Nicholas Denmon's Blog, page 15
May 16, 2011
Do You Believe in Ghosts- The Things That Follow: Part IV
Old houses can be lonely. Imagine a house built hundreds of years ago in a place best known for its corn fields. Eden, New York was a place that boasted a neighborhood of homes built in the seventeen hundreds. Many of the homes were purchased by the Historical Preservation Society, and across the street from my mother's home is a legitimate one-room school house painted fire engine red. It rests on a cliff of evergreens and oaks that wrap around the creek bed and under a one lane bridge. The creek winds its way along the cliff face and under a small waterfall not more than a hundred yards from a cemetery rediscovered by my brothers and me when were young.
Ever since that day, things have been happening.
Imagine a house, full of laughter in the summers and every other Christmas. During these times, the house is filled with love and joy, and the things that follow seem to be a distant memory. But what happens when the kids leave, and it's just you in the house? Every floor board that settles, every light that begins to flicker, every scream in the night, is amplified while your husband works the 4am factory shift at Chevy.
So it was for my mother.
She lay in bed that night. Listening. Dennis, her husband, left at 2 am as he always did, to make it to work on time at the Chevy plant. She heard the floorboards moan. The first time, she thought, she hoped, it was the house settling. But there is a difference, she noticed, between a settling house and the familiar sounds of a man pacing in her youngest child's bedroom.
Clunk clunk.
Her thoughts try to reason with her. Maybe something hit the house.
Clunk Clunk.
Maybe it's my three-legged cat.
Clunk Clunk Clunk Clunk.
Someone is in the house!
Palms sweaty, she rises from the waterbed. The swishing betrays her, and anyone inside would have ran for it, realizing the house was occupied. The cat is sitting on the foot of the bed, ears alert. She sees something in the bedroom that used to be her master's walk in closet. My mother looks. But she can't see anything. It's dark. Underneath a crucifix hanging in the room, is a night-light that casts an eerie shadow across the floor. She is almost afraid to even look, but the waiting is worse. Her foot trembles as she walks and her knees threaten to give out on her. She takes an uncertain step.
Creeeeek.
Her traitor house lends a floorboard to give her away further. It is warm tonight, but suddenly she can see her breath in the room. A thermostat hangs on the wall next to the crucifix as well. It is still eighty degrees in the home with no central heating. She gathers her courage and in two quick steps she is across the threshold to the bedroom and flicks the light on. The light goes on. She half expected it to flicker, but it didn't. The noises stopped.
For a moment.
She glances to the bed. The bed where her youngest child slept. She washed the covers each summer when the children went away. Careful, she made the beds to await their return. Summer after summer, the same ritual.
Her breath came out in a slow gasp.
The covers lay strewn across the floor. The imprint of a body remains on the bed.
Meowwww!
She turns back to the doorway, just in time to see the three-legged feline sprint past the door in a hurry.
Clunk clunk.
The noise is in the far side of the room.
Clunk Clunk.
Closer now. Fast.
Clunk Clunk.
Fright jumping from her very skin, she turns the light off and runs from the room, down the stairs and into the kitchen. She turns on the lights downstairs, the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom. At a little past 2am the house is a beacon of light in the wilderness. She pours herself a glass of wine.
Clunk Clunk.
She hears it pacing up there. It paces until dawn, or until she falls asleep from exhaustion. Which came first, she doesn't know. What she does know is that Dennis came home to find her sleeping. She makes him wait. All six feet of him waits for her while she carries the vacuum up the stairs.
"Whatever it was, I can't have it messing up the room."
She makes the bed. Dennis watches.
She sprays the dresser with Lysol.
Dennis watches. He doesn't believe, but he loves his wife.
She vacuums the floor.
He watches. He watches as she takes the cord and wraps it around the vacuum. She wheels it out, turns off the light.
Satisfied, they prepare to leave and watch television downstairs.
"Honey, I forgot the Lysol rag. Can you get it?"
"Of course," he says. She watches him leave, but she still feels her skin crawling. She hurries after him.
She catches up just as he flicks the light in the bedroom.
"Jesus Christ!" He yells and falls backward out of the room. She runs up to him and grabs his arm. She can feel his pulse through his bicep. Or is it hers through her fingers?
She peers around him and into the room. Yellow jackets.
Bees are everywhere. Thousands upon thousands. The carpet seems alive with their dying bodies. One big yellow and black wave of stingers and wings.
Dramatic rendering of bees on my brother's bedroom floor
Evil has many forms. Sometimes it shows up as a blue-eyed blonde haired boyscout leader. Sometimes it shows up as a homeless guy with an axe to grind. Sometimes it shows up as a swinging flickering light. Sometimes it sits on your bed. Sometimes, it shows up as a swarm of dying yellow jackets on your carpet floor at five in the afternoon.
