Dean P. Turnbloom's Blog, page 2
June 18, 2015
Story Structure video
Here is a very informative video on story structure and plot points I found. Even though it concerns screenplays, the concepts are applicable to novels as well.
More can be found at http://www.scriptlab.com/
Tagged: Author, books, fiction, novel, publishers, publishing, writing
Here is a very informative video on story structure and p...
Here is a very informative video on story structure and plot points I found. Even though it concerns screenplays, the concepts are applicable to novels as well.
More can be found at http://www.scriptlab.com/
Tagged: Author, books, fiction, novel, publishers, publishing, writing
June 13, 2015
Book Review
I’ve just submitted my latest novel, SHERLOCK HOLMES and the RETURN of the WHITECHAPEL VAMPIRE, for a review from Publisher’s Weekly. I hope they like it.
If anyone knows of other review venues, please leave a comment.
May 12, 2015
Brand new book cover…
Here is a look at the cover for my new novel, SHERLOCK HOLMES and the RETURN of the WHITECHAPEL VAMPIRE, to be published by MX Publishing October 26, 2015.
and this is the full cover…
This is the third and final work in the Whitechapel Vampire trilogy, and this one has more twists and turns than the first two.
Tagged: books, fiction, mystery, novel, publishing, Sherlock_Holmes, Vampire
January 26, 2015
The Conan Doyle Notes is shortlisted for Best Suspense novel in the LOVEY Awards
Here is certainly something to emulate…
Originally posted on Mxpublishing's Blog:
The Conan Doyle Notes is shortlisted for Best Suspense novel in the LOVEY Awards
BEST SUSPENSE
Black Stiletto: Secrets and Lies / Raymond Benson
Once Upon a Crime / Evelyn Cullet
The Conan Doyle Notes / Diane Gilbert Madsen
Titania���s Suitor / C.L. Shore
The House on the Dunes / Nancy Sweetland
Murder Across the Ocean / Charlene Wexler
Winners will be announced at the Love Is Murder Conference in Chicago on February 7th.
The Conan Doyle Notes: The Secret of Jack the Ripper paperback edition is available from all good bookstores including���� Amazon USA, Amazon UK, Waterstones UK, and for free shipping worldwide Book Depository . In ebook format it is in Amazon Kindle,�� Kobo, Nook��and Apple iBooks (iPad/iPhone).
Short Story to be published in Grievous Angel Webzine…
I’ve just learned that a piece of Flash Fiction of mine has been accepted for publication in GRIEVOUS ANGEL WEBZINE . The name of the piece is The Prize and though it will be a couple months before it surfaces, I thought I’d announce it now.
Tagged: fiction, horror, publishing, short story, short_stories, short_story, webzine
January 13, 2015
“SHERLOCK HOLMES and the RETURN of the WHITECHAPEL VAMPIRE”
This story takes place some twenty-five years after ���SHERLOCK HOLMES and the BODY SNATCHERS���, which is the second volume in the trilogy. Holmes has long since retired to his bees in Sussex and Watson is in semi-retirement, as he was when he penned ���BODY SNATCHERS���. He is well along on his recovery from the depression he���d suffered upon the death of the third Mrs. Watson, so well along that he���s keeping company with another woman���a prospective fourth Mrs. Watson?
The story opens with Watson lamenting the fact that by having made Holmes relive the events chronicled in ���BODY SNATCHERS��� he may have opened wounds better left undisturbed. He���s just received a letter in which Holmes alludes to Baron Antonio Barlucci, whom he and Watson knew as the Whitechapel Vampire and who was known to the press of London and the world as ���Jack the Ripper���. The letter was followed closely by none other than Holmes himself. In short order the two of them are once again off to America.
But is this adventure a continuation of the old one to tie up loose ends, or is it, as Watson believes, an errant exploit that is a manifestation of a dangerous obsession about Barlucci���one that won���t allow Holmes to believe Barlucci is dead.
I should caution the readers that the ravages of age may be telling on Holmes��� reason as this tale unfolds and Holmes himself must come to grips with not only his own mortality, but also the consequences of allowing imagination and valor to trump reason���consequences that land him in an asylum for the criminally insane.
January 2, 2015
Looking for suggestions on direction
To Matthew, Elise Newcombe was more beautiful dead than alive, but so were they all. He took pictures of each one and carefully catalogued them in a scrapbook. Not caring if some might think it was morbid to do so, but careful that it not be discovered, Matthew would only bring out the scrapbook when he knew his mother was asleep.
