clawing, he scrabbled across the floor on all fours. He was a wild beast and he smelled blood.
No sooner had Jerrold got his breath back, than he saw the small body pounce into the air above him. He frantically searched around himself for his knife. With the boy in the air, merely two feet from landing on him, Jerrold gripped something and brought it up at an angle in an attempt to knock the boy sideways. He succeeded, hitting him directly in the head.
The boy fell to the side with a whimper and didn’t get up. Jerrold looked over at the boy, slowly sitting up, forcing his back to stretch. He’d picked up a large plastic candy cane, and had, by a miracle, stabbed the boy in the temple with it, killing him.
Sadness gripped his heart. He was here to get things that his family needed to survive. He knew that the boy had been a zombie and there was nothing he could have done to save or help him, but he still felt bad about ending his existence.
It took Jerrold precious minutes to get his back to stretch enough to allow him to stand. After that, he hobbled his way out of the store. By the time he was half way home with the cart, his back was almost back to normal, with only a few spasms every now and again. Pushing forward and through the pain, he made it back and dropped off the cart, leaving it beside the bag he’d brought back earlier.
Now that he’d seen a couple of zombies, his guard was back up. Slipping off his glove, he wrapped his hand around the padlock, giving it a swift tug. Looking back over his shoulder when he heard a rustle in the rubble, he slid his hand back into his glove. Not seeing the blood he had smeared all over the padlock. Holding the rifle in front of him like a combat soldier creating a perimeter, Jerrold snuck over to where he’d heard the noise. A rat jumped up from a hole and scurried away. Startled by the sudden appearance of the rodent, he almost pulled the trigger.
With a deep sigh, Jerrold bent over and closed his eyes for a moment, still thinking about the boy he’d just killed. Mentally shaking off the thought, he reminded himself why he was out here, and left the building once again, this time going straight across the street, heading into a residential area, where he had the best chance of finding food and presents.
The first house he entered was small, and it looked like it had been the home of a young couple with a small children. Baby toys were strewn about the decaying, dirty carpet. They looked as if a small animal had decided to play with them. Having gotten brittle over time, the soft plastic and plush toys now sported holes and teeth marks.
Quickly doing a check to make sure there was nothing moving around upstairs–where he found a crib and a toddler bed in one of the rooms–he ventured back downstairs. Sitting under the Christmas tree were many presents. Jerrold knew his children would be too old for the toys, but he knew he could use the bright red wagon to haul food and gifts. Digging it out from beneath the packages, he was about to leave, but then thought he better check a couple of the woman’s presents to see if there would be anything Dawn would like.
Knelling down, he tore open a small, somewhat flat, rectangle box. The paper came off easily as the weather had broken it down. He discovered that it was a new cell phone. With an ironic smirk he tossed it aside–the once vital piece of technology no longer having a purpose. He dug through more of the pile and opened a few more packages, finding CDs, DVDs, and all kinds of other things that needed batteries or electricity to function. He was about to give up when he came across a small box far back under the tree. It held a dainty opal ring. He slid it into his coat pocket, knowing that Dawn would love it. Deciding to open one more thing and then check the kitchen, he found a collection of children’s books. They were too young for his children, but they hadn’t had much experience in reading and he knew that it they could use them to practice. He hoped he would find more age appropriate books at another house. It would be great for what little schooling and teaching they tried to provide.
A quick check of the kitchen cabinets yielded a couple of cans of soup and vegetables, bu not as much as he’d been hoping for. A door standing in the far wall of the kitchen was slightly ajar, and Jerrold decided to check it out, and was glad he did. It was a pantry, and all kinds of canned goods and dry goods where stored on the shelves.
Feeling like a kid at Christmas time, the thought of which made him laugh, he pulled the wagon close to the door and started to fill it.
He wasn’t paying much attention to what he was grabbing and when something warm and furry slithered against his hand, he screamed and dropped it. He looked down at a box of corn flakes that had a hole chewed through the side. The light tan flakes inside moved and wiggled. He knelt down and gently brushed the cereal aside to see a rat’s nest.
Standing, he kicked it off to the side and was more careful while loading the wagon. Once it was full to the point of over flowing, he set out for another house. Pulling the wagon with the hand that was injured caused it to bleed more profusely. Blood ran down the handle and dripped on the ground, but Jerrold didn’t notice, he was still on a high from finding so much food in one place. Now all he had to do was find a few more gifts and he could go home. He had plenty of time before the sunset.