That's when you call the priest.
That's when all Hell breaks loose.
[The Things that Follow Part V – Wednesday]
Ever since that day, things have been happening.
Imagine a house, full of laughter in the summers and every other Christmas. During these times, the house is filled with love and joy, and the things that follow seem to be a distant memory. But what happens when the kids leave, and it's just you in the house? Every floor board that settles, every light that begins to flicker, every scream in the night, is amplified while your husband works the 4am factory shift at Chevy.
So it was for my mother.
She lay in bed that night. Listening. Dennis, her husband, left at 2 am as he always did, to make it to work on time at the Chevy plant. She heard the floorboards moan. The first time, she thought, she hoped, it was the house settling. But there is a difference, she noticed, between a settling house and the familiar sounds of a man pacing in her youngest child's bedroom.
Clunk clunk.
Her thoughts try to reason with her. Maybe something hit the house.
Clunk Clunk.
Maybe it's my three-legged cat.
Clunk Clunk Clunk Clunk.
Someone is in the house!
Palms sweaty, she rises from the waterbed. The swishing betrays her, and anyone inside would have ran for it, realizing the house was occupied. The cat is sitting on the foot of the bed, ears alert. She sees something in the bedroom that used to be her master's walk in closet. My mother looks. But she can't see anything. It's dark. Underneath a crucifix hanging in the room, is a night-light that casts an eerie shadow across the floor. She is almost afraid to even look, but the waiting is worse. Her foot trembles as she walks and her knees threaten to give out on her. She takes an uncertain step.
Creeeeek.
Her traitor house lends a floorboard to give her away further. It is warm tonight, but suddenly she can see her breath in the room. A thermostat hangs on the wall next to the crucifix as well. It is still eighty degrees in the home with no central heating. She gathers her courage and in two quick steps she is across the threshold to the bedroom and flicks the light on. The light goes on. She half expected it to flicker, but it didn't. The noises stopped.
For a moment.
She glances to the bed. The bed where her youngest child slept. She washed the covers each summer when the children went away. Careful, she made the beds to await their return. Summer after summer, the same ritual.
Her breath came out in a slow gasp.
The covers lay strewn across the floor. The imprint of a body remains on the bed.
Meowwww!
She turns back to the doorway, just in time to see the three-legged feline sprint past the door in a hurry.
Clunk clunk.
The noise is in the far side of the room.
Clunk Clunk.
Closer now. Fast.
Clunk Clunk.
Fright jumping from her very skin, she turns the light off and runs from the room, down the stairs and into the kitchen. She turns on the lights downstairs, the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom. At a little past 2am the house is a beacon of light in the wilderness. She pours herself a glass of wine.
Clunk Clunk.
She hears it pacing up there. It paces until dawn, or until she falls asleep from exhaustion. Which came first, she doesn't know. What she does know is that Dennis came home to find her sleeping. She makes him wait. All six feet of him waits for her while she carries the vacuum up the stairs.
"Whatever it was, I can't have it messing up the room."
She makes the bed. Dennis watches.
She sprays the dresser with Lysol.
Dennis watches. He doesn't believe, but he loves his wife.
She vacuums the floor.
He watches. He watches as she takes the cord and wraps it around the vacuum. She wheels it out, turns off the light.
Satisfied, they prepare to leave and watch television downstairs.
"Honey, I forgot the Lysol rag. Can you get it?"
"Of course," he says. She watches him leave, but she still feels her skin crawling. She hurries after him.
She catches up just as he flicks the light in the bedroom.
"Jesus Christ!" He yells and falls backward out of the room. She runs up to him and grabs his arm. She can feel his pulse through his bicep. Or is it hers through her fingers?
She peers around him and into the room. Yellow jackets.
Bees are everywhere. Thousands upon thousands. The carpet seems alive with their dying bodies. One big yellow and black wave of stingers and wings.
Dramatic rendering of bees on my brother's bedroom floorEvil has many forms. Sometimes it shows up as a blue-eyed blonde haired boyscout leader. Sometimes it shows up as a homeless guy with an axe to grind. Sometimes it shows up as a swinging flickering light. Sometimes it sits on your bed. Sometimes, it shows up as a swarm of dying yellow jackets on your carpet floor at five in the afternoon.
That's when you call the priest.
That's when all Hell breaks loose.
[The Things that Follow Part V – Wednesday]
May 13, 2011
The world's best crime thriller novel
This will be the best crime thriller novel in the world.....by Nicholas Denmon. That is because it's my first crime thriller novel. But I really like it, and why shouldn't I? It has everything a crime thriller needs. Ahem, everything I think a crime thriller needs. I wrote a story that I thought would be fun and included all the elements I always wished a novel of this type would contain. I have one review so far, and it got me 5 stars.
Action? Check!!