Always a loner, Matthew took the job at the mortuary because he didn’t have to deal with people, live ones anyway.
Tagged: fiction, fragment, horror, mortuary, short story
December 29, 2014
This one is just for fun…
Here is a little story that I wrote just for fun. Let me know if anyone likes it!
It reads:
It wasn’t until I tried to start my car that I really began to think something strange was going on. I had awakened just after dawn. The first thing I noticed was silence where the incessant chatter of the early morning news on my clock radio should be. I raised myself up on my elbow and saw the radio was dark. The power’s gone off, I thought, so I dragged myself out of bed and reached for my cell phone on the bureau to find out what time it was. Oh great, was my next thought, I forgot to recharge it and now it’s dead. I forced myself into the shower. Thank God for propane water heaters.
After I dressed in the semi-darkness of my bedroom, I walked into the living room. It was kind of eerie without the TV, radio or even tunes on my iphone to listen to. The silence was getting to me so I decided to go to the neighborhood Starbucks, hoping their power was still on. That’s when my car wouldn’t start. “What the…” I said to the steering wheel as I sat with my mouth hanging open. I looked up the street and two houses down I saw Russell Lawrence, that insufferable bastard, with his head under the hood of his new BMW.
“What’s wrong, Russ?” I asked as I walked up behind him.
“What?” he said as he pulled his head from under the hood. “Oh, I don’t know…won’t start, won’t even turn over.”
“Mine either,” I said with uncharacteristic empathy.
“Really? Well, you drive a Ford, gotta expect that kind of thing, but this is a BMW.”
End of empathy. “Yeah, and you have the same problem. Go figure.”
“I’d call the dealer, but my phone is out, and my cell’s not working. I can’t seem to get a signal.”
“Mine’s no good either. I forgot to charge it, it won’t even turn on it’s so dead.”
It was at that moment Tommy Wilcox came riding his bicycle down the street. “Have you seen it?” he shouted as he came to a screeching halt beside Russ’s Beemer, causing Russ to practically throw his body between the Beemer and the bike.
“Seen what, Tommy?” I asked.
“The moat,” he said.
“What?” Russ and I said in unison.
“The moat, at the edge of town. I’m on my way to the other end of town to see if it goes all the way around.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We think it might be why all the electricity in town is off,” Tommy continued.
“Who thinks that?” I asked.
“My dad, Mr. Williams, everybody, I think. I told them I’d ride to the other end of town and check it out.” With that, he climbed back onto the pedals and veered off down the street.
“What do you make of that?” asked Russ.
“I don’t know, but this is getting stranger by the minute,” I said and headed back to my house.
“Where you going?” called Russ.
“To get my bike…I’m going to have a look at this moat.”
***
It was the damned-est thing I’d ever seen. It looked like a rushing river, but it was situated where no river had ever been before that morning. A sizable crowd had gathered by the time I arrived, all of them staring at the water as it rushed by.
“Here it comes again,” someone called and as I watched, a fifty gallon drum went floating by, bobbing in the swift current.
“What’s that?” I asked Tommy’s dad, Roger.
“Hey, Jake, ever see the like?”
“No, I never have. What’s with the drum?”
“Steve threw it in about half-an-hour ago. This is the third time it’s floated by. It floats off that way, then comes floating back by from that way,” he said as he motioned the direction the metal messenger was taking, letting everyone know that whatever the cause, the ‘moat’ made a full circuit around the town.
“What the hell?”
“Yeah, that’s what we all said.”
***
By noon the entire town of Grassplains knew about the moat, despite the fact there were no phones and no electricity. There was any number of theories as to how it came to be, most, though not all, linked the moat to the electrical blackout. They ranged from aliens to government conspiracies, some even combined the two. The one thing that was agreed upon was that somehow someone needed to get over the moat to find out just what the hell was going on.
It was generally agreed that the current was too swift to try swimming across and a bridge was out of the question. Dolph Sweeney volunteered his bass boat, but was in no hurry to volunteer himself, so I reluctantly did the honors.
I climbed into the boat while Dolph backed the trailer to the edge of the water. There wasn’t a spot to conveniently back the trailer into the water, like a boat launch, so a group of fifteen to twenty of the town’s biggest men got on both sides of the boat to lift it off the trailer and slide it into the water. I couldn’t help wondering if they were some macabre group of pall bearers, sending me off to oblivion. I had in mind to get the engine going and buck the current, but as they were setting the boat in the water, the current grabbed it and pulled Willie Jenkins into the moat. He drifted quickly down river, so I engaged the engine and shot down the moat in pursuit. I lost sight of him as we were floating by Miller’s dry goods on the south end of town and by the time I’d made the first circuit it was obvious Willie was a goner.