The next house he entered smelled like muscle cream, even after the time it had sat vacant and open to the elements. He knew that an older couple had lived there, it was a smell that no other dwelling would have possessed. It reminded him of his own parents, and what it had been like to visit them. He didn’t look through the presents, but he did take the time to look through the medicine cabinet, taking anything that he thought might be useful.
Two houses later, he hit pay dirt. Quickly securing the house had shown him that a boy and a girl had lived here–there was a room for each. He took some of the decorations from each room for his children, so they could decorate their sleeping area. But he was mostly happy with the books he found on their shelves. After carrying them downstairs and putting them in the wagon, he knew he would have to find something to make sides for it. If he hit one bump on the way home he would lose everything.
With a little bit of thought and some quick innovation, he fashioned sides for the wagon out of shelves from a book case. He held them on and together with a roll of duct tape he’d found in a small tool box underneath the kitchen sink.
The family had purchased a live tree, which was now dry and bare of all needles. They lay on the floor of the room in a carpet of brown strands. Pushing them aside Jerrold dug through the presents and was disgusted when he had to throw more than half of the items aside. Electronics. They were so worthless now.
Finding a couple more books, he added them to the wagon, along with the other gifts he thought his children would enjoy. He left the house, focusing his attention on the wagon as he maneuvered it down the front steps. When he turned around to look forward, he noticed there were five zombies stumbling down the sidewalk toward him from the way he’d come.
Frowning, he wondered where they’d come from. Lifting his rifle, he shot the first zombies in the head. The bullet pulverized its rotting brain and still had enough power to hit the third one back in the neck, taking out enough tissues for its head to fall off–both fell to the ground at once.
The second, fourth, and fifth in the stumbling line up kept coming, ignoring their downed comrades lying in their path.
Jerrold clenched his jaw, hating to fire once, but hating even more to fire again, knowing now that there were still zombies around and they would come searching for the source of the sound. He wouldn’t be able to search for anything else, he would have to hurry home after this or risk serious danger.
Jerking the lever action of the rifle, releasing the spent casing and chambering another bullet, he took aim again. Hoping to do intentionally what he’d done by accident with the last shot, but it wasn’t to be.
After three more shots and a stab with his hunting knife, the zombies were all down. Hurriedly, he jogged in a round about way back to his home. It took him a half an hour, with all the curbs and debris he had to navigate through.
The sun was beginning to set now, as the apartment building came into view. He breathed a sigh of relief and increased his pace even though he was exhausted. The thought of seeing his wife, of holding her and the kids, gave him the strength he needed to make it back.
Fatigue made him lazy, and he didn’t even take the time to peer into the lobby before rushing in with the wagon clattering noisily behind him.
Twenty zombies were gathered around the door that lead to the basement, pushing and clawing at each other, fighting over who got to lick the lock. They turned, as shocked to see him as he was to see them.
Jerrold stood frozen in shock until the zombies started to cock their heads and sniff the air, inching closer and closer to him.
Raising his gun once again, he blasted as many as he could. Some of the zombies went down as legs were severed in a splash of thick, black blood.
Jumping over the reception desk, Jerrold took cover and reloaded the gun, when he stood, hands that had been stripped of flesh reached for him. Stepping back, he let bullets fly. The rotted corpses were so far gone that the bullets had almost nothing to stop them. They went through two or three zombies before losing momentum.
He caught glimpses of eyeballs dangling from sockets and grotesque figures with missing or damaged limbs. Face after face of hungry horror eager for him to fill their bellies or join their ranks.
After a couple more reloads and attacks, he killed fifteen of them, and the other five were wounded to the point where they were no longer a serious threat. Jumping back over the counter, he thanked God they hadn’t been smart enough to find the little swinging door, or the latch that held it shut, otherwise they would have gotten back there with him and he would have been trapped.
He finished off the last five with his knife, retrieved his bag from the wagon, and attempted to unlock the padlock. His gloves made him clumsy and he dropped the key. Biting one of the fingers of his glove, he yanked it off. Crying out in pain, his teeth parted and the blood soaked glove fell to the ground.
“That’s how they found me,” he whispered to himself. “I was leaving a trail.”
Knowing now that it was just a matter of time before more zombies showed up, following his trail of blood, he quickly picked up the key and unlocked the door. He threw his bag of clothes down the stairs, and then moved to the cart. Armload after armload of clothes followed the bag.