Revenge? Check!!
Betrayal? Check!!
Plot Twists? Check!!
The novel will be available starting Saturday, and I am very excited. That is all.
Action? Check!!
Revenge? Check!!
Betrayal? Check!!
Plot Twists? Check!!
The novel will be available starting Saturday, and I am very excited. That is all.
May 11, 2011
Do You Believe in Ghosts- The Things That Follow: Part III
The Things That Follow: Part IIIA brief rehash: We found a cemetery in the summer. I encountered a swinging light bulb in my basement, that decided to turn itself on and off, in the winter. Then, there was the next summer…
The next summer a few things happened.
Every year, my family liked to come together and visit my mother's house when my brothers and I were in town. One of the things we like to do is have a bonfire in the backyard. In those days, there was an old sour apple tree that hung over the back of the house. It extended its branches up towards the heavens, reaching skyward and draped over the second story of the vinyl paneled home. Apples would fall into the grass below and either rot away, or become missiles with which my brothers and I could torment each other.
The fire pit was of our own making. It was a hole in the yard with some slate rocks my brothers and I had carted up the hillside from the creek down the road. In preparation we would go out to the surrounding wood and search the forest floor for dry twigs and branches. We would also raid my mother's cabinet for the old edition of the phone book. Then, when no one was looking, we would go to the detached garage and grab the gasoline can, and pretend we were expert fire builders.
Isn't everyone when they have a can of gasoline?
The festivities began; family members came from all around. It was a good time.
Dusk descended, bringing the country stars to a shine above us in the black night sky. I remember the moon had an ethereal glow to it, not quite a white gold, but not a bright orange you sometimes see in an enlarged moon. Usually, on nights like this, the clouds make an appearance and cover the moon in wisps of grey shadow that are jealous of her glory.
Not on this night.
She was bare for the world to see. The clouds had left her alone as if she had dropped them to the floor like so many encumbering robes. Most of our family admired her beauty with a passing glance, for the fire at our feet stole their attention.
As children are wont to do, we began to tell stories around the campfire. My cousin Joey had a habit of scaring us in such a setting. He would poke at the fire with a stick or with his foot and regal us with stories of poisoned ivy in the wood around the home. Poisoned berries were a staple of his as well. Wearing his black T-Shirts and a grin that instigated us to acts of mischievous nature, he would poke at us the same way he poked the fire.
In an attempt to get him back I said, "Well we found a cemetery."
And before I knew what was happening, we were walking out into the woods with a set of flashlights.
Everyone knows that in horror stories the one thing you don't do is visit cemeteries at night with a pair of inconsistent flashlights, but this wasn't a movie, it was real life. Besides we had a pair of adults with us in Aunt Cathy and Uncle Clem.
When we made our way through the dark and along the dirt path that led to the cemetery, we split up and walked along the rows of stone that marked the passageway between the living and the dead. A cottontail deer bound away as we shone the light on the final resting place of those souls encamped six feet under.
We were there only a few moments when my Aunt Cathy turned a shade of white paler than the whitest moon. A very levelheaded woman she said, "We need to leave. I don't feel well."
Uncle Clem led us from the cemetery, and being a stupid young man, I asked over and over, "What is wrong? Are you sick? What is wrong? What is wrong?"
I was shooed away by Uncle Clem a few times. Until finally, my Aunt Cathy said, "No, I feel nauseous. I feel as if someone was very angry we were there. We are not wanted there."
I stopped asking questions. My younger brother walked next to me, unsure whether he heard correctly. My older brother and my cousin just made spooky ghost noises from us as we made the walk home.
After the gathering, we said our good nights and went to bed.
I woke up the next morning, feeling great.
My younger brother did not.
He woke up with bright red eyes because, well, he hadn't slept at all.
"What's wrong with you?" I asked.
"I couldn't sleep. That's all" He said.
"Why not?" I really didn't care, I just liked finding out what bothered my little brother. If I could find out, then maybe I could pick on him later.
"Nothing."
It wasn't until sometime later that I found out the truth. He had been lying there, that night, trying to fall asleep. The only problem was the pacing going on in his little five-foot by five-foot bedroom that used to be a closet. He could hear somebody or something walking around his bed. He thought he made it all up, but he covered his head with a blanket hoping that it would go away. He hoped he had imagined it, you see. That is why he was so shocked when he felt it sit down on the foot of his bed. He felt the bed compress and lower to the ground, while he lay there. Then he felt it decompress, and the pacing continued. A few moments later (or was it hours? He couldn't tell) it happened again. This went on through the night until just before dawn.
Dramatic rendering of my brother's bed and room
To this day, he barely talks about it.
Sometimes, when you go to cemeteries, things follow.
Fortunately, after that week, we went back to Florida. My mom wasn't so lucky. These things that were minor occurrences during our summers she lived with year round.