Out of respect, I made two more circuits trying to find a hint of his body in the current, but by the fourth time round the crowd was urging me to get on to the other side before I ran out of gasoline. It appears Dolph hadn’t filled the tank since his last fishing trip and didn’t know how much was in the tank.
I got to the center of the moat easily enough, but there seemed to be something holding me there, as if going to the far side was like trying to go uphill. I would make a little progress, then slide back to the middle. After several attempts, I decided to change directions, remembering my original intent to go against the current. Although initially my maneuver met with the jeers of the town, when I began showing progress, they changed their tunes. It was as if the current, as I pushed against it, forced the small boat further and further from the middle toward the far side. Once I got near the edge of the moat, I didn’t know what to do next. Then I saw a rope hanging out over the water from a branch of an old oak tree whose root base was partially uncovered and cut through by whatever dug the moat. I angled as close as I could, but it seemed to be just out of reach. I wasn’t sure I could jump from the boat to the rope without ending up in the moat myself. The memory of Willie was still fresh in my mind.
I passed by twice, close enough almost to touch it when the engine of the bass boat began to sputter. I knew I’d only have one last chance if that, then I’d be adrift as the boat ran out of gas. I timed my jump perfectly and as the boat fell away under my feet, my hands grasped tightly onto the rope. With some effort I got it swinging and was able to jump down near the base of the tree. As I rested there under the tree, I saw the boat float by again. Somehow it had turned over and the contents of the boat, including empty beer bottles and fishing tackle began to litter the edge of the moat.
I believed I must have been on the eastern side of town as the last thing I remembered seeing by way of a landmark was Miller’s dry goods store and figured I’d drifted long enough to get around another quarter circuit from there. That meant if I headed down the nearest road, it should take me to either Chesterton or Newbury, depending on which road it actually was. I couldn’t tell and the road sign must have been somewhere in the middle of the moat’s path.
I walked for what must have been two hours without seeing anything I recognized. It was as if all the trees, houses, and any other identifiable structures had been scraped off the earth. I was about to turn back, thinking I might have better luck going north of town, when I saw it. I don’t quite know how to explain it, but it appeared to be a wall made of milky-white glass. I couldn’t see through it, nor could I see the top of it. By this time I was tired, hungry and frustrated. I sat there at the base of that wall and cried. Just what in the name of God was going on?
After resting I began heading back to the moat. It had been hours since I’d had anything to eat or drink and I was beginning to wonder what I was going to do. As I approached the tree I saw a basket of fruit bobbing at the edge of the moat, caught on a root of the tree. I figured it must have been in Dolph’s boat and luckily came to rest right where I needed it. I looked around to find what else might be lying about and was able to fish a few beer bottles out of the moat too. They were nearly empty, but I figured I could use them, perhaps, to get word back to you on what I’ve discovered, which isn’t much. I’ve written this note (in a bottle) so that if you get it, you know I didn’t run out on you. I’m too tired just now to start out again, but as soon as I’ve rested, I will head north this time. I will report back in this same way if I can’t find a way to rescue or otherwise communicate with all of you.
Wish me luck,
David Post
Now aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Kurlok? Your father and I would never have allowed you to keep them if we’d known you would tease them so. I’m afraid they will have to go back on your father’s next trip to that side of the galaxy.
Tagged: fiction, Sci-fi, short, short_stories, space, story, twilight_zone
December 23, 2014
Another short story (or part of one)…
The Pageant
The snow crunched beneath his feet as the old man walked from his garage to his front door. Winters had always been hard, but they seemed a bit colder and a bit grayer since Evelyn had passed. They’d been married 42 years when she discovered a lump in her breast. By then, it was too late – within six months she was gone.
Their last Christmas together had been incredibly tough. She was in her last stages and though they’d tried everything the doctors could suggest, nothing helped. In fact, it seemed to Paul it may have hastened her death. That’s why near the end he’d refused the latest round of treatments, even when their son tried to convince otherwise. They had a bitter argument, resulting in a split between father and son, a split so deep that they were unable to give one another any solace when Evelyn passed. The last time they saw each other was at the funeral.
Paul thought about that. It was all very well for Steve, he had his own family to comfort him, a wife and a beautiful little girl, who would be about five now. It had been nearly two years since he’d seen his granddaughter. She’d been the apple of Grandpa’s eye – of Grandma’s too. How they had spoiled the little princess. Now Paul had no one to give him comfort.