Heaving the cart out of the way, rushing to the wagon, and dragging his feet in a shuffle so he wouldn’t fall in all the blood and guts, he retrieved the wagon.
As he made it to the door, more zombies came falling through the entry way in search of the fresh meat they’d been trailing.
Rushing and panicking, Jerrold pulled the wagon down the stairs after himself. Scrambling, he struggled to reach around the wagon and close the door. He slipped and the wagon, with all its weight, shoved him down the stairs. He tumbled down the stairs, landing hard at the bottom, his head hitting the pavement just beyond the pile of clothes.
Dazed and fighting for consciousness he was only vaguely aware of what was actually going on. His eyes focused on the door to safety, to sanctuary, it was his only chance. Forcing himself to crawl, he made his way to the door to the boiler room where his family was safe from the danger that hunted him.
Knocking on the door, just like he had told Dawn he would, he was relieved to hear the metal bars being quickly removed. He sighed with relief and closing his eyes, he let his forehead rest on the cool cement floor, too confused to understand that there were now six zombies stumbling down the stairs after him.
Dawn opened the door and he looked up into her sweet face, smiling, but frowning quickly at the look of fear he saw there–her eyes were focused on something behind him. Half rolling onto his side he saw what she was looking at–a huge brute of a zombie stood over him.
The zombie growled, with what would have once been a grin on his decaying face. He lunged forward and overpowered Dawn in an instant.
Jerrold cried out weakly, holding his hand up as if pleading with reality, asking it not to be real. He cried out again, this time from physical pain as two of the other zombies bit into his legs, tearing flesh from bone.
As he bleed out, Jerrold stared into the eyes of his dead wife who lay on the floor in front of him. When death was about to overtake him and his eyes drifted closed, he heard the chorus of screams as his children were eaten alive.
Copyrights owned by Rebecca Besser, 2010-2012. All rights reserved.
December 20, 2012
New Release - Death in the Times of Madness by Michael S. Gardner
Click on the cover to visit title on Amazon.
Death in the Time of Madness by Michael S. Gardner
Death comes in numerous forms...
Enter worlds in which the dead
walk, the devil makes deals, time travel is more than a theory, and the
innocent meet horrific and untimely ends.
Enter the madness...
The short story collection is available now for $.99! Grab a copy and experience Michael's versions of horror!
Michael S. Gardner: He's the editor/compiler of Zombies Gone Wild! and has many short story publications under his belt. You can find him on Facebook! Or visit his blog.
December 12, 2012
Blog Hop - The Next Big Thing
Basically, I'm going to talk about my book/s and projects and link you to other people doing the same thing. In this crazy mess of linkage, you should "discover" some writers you haven't heard of before and find out what they have going on. Hell, you might be one of those people linked to me from someone else's blog.
In that case: Hi! I'm Rebecca Besser, and I'm crazy and write horror! *waves energetically*
Here's my answers to the questions related to this crazy blog linkage thing:
What
is the working title of your next book?
I just released Nurse Blood on Kindle!
Where
did the idea for the book come from?
Nurse Blood was inspired by Justin T. Coons' art! He redid the cover for the ebook release, basing it more on the story I wrote, and it looks awesome!
Blood Trail will be the sequel to Nurse Blood (which was just released on Dec. 5th).
Whatgenre does your book fall under?
Horror. NB/BT = Serial Killer Thriller.
Which
actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie
rendition?
My hubby thinks Sonya should be played by Cameron Diaz or Angelina Jolie. I think they would both play the role well - they could both pull off sexy, sadistic bitch if they wanted. As far as the others, I haven't really given it much thought.
What
is the one-sentence synopsis of the book?
An evil, crazy bitch seduces men so she - and her friends - can chop them up and sell them for parts.
Will
your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
Nurse Blood is the first release through the press I'm starting. I'm hoping it will fund the start up. It was originally an online serial novel - I posted a chapter a week.
How
long did it take you to write the first draft of your masterpiece?
A few months for the actually writing (3-5), but then I started a part time job and that slowed down the re-editing and conversion into book form. Altogether, about a year.
What
other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
WOW! That's a hard one. I haven't seen any female driven serial killer/organ harvesting books out there. If you find one, please let me know so I can check it out!
Who
or what inspired you to write this book?