That was when the bees began to show up.
[The Things that Follow Part IV – Monday]
The next summer a few things happened.
Every year, my family liked to come together and visit my mother's house when my brothers and I were in town. One of the things we like to do is have a bonfire in the backyard. In those days, there was an old sour apple tree that hung over the back of the house. It extended its branches up towards the heavens, reaching skyward and draped over the second story of the vinyl paneled home. Apples would fall into the grass below and either rot away, or become missiles with which my brothers and I could torment each other.
The fire pit was of our own making. It was a hole in the yard with some slate rocks my brothers and I had carted up the hillside from the creek down the road. In preparation we would go out to the surrounding wood and search the forest floor for dry twigs and branches. We would also raid my mother's cabinet for the old edition of the phone book. Then, when no one was looking, we would go to the detached garage and grab the gasoline can, and pretend we were expert fire builders.
Isn't everyone when they have a can of gasoline?
The festivities began; family members came from all around. It was a good time.
Dusk descended, bringing the country stars to a shine above us in the black night sky. I remember the moon had an ethereal glow to it, not quite a white gold, but not a bright orange you sometimes see in an enlarged moon. Usually, on nights like this, the clouds make an appearance and cover the moon in wisps of grey shadow that are jealous of her glory.
Not on this night.
She was bare for the world to see. The clouds had left her alone as if she had dropped them to the floor like so many encumbering robes. Most of our family admired her beauty with a passing glance, for the fire at our feet stole their attention.
As children are wont to do, we began to tell stories around the campfire. My cousin Joey had a habit of scaring us in such a setting. He would poke at the fire with a stick or with his foot and regal us with stories of poisoned ivy in the wood around the home. Poisoned berries were a staple of his as well. Wearing his black T-Shirts and a grin that instigated us to acts of mischievous nature, he would poke at us the same way he poked the fire.
In an attempt to get him back I said, "Well we found a cemetery."
And before I knew what was happening, we were walking out into the woods with a set of flashlights.
Everyone knows that in horror stories the one thing you don't do is visit cemeteries at night with a pair of inconsistent flashlights, but this wasn't a movie, it was real life. Besides we had a pair of adults with us in Aunt Cathy and Uncle Clem.
When we made our way through the dark and along the dirt path that led to the cemetery, we split up and walked along the rows of stone that marked the passageway between the living and the dead. A cottontail deer bound away as we shone the light on the final resting place of those souls encamped six feet under.
We were there only a few moments when my Aunt Cathy turned a shade of white paler than the whitest moon. A very levelheaded woman she said, "We need to leave. I don't feel well."
Uncle Clem led us from the cemetery, and being a stupid young man, I asked over and over, "What is wrong? Are you sick? What is wrong? What is wrong?"
I was shooed away by Uncle Clem a few times. Until finally, my Aunt Cathy said, "No, I feel nauseous. I feel as if someone was very angry we were there. We are not wanted there."
I stopped asking questions. My younger brother walked next to me, unsure whether he heard correctly. My older brother and my cousin just made spooky ghost noises from us as we made the walk home.
After the gathering, we said our good nights and went to bed.
I woke up the next morning, feeling great.
My younger brother did not.
He woke up with bright red eyes because, well, he hadn't slept at all.
"What's wrong with you?" I asked.
"I couldn't sleep. That's all" He said.
"Why not?" I really didn't care, I just liked finding out what bothered my little brother. If I could find out, then maybe I could pick on him later.
"Nothing."
It wasn't until sometime later that I found out the truth. He had been lying there, that night, trying to fall asleep. The only problem was the pacing going on in his little five-foot by five-foot bedroom that used to be a closet. He could hear somebody or something walking around his bed. He thought he made it all up, but he covered his head with a blanket hoping that it would go away. He hoped he had imagined it, you see. That is why he was so shocked when he felt it sit down on the foot of his bed. He felt the bed compress and lower to the ground, while he lay there. Then he felt it decompress, and the pacing continued. A few moments later (or was it hours? He couldn't tell) it happened again. This went on through the night until just before dawn.
Dramatic rendering of my brother's bed and roomTo this day, he barely talks about it.
Sometimes, when you go to cemeteries, things follow.
Fortunately, after that week, we went back to Florida. My mom wasn't so lucky. These things that were minor occurrences during our summers she lived with year round.
That was when the bees began to show up.