He had stopped going to church when Evelyn could no longer go with him, and he just never went back. So now he lived all alone in his little house on Hamilton Drive. The only distraction from his meager existence was when he’d go to the nearby park and watch the children play. He would sit on the bench and watch as the children ran back and forth while their mothers would tend their smaller siblings or just sit and read. How he yearned to take his granddaughter Sally to that park, or to the zoo, but the chasm that had opened between him and his son, he knew, was too wide to cross.
So Paul resigned himself to join Evelyn. He knew that suicide was supposed to be wrong, but wasn’t it wrong for him to be all alone without his Evelyn? Surely God would forgive him for wanting to be with her. After all, that same God had taken her from him. He simply could not take the loneliness any longer. So he had made up his mind.
It had taken him around six weeks to get the gun. He’d put the mandatory wait time to good use setting up a trust fund for his granddaughter and putting his other affairs in order. Once he’d made up his mind, a great calmness came over him. He knew the gun would be a bit messy, but he wanted a quick and relatively painless end, something that would be over in a flash. Besides, he’d taken steps to minimize the mess. He would do it in bed with extra pillows behind his head and a plastic drop cloth, like one would use for painting, beneath the sheets.
That night, as Paul was cleaning his new pistol, the doorbell rang. He could have ignored it, but habits were stubborn things and Paul was the kind of person who always answered the door and the phone. When he opened the door, a small child was standing there with a big, bright smile and a mass of curly hair. Then Paul noticed something that tugged at his heart just a bit. The poor little boy was missing his left hand.
“Excuse me sir, but we’d like to invite you to the Christmas pageant at St. Luke’s church over on Hill Street,” then added with a big smile, “I’m the baby Jesus!” The boy handed Paul a program for the pageant, “It’s tomorrow night.”
Paul looked down at him and smiled, “Thank you, young man, but I don’t think I’ll be around tomorrow night. Aren’t you a little young to be going door to door?”
“It’s okay, my father is with me.”
“Well, you’d best run along and find him, now.”
The boy began walking away, then stopped. He turned saying, “She doesn’t want you to do it, you know.”
Paul’s heart jumped to his throat. “What….who?”
“Evelyn,” the boy said, then he was gone, running down the street and out of sight.
Paul stood on his front porch for a long minute. His first thought was that he was losing his senses. But by the time he started back into the house, he’d decided that he’d just misunderstood the boy, that was all. He wasn’t sure what he said, but he was sure it could not have been what he’d thought he’d heard. As he put the pageant program down on the kitchen table beside his gun, his eye caught the name of his granddaughter. She was listed as being Mary in the pageant. A tear formed in his eye. Perhaps he could postpone his departure. He could go to the church pageant and at least see his granddaughter one last time and, although he only begrudgingly admitted to himself, to see his son and his daughter-in-law too.
That night Paul went to sleep resigned that he would end his life tomorrow night, after seeing his family one last time. There was no hurry, it would keep another day. It didn’t mean he was losing his nerve. In fact, he was more resigned to do it now than ever. Seeing them all one last time would kind of tie up the loose ends. Yes, he would do it tomorrow night.
The next evening Paul arrived at the church hall just late enough to slip in unnoticed. He stood in the back as the tiny Christmas pageant performers recited their lines. As his granddaughter bent down to lay the doll representing the baby Jesus in the manger, she looked up and saw her grandpa. Her face brightened and she smiled and waved. Her father, sitting up front with the video camera, turned and saw his father. Their eyes locked and for a second Paul considered walking out, but before he could, he saw Steve walking toward him, tears staining his cheeks.
As he reached Paul he said, “Dad, I’m so sorry,” and reached out to hug him. Paul was overcome and the two men stood there in the back of the church hall hugging each other tightly.
“I’m sorry too, son,” and arm in arm they walked back to the fron row and enjoyed the rest of the pageant.
After the pageant was over, Paul carried his little granddaughter out of the church hall to his son’s car. As they passed the life-sized manger scene at the front of the church, Cindy pointed saying, “Look, Grandpa, there’s the baby Jesus, like in the pageant,” but Paul couldn’t see anything but his granddaughter’s smile.
“Looks like they are going to need a new one for next year,” Steve commented.
“What do you mean, son?”
“Look at his hand, Dad.”
Paul looked at the baby Jesus, with the brown curly hair, big bright smile and, gulping Paul stopped cold. The baby Jesus’ left hand was missing.
Tagged: Christmas, fiction, short story, writing