Like I said above, my inspiration came from art by Justin T. Coons!
What
else about your book might pique the reader's interest?
The book consists of a story based on the inner workings of a serial killer group who kills people to profit from their parts/organs. There's comedy, conflict, torture, killing, betrayal, tension, and sex. This is a story that has to be read and experienced to understand. You may think you know what you're getting into, but I promise, it will be different than anything you expected.
Those who've tagged me (Check out their postings - I'll attach the links to their names when I have them!):
Nicky Peacock: I'm a published author of both adult and YA paranormal romance and
horror. I've had over 30 stories included in anthologies with over 17
publishers. Currently polishing my first novel that will be coming out
next year.
I also run a local writers' group Creative Minds Writing which meets in Corby every second Thursday.
Dale Eldon: I'm Dale Eldon, and I'm a published author. I am equal parts boring,
and exciting. It really depends on how much caffeine I've had, and how
many words I knocked out in a day, or if I got accepted on a submission.
I already have four stories published, and more to come. I also have a
novella coming out next year. If you want to know more about me, stay
tuned, and if you want to keep up with what I publish, check out the
links below in the contact information. The first one is my Amazon author
profile. As my works get published I will add them to the list, so it
will be easy for you to find what you like. Also, for the best way to
keep up with my updates, "LIKE" my Dale Eldon's Horror Page. There I
post all of my blog posts, other works I like, and all related info to
my stories.
Daniel I. Russell: Writer of Samhane (Stygian Publications), The Collector, Critique (Dark
Continents Publications), Shutterbug (formerly Wild Child Press), Come
Into Darkness (Skullvines Press), Mother's Boys (Blood Bound Books), The
Forgotten and Entertaining Demons. Published in Germany, Austria and
Switzerland with Voodoo Press.
Short stories in such
publications as Andromeda Spaceways Inflight magazine, Pseudopod, Dead
West, Sick Things, Tabloid Terrors 3, Midnight Echo 3, Malpractice,
Tales From the Asylum, Night to Dawn, Afterburn SF, etc.
Poetry in Fear and Trembling magazine, These Apparitions: Haunted Reflections of Ezra Pound and Briefly Bizarre.
John McCuaig: I'm a huge zombie and horror fan. I have
short stories published in around twenty anthologies and four novels,
one a collab with Sean Page, out there at this time. I live in London
with my far better half Pamela and our two very mad dalmation dogs.
If you wish to contact me my e-mail is jmccuaig@googlemail.com
Please also have a look at my new website-
www.johnmccuaig.com
style="text-align: left; line-height: 19px;">Chantal Noordeloos:
This concludes our blog hopping session. Thank you for bearing with us! LOL
December 6, 2012
Now Available- Nurse Blood
Now available on Kindle!
Nurse Blood by Rebecca Besser
Sonya Garret is a nurse at the local hospital, but she has a side job
trafficking in human ‘parts’ – what she makes in blood pays more than
any salary. Hearts and livers, bone marrow and brains; they all sell
great on the black market.
Drunk men at bars, prowling for any willing woman, are easy pickings when she goes looking for victims to chop up and sell.
One lucky night she picks up a man with a rare blood type, and after
her team cashes in on him, they decide to go for the big money and
‘harvest’ his entire family.
Will the F.B.I. – who is hot on the trail of Sonya and her team as
they cross the U.S., leaving a trail in blood and death – be able to
catch up with them in time to stop the ongoing slaughter? Or will Nurse Blood get her money…again?
~ * ~
"There is no pretentiousness with Rebecca Besser's writing; she's got a story to tell and doesn't mess around. Nurse Blood is
a hard-driving, dark, and demented book that'll make you squirm. It
made me think back to all the fun I had reading Richard Laymon novels
for the first time--it's got that spirit, but Besser is her own writer."
--Brady Allen, Author of Back Roads & Frontal Lobes
~ * ~“Sonya is cold, hard, calculating, and a killer. The team have a
job to do, and they’ll do what they have to, to get it done. Rebecca
Besser’s‘Nurse Blood’ is a dark exploration of twisted morals, greed and
brutal violence that encapsulates society’s fears and gives us a new
kind of bogeyman to be afraid of.”
~Mark Taylor, Author of The Human Condition
~ * ~
"Rebecca Besser cuts a bloody swath in her macabre story, Nurse
Blood, a grisly tale filled with blood, lust, deceit, and death!"