[The Things that Follow Part IV – Monday]
May 9, 2011
Do You Believe in Ghosts- The Things That Follow: Part II
That Follow: Part IIEvery summer and every other winter, my brothers and I would visit our mother's home in a place called Eden, NY. It was outside of Buffalo and surrounded by a deep old wood that sloped up and down hills crawling with evergreens. The brown and faded green corn fields hugged the hills and obscured the hundred year old homes from the one-lane highway that split the landscape.Hidden in the hills, and along twisting dirt paths, were untold adventures for three boys with a will to explore. Sometimes, though, when you go looking for adventure you find it.That summer, the cemetery sent us scurrying home just as dusk fell on the sleepy town. When we returned the next winter, something was waiting. Out there, so far from city lights, the eight thousand residents of Eden, New York had become accustomed to their midnight black evenings. The gray cloud covered sky brought evening in a hurry, and kept the stars at bay. The trees would whisper at the approach of gloom and shook their branches for extra warmth. Their leaves rested on the frozen floor beneath feet of pure white snow.Inside, my mother kept a pelt furnace burning to keep the cold from creeping and crawling through the cracks of the old house. When the lake wind from the Great Lakes blew through Buffalo, we played inside. My older brother had decided it was time to create a playroom in the basement. This wasn't a complete basement with carpet and lighting that was reliable. No. It was a dank, dark, musty place. There was one light bulb that hung in the center of the basement that could only be turned on by pulling a string underneath it.
Dramatic rendering of my childhood basementThat meant a half dozen paces in pitch black dark. It meant swinging your hand around, hoping to touch the string, but fearful of…touching something else. Fearful of turning it on, to see…something else. When we went down in the basement together, it was bearable. That was how we found the almost secret compartment that lead to an enclosed room at the back of the basement. It was really just a plywood and wood-panel enclosure that ran from the ceiling to the floor in the shape of a box. There was another light inside, when you could find it.Together, we painted the walls, we cleaned the room out. We dusted cobwebs, and we put toys in there we loved. I, for instance, put a Ninja Turtle set down there. Quite possibly the biggest mistake of my life.After a full day of playing downstairs, my mother called us up to eat a meal of home cooked lasagna and scalloped potatoes. We ran up the stairs. I was the last one up, and I felt my heart racing. I couldn't explain why. Just something didn't feel right. I left the light on as I bolted up the stairs, not daring to be the one left behind in the dark.Dinner came and went. We speculated about the room downstairs. Who had built it and why? Maybe it was to hide from Indians, we thought. Whatever the reason, we watched some television as a family and after a while, my mom told us it was time for bed."Not with out my Ninja Turtles," I said. Then remembering where they were, I asked, "Mom, will you wait by the top of the stairs for me?"She smiled knowingly. "Of course, I'll wait while I let the dog out."I smiled back. Mother's have no fear.The darkness beckoned to me as I stood the top of the stairs and my mom let the dog outside. The back door stood next to he basement door. I could smell the basement usually, but this was the first time I felt it. Hadn't I left the light on? I wondered.Maybe my brother had gone back down and turned it off. I inched down the first step, my leg trembling. One foot in front of the other, I made my way into the belly of the beast. I reached the middle of the room, and waved my hand back and forth. The string had to be somewhere around here. But what if it had tangled on top of the light. That had happened before. I reached up and felt a fist full of cobwebs. The sticky strands made my hand recoil, but as I did, I felt the string. I closed my eyes and pulled. With a click, the light came on, casting an eerie pale orange glow that swung back and forth with the momentum of the string. Smiling in victory, I shouted up to my mom.I heard nothing, in reply."Mom?" I said again. I could feel the tremble in my voice. The stairs waited behind me, but my toys waited in the dark enclosed room ahead. I hadn't come this far to be turned away now. Besides, I was sure my mom waited for me at the top. I sprinted forward. I opened the panel door, and in the dim light provided by the swinging bulb beyond, I found the next light. I pulled the cord. It flickered to life.I saw my small red case that held my Ninja Turtles and picked it up. Victory was mine.And just like that, it was taken away.The light above began to dim and then surge with light again. It did this in quick succession, each pulse of light quickened the pulse in my chest. I ran out from the door as it flickered off completely, the lone light bulb beyond swinging as a beacon to light my way. I took several hurried steps forward, my toy case clutched to my chest.Then that light too pulsed with an electrical surge. I stopped in my tracks. I wanted to run to the stairs, but not at the cost of crossing the swinging light. Who knew what was causing the light to glow like that? Shouldn't the light bulb have stopped its swinging by now? It swung more fiercely than it had when I first yanked the cord. I swallowed. My spit felt like a sideways brick, but there was only one way out. I ran past the light. It grew brighter in protest as I brushed past it, then it went out all together as I fell on the first stair in the dark. I could hear the light bulb swinging like a tether ball in blackness behind me. On my knees, I crawled up the stairs one at time and got to the top.The door was closed. The smell of the moldy basement enveloped me and the swinging light called to me below, I reached up and grabbed the door handle. I shoved the door outward so hard it bounced off of the wall behind it with a resounding CRACK. A breath of my mother's smoke filled house hit me like a burst of fresh air.I slammed the door behind me and gulped the air. My mother walked back into the house holding our dog, a speckled mutt that had three-inch long legs under the body of a barrel. I shot my mother an accusing stare."Sorry baby, he ran off." She gave me a wry smile. She knew her betrayal."I hate basements." I threw the words at her, hoping they would smack her in the face, but she smiled and I couldn't be mad."Me too, they smell awful."And, for a time, I was content to forget what had happened to me in the basement. Although I never went back down alone, I still accompanied my brothers into that abyss. It was nearly two weeks later when I heard about what happened to my younger brother.He was cryptic at first. But what happened to him, what continued to happen to him, makes my event look like child's play. Whatever it was, it was just the beginning.