~Kim
Curley, Author of the novella, Faith
~ * ~
Mark Taylor and Kim Curley went above and beyond a simple blurb for the book;
they both interviewed me on their blog and reviewed Nurse Blood!
Check out the interview/reviews here:
Mark Taylor's Filing Words
Copyrights owned by Rebecca Besser, Brady Allen, Justin T. Coons (art), Mark Taylor, and Kim Curley, 2012. All rights reserved.
December 3, 2012
Earth's End - Book of the Year 2012 Award
Earth's End (a scifi apocalyptic anthology I edited and have a story in) is up for the Book of the Year 2012 Award from Turning Pages Books! Please stop by and give the book your vote!
Voting Link: http://turningthepagesnews.webs.com/bookoftheyear2012.htm
If you haven't read the book and would like a sneak peek at what's inside (to know if the book is worthy of your time and effort), please visit a note I posted on Facebook with a short excerpt from each story contained within. (You might not be able to see it if you aren't a Facebook user and/or haven't 'liked' my author page!)
Excerpt Note Link: http://www.facebook.com/notes/authoreditor-rebecca-besser/earths-end-a-scifi-apocalyptic-anthology/382630305136750
Thank you for your time and consideration.
November 22, 2012
A Celebration of Thanks, Dedicated to Todd Card
Me with my signed, first edition, copy of Hell Cometh!
Do you know Todd Card? If you don't, you don't know what you're missing! He's a great guy with a real zest and passion for writing. I first met him on Facebook and eventually interviewed him on my blog, only to find out what a truly amazing person he is.
Despite all the hardships of his life, his spirit has survived. Now, he's facing the sadness of his body turning against him as it shuts down. He no longer has feeling in his hands and he struggles to type. Yet, he pushes forward to get his next novel out to the world.
He has dreams of reaching the world with his words and he doesn't know how much longer he'll have the opportunity to do so; it might be years, but who knows. That's why, this Thanksgiving, I want to give thanks for having Todd Card as a friend.
I've set up an event on Facebook and invited others to share Todd Card and his book with the world. We're doing a promo EXPLOSION for Hell Cometh to help Todd with his dream of reaching a larger audience. He's touched so many in a positive way and we all want him to know that we appreciate all he's done and accomplished despite the obstacles thrown in his way by an unjust life.
If you'd like to join in the event (taking place from Nov. 22-25) visit it on Facebook!
To learn more about Todd's book, Hell Cometh, visit the book's website!
If you would like to learn more about Todd Card, read the interview I did with him! You'll be inspired!
Copyrights owned by Rebecca Besser and Todd Card, 2012. All rights reserved.
November 19, 2012
Interview with Author Jeremy C. Shipp
Author Jeremy C. Shipp
Jeremy C. Shipp is the Bram Stoker Award-nominated author of Cursed, Vacation, and Sheep and Wolves. His shorter tales have appeared or are forthcoming in over 60 publications, the likes of Cemetery Dance, ChiZine, Apex Magazine, Withersin, and Shroud Magazine. Jeremy enjoys living in Southern California in a moderately haunted Victorian farmhouse called Rose Cottage. He lives there with a couple of pygmy tigers and a legion of yard gnomes. The gnomes like him. The clowns living in his attic–not so much. His twitter handle is @JeremyCShipp.
http://www.jeremycshipp.com
Bec: Welcome to my blog, please start out by sharing a little bit about yourself –
Jer: Thank you for having me! I’m a writer, a geek, a yard gnome whisperer, and an attic clown wrangler. I live in a moderately-haunted Victorian farmhouse. I enjoy short walks on the beach and candle-lit dinners in spooky caves.
Bec: What first got you interested in writing?
Jer: My dad would read to me and my brothers all the time when we were kids. That’s when I fell in love with books. And then in 4th grade I wrote my first short story. That’s when I fell in love with writing.
Bec: What are the worst struggles you think writers face, writing and marketing?
Jer: I enjoy all my struggles, so I’d have a hard time saying what’s worst. I suppose the most difficult thing is that accomplishing your dreams requires a lot of hard work and a lot of luck. The hard work isn’t so bad, but can be difficult to create luck.
Bec: Tell us about your book/s –
Jer: My books are weird, surreal, dark and funny. My newest books are called Attic Clowns and Attic Toys, because, in my mind, the world needs more books about attics.
Bec: Are you working on a sequel/s?