The Things That Follow: Part III [Wednesday]
Dramatic rendering of my childhood basementThat meant a half dozen paces in pitch black dark. It meant swinging your hand around, hoping to touch the string, but fearful of…touching something else. Fearful of turning it on, to see…something else. When we went down in the basement together, it was bearable. That was how we found the almost secret compartment that lead to an enclosed room at the back of the basement. It was really just a plywood and wood-panel enclosure that ran from the ceiling to the floor in the shape of a box. There was another light inside, when you could find it.Together, we painted the walls, we cleaned the room out. We dusted cobwebs, and we put toys in there we loved. I, for instance, put a Ninja Turtle set down there. Quite possibly the biggest mistake of my life.After a full day of playing downstairs, my mother called us up to eat a meal of home cooked lasagna and scalloped potatoes. We ran up the stairs. I was the last one up, and I felt my heart racing. I couldn't explain why. Just something didn't feel right. I left the light on as I bolted up the stairs, not daring to be the one left behind in the dark.Dinner came and went. We speculated about the room downstairs. Who had built it and why? Maybe it was to hide from Indians, we thought. Whatever the reason, we watched some television as a family and after a while, my mom told us it was time for bed."Not with out my Ninja Turtles," I said. Then remembering where they were, I asked, "Mom, will you wait by the top of the stairs for me?"She smiled knowingly. "Of course, I'll wait while I let the dog out."I smiled back. Mother's have no fear.The darkness beckoned to me as I stood the top of the stairs and my mom let the dog outside. The back door stood next to he basement door. I could smell the basement usually, but this was the first time I felt it. Hadn't I left the light on? I wondered.Maybe my brother had gone back down and turned it off. I inched down the first step, my leg trembling. One foot in front of the other, I made my way into the belly of the beast. I reached the middle of the room, and waved my hand back and forth. The string had to be somewhere around here. But what if it had tangled on top of the light. That had happened before. I reached up and felt a fist full of cobwebs. The sticky strands made my hand recoil, but as I did, I felt the string. I closed my eyes and pulled. With a click, the light came on, casting an eerie pale orange glow that swung back and forth with the momentum of the string. Smiling in victory, I shouted up to my mom.I heard nothing, in reply."Mom?" I said again. I could feel the tremble in my voice. The stairs waited behind me, but my toys waited in the dark enclosed room ahead. I hadn't come this far to be turned away now. Besides, I was sure my mom waited for me at the top. I sprinted forward. I opened the panel door, and in the dim light provided by the swinging bulb beyond, I found the next light. I pulled the cord. It flickered to life.I saw my small red case that held my Ninja Turtles and picked it up. Victory was mine.And just like that, it was taken away.The light above began to dim and then surge with light again. It did this in quick succession, each pulse of light quickened the pulse in my chest. I ran out from the door as it flickered off completely, the lone light bulb beyond swinging as a beacon to light my way. I took several hurried steps forward, my toy case clutched to my chest.Then that light too pulsed with an electrical surge. I stopped in my tracks. I wanted to run to the stairs, but not at the cost of crossing the swinging light. Who knew what was causing the light to glow like that? Shouldn't the light bulb have stopped its swinging by now? It swung more fiercely than it had when I first yanked the cord. I swallowed. My spit felt like a sideways brick, but there was only one way out. I ran past the light. It grew brighter in protest as I brushed past it, then it went out all together as I fell on the first stair in the dark. I could hear the light bulb swinging like a tether ball in blackness behind me. On my knees, I crawled up the stairs one at time and got to the top.The door was closed. The smell of the moldy basement enveloped me and the swinging light called to me below, I reached up and grabbed the door handle. I shoved the door outward so hard it bounced off of the wall behind it with a resounding CRACK. A breath of my mother's smoke filled house hit me like a burst of fresh air.I slammed the door behind me and gulped the air. My mother walked back into the house holding our dog, a speckled mutt that had three-inch long legs under the body of a barrel. I shot my mother an accusing stare."Sorry baby, he ran off." She gave me a wry smile. She knew her betrayal."I hate basements." I threw the words at her, hoping they would smack her in the face, but she smiled and I couldn't be mad."Me too, they smell awful."And, for a time, I was content to forget what had happened to me in the basement. Although I never went back down alone, I still accompanied my brothers into that abyss. It was nearly two weeks later when I heard about what happened to my younger brother.He was cryptic at first. But what happened to him, what continued to happen to him, makes my event look like child's play. Whatever it was, it was just the beginning.The Things That Follow: Part III [Wednesday]
May 6, 2011
Do You Believe In Ghosts?