Jer: I would love to write a sequel to Cursed, because those characters are so fun to be around, but so far I haven’t thought of an idea that would work. I would want the sequel to be better than the original. Otherwise I won’t write it. I’m also considering writing a comic book series about Globcow from Attic Clowns. He’s my favorite little monster.
Bec: What other projects are you working on or involved with?
Jer: I’m working on a new short story collection about monsters, a comic book, a new anthology that I’m editing. I might even create a web series in the near future. More details will be available on all these projects at jeremycshipp.com.
Bec: What's your favorite color?
Jer: I love the color of a chupacabra’s spleen.
Bec: Do you like to listen to music while you write or have complete silence?
Jer: Every once in a while, I’ll listen to some Cranberries, but most of the time I prefer silence. And by silence I mean the meowing of cats mixed with the chortling of attic clowns and the yodeling of yard gnomes.
Bec: What's your favorite writing snack?
Jer: More often than not, I forget to eat or drink while I’m writing. In general though, I like potato chips and fried Smurf brains.
Bec: What genres do you most like to read/write?
Jer: I like fantasy, classic literature, horror. I try to read a little bit of everything. When I’m writing, I don’t think about genre. But my books and stories usually end up getting classified as some combination of horror/fantasy/sci-fi/literature/bizarro.
Bec: Sticky or slimy?
Jer: Slimy. I love the feel of ectoplasm squishing between my fingers. And there’s nothing slimier than ectoplasm.
Bec: Do you find writing a lonely profession?
Jer: I don’t think writers feel lonely while we’re writing, since we’re too busy playing with our imaginary friends to notice that we’re taking part in a solitary activity. But of course, it’s important to socialize with real people as well.
Bec: If you could design your own army of killer Smurfs, what would it be like?
Jer: I would create a horde of zombie Smurfs that would use little pick axes to break into my enemies’ skulls. Then the Smurfs would eat their way inside. I’d also make tiny suits of armor for my zombies, so they would be pretty much unstoppable.
Bec: Country or city?
Jer: I would prefer to live in the country, not far from a big city that I could visit from time to time. I want to make my own cheese, but I also want to visit museums when the mood strikes me.
Bec: What would you share with a beginning writer?
Jer: Write, write, and write some more. Try to write every day, even if you only write a paragraph or a sentence. Don’t let anyone’s negativity discourage you, including your own.
Bec: If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
Jer: I would want to change my arms into dragons, so that I could have dragon arms.
Bec: There is a city of trolls living in your sink drain. Once you've made contact with them, how do you convince them that you're a friend and not an enemy?
Jer: I would dump mead and grog into the drain until the trolls were drunk. And as we all know, a drunken troll will believe anything.
Bec: What do you wish someone would have told you when you first started your writing journey?
Jer: Everything’s gonna be alright, buddy. Just chill out and enjoy the ride. Oh, and here are some peanut butter chip cookies I made for you. I know they’re your favorite.
Bec: Date night: Going out to eat and drinking? Or meal at home and having your woman all to yourself?
Jer: I like to switch things up. Out to eat one night. Meal at home the next night. Then, another night, we’ll eat inside a cave and paint antelope on the walls.
Bec: Do you think having other writers as friends is a good thing for your growth as a writer?
Jer: More experienced writers can definitely teach new writers a lot about how to survive and succeed. And, of course, if you have a writer friend you respect who gives you feedback about your work, this can help you grow.
Bec: What's your favorite book? Why?
Jer: One of my favorites is The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. I love the creative use of language in the book. Every sentence feels like magic.
Bec: Zombie hookers or zombie clowns?
Jer: Zombie clowns, because they might eat some of the clowns in my attic. And there are WAY too many clowns in my attic. Five million is too many in my book, anyway.
Bec: Who's your favorite author? Why?
Jer: Kurt Vonnegut is one of my favorites. He wrote so many brilliant books. He was able to express complex ideas and emotions in simple and graspable ways.
Bec: Is there anything you would like to share that I haven't asked you about?
Jer: I’d like to share my opinion about juggling babies. Personally, I believe that juggling babies is almost always wrong.
Bec: Thank you for stopping by and sharing! Best of luck with your books and future projects!
Jer: Thank you kindly! May the yard gnome and attic clown gods smile upon you.
Copyrights owned by Rebecca Besser and Jeremy C. Shipp, 2012. All rights reserved.