Recently, a friend of mine asked me if I believe in ghosts. Short answer? I don't know. But what I do know is that things have happened. Things that are not easily dismissed. Every family has their stories. Stories of…happenings. I invite you to share your stories in my comments section. This is one such event that happened to my brothers and me, enjoy:THE THINGS THAT FOLLOW: PART 1It's a house built in the 1800's. You know the type. It's made of old wood and mothballs. The paint used to peel but a remodel of vinyl siding creeps up the two story structure. The peeling paint can still be seen on the rotting wood frame of the crusted windows. Either it's nicotine build up or it's the remnants of decades of harsh winters and too short summers. It has a dark dank basement that wafts through the brittle frame of the house with the soft scent of mildew. The thick gnarled trees that surround the home have been around even longer than the house, and they aren't happy about their new neighbors. They lean toward the home from their perch on the hillside, grasping at it in the slow patient way of trees that have nothing but time.For me, it was home. My brothers and I used to run around the faded, light-blue, iron, well-covering and marvel at how people used to get their water from hand pumps. The old house didn't have city water, but the snow-melt from the town's long winters were consistant in providing the water neeeded to last through the summer droughts. We knew every inch of the wood around my mother's home. We used to splash In the creeks and slide down the slate waterfall, ripping our bathing suits and shorts as if it were routine. We found little overgrown paths through tangles of underbrush and followed them to whatever end awaited.That was how we found the cemetary.The resting place was nestled off the main road. If you were in a car you would never have seen the narrow dirt avenue. On foot, you could only see it if you were facing just the right direction. My older brother saw it first, and he took a tentative step towards the dirt path. Deer were in these woods. We had seen the tracks.We followed the trail, the three of us. My older and younger brothers loved exploring. The three of us rarely feared to go anywhere, so long as it was together.The path was much shorter than the twisting and knotted lanes we had charted a thousand times. A dozen paces took the brown and beaten path through an army of elms that stood sentinel before a wire post fence. The wood was worn and cracked with rot and time, it leaned forward as if trying to hug the ground in slow motion.There was no gate, so we walked in.The cemetary rested on the top of a cliff that overlooked a valley carved by the creek that sliced through the hillside. A hush fell over us as we realized our find. The plot was old, and the headstones were hand chiseled. The silent stone slabs slunk with a sadness that cried tears of forgetfulness. They cried for the life that went on beyond their unmoving charges six feet below. Weather had softened the dates to the point of being illegible. Occasionally, one survived the elements a bit better than its cousins, and a quiet voice would read out, "1771". A few moments later, "1712". Respect or awe or a morbid fascination would silence us for a time."This one was less than a year old when it died". It died. There wasn't even a name. Just a date. We walked the edge of the cliff and looked down into the maw of the ravine below. Erosion had reached her hand upward and ripped the side of the hill, pulling a chunk of the graveyard with it. Tiny stone markers dotted the decline like a handful of speckled teeth that jutted outward in various angles. We looked down upon the slide of dirt and stone rubble and wondered if the caskets had been exposed in the collapse that shuffled so many tons of dirt and rock.We dared each other to go out to a lone stone marker that rested at a forty-five degree angle from the cliff face. A gnarled and bulbous root craddled it with greed. It warned boys like us to not meddle in the affairs of the dead. A wind swirled around our bodies, a sudden omen.No one went.Dusk fell on us all at once. The late night air sent a chill up my spine. It was time to go, we all agreed.We left that cemetery, back through the narrow trail. We slipped quietly past the great trees standing guard at the rickety wire fence. We left the dead behind, to go on living.We left, but we didn't know that someone, something, had come with us.
[MONDAY: The Things That Follow: Part Two]
[MONDAY: The Things That Follow: Part Two]
May 3, 2011
Writing: How do you know you're good enough?
Being a writer is a lot like playing Pin the Tail On the Donkey (PTTOTD). In the game, you're blind, you spin in a circle, you walk towards where you think the target is and hope you stick the equine on the ass with the pin.
In writing, you are creating a story (fiction writers), following guidelines as varied as the agents and publishing houses who decide the work's fate, sending out query letters and making pitches based on guidelines that may be outdated or ill suited for a particular agent or publisher. And as you stamp that envelop or click that send button, you hope you have aimed right and true.
Sure, in PTTOTD you can look under the blindfold just before you're spun into a tornado of darkness.
In writing you can read a "How To" book written by one agent, who has nothing in common with the wants of other agents, and talk to an agent at a writing conference and get advice that is the exact opposite of the previous agent, thus spinning yourself into a dizzy oblivion.
So the question is, how, with all this white-noise, and agents trying to make a buck off of their "expertise" do you filter out the static and find out whether or not you are good enough. How do you find out if you have what it takes? If this particular work has the power to stick?
Do you play by their rules? Even with the emerging E-market and the Nook and the Kindle and Smashwords...and...and...AND!
Their rules.
Their rules are you have to first get through the first line of defense. The first line being agents. You write your query letter, send it off, and hope you hit that donkey on the ass. If and when an agent decides you are good enough to enter the game on their terms, your agent then has to shop you and your work around to publishers and hope that they too think you are good enough to play the game, on their terms. Line up, spin around, hope, and pin that fucker on the ass!
What other business is run this way? With such little control? The owner of the business letting the bank call the shots? I don't think so. Sure, in a capital driven endeavor, the bank has some say, and sure, so too does a publishing house. After all, they foot the initial bill, absorb some risk. But how much risk is associated with the E-market? Admittedly, being ignorant of all the ins and outs of what a publishing house can do for an emerging author, I know that the cost to publish online is near to insignificant, and it is mostly profit. That is how I, a 9-5 employee, can afford to put my book out there on my own. I paid my own editor, commissioned my own cover art, and wrote the damned novel.
Full cost? Less than a grand.
What business owner in their right mind would rely so heavily on hope? Writers, you are business owners. You own your product, you are going to have to do most of the marketing for it anyway. You take all the risk from inception until hopefully someone appreciates you and what you created.
Is this folly?
I am not sure. But I can tell you that my father didn't raise a fool. If I am going to take all of the risk, provide all of the effort, come up with the marketing plan, and come up with the idea, why should I let someone who has the same English degree as me, probably read the same amount of books, understands economics about the same, and who is probably a step late on finding the next emerging market, tell me whether or not I am good enough to play a game in which they make all the rules?
Fuck that donkey. Fuck his tail. I don't even think the donkey deserves a tail. I'm gonna go play chess, where at least I get to create the strategy and have a say in the outcome. If I wanted to just sit around and hope, I'd play something as ridiculous as "Guess what number I'm thinking of?" I hate that game too, because the answer is unverifiable.
I hated English class as well. Not because of the reading and writing, but because your work was subject to the whim and interpretation of the teacher. Each teacher had a different format from year to year. You know it's true. You had to spin the wheel for the first paper nine times out of ten, and when the corrections came back, you adjusted your next paper accordingly. I can't tell you how many times I got a B or a C on a paper, only to wait after class, and patiently explain to the teacher what I was thinking, and how the remarks were off in their interpretation. I usually left with A's.
So, how do you know? How do you know that you're good enough to play by their rules? How do you know you're good enough to be a writer?
You write. You say, "fuck your rules." You pick up the pen, punch the keyboard until your finger tips are raw. You keep going until your eyes water from the bright light of the computer screen baking them in your dark, little, cat-hair filled office. You fight with your husband or your wife to find the time to write, and then you write some more.
You send out the query and hope...
But you don't give them all the power. You keep one foot on the self-publishing pedal. Get your tires squealing, and get ready to gun the engine. Give yourself a deadline from which to hear from them and to get your WIP a little greased up for the big show. You outline that next book as the deadline approaches, and if it comes and goes with out the coach tapping you on the shoulder and saying you get to play, you throw the bat down on the ground and go play your own game.
And know, that all along you were good enough. You could have won the game if they didn't spin you around and blind fold you. You could have hit a home-run if the coach just gave you a chance. You go play your own game and self-publish.
Don't be scared either. When you go and play your own game, you'll realize that there are a bunch of other bench-warmers who will come and play too.
Sure, the kids who got into the other game might laugh, they might say, "look at the un-cool kids, look at the nerds." But I'm happy to be a nerd. You know what else? When they see all the kids in our game getting a chance to play, when they see us having fun doing it too, and making the rules up as we go, eventually they are gonna look over their shoulders and say, "I wish I had played that game".
And we'll let em. Because that's what nerds do.
In writing, you are creating a story (fiction writers), following guidelines as varied as the agents and publishing houses who decide the work's fate, sending out query letters and making pitches based on guidelines that may be outdated or ill suited for a particular agent or publisher. And as you stamp that envelop or click that send button, you hope you have aimed right and true.
Sure, in PTTOTD you can look under the blindfold just before you're spun into a tornado of darkness.
In writing you can read a "How To" book written by one agent, who has nothing in common with the wants of other agents, and talk to an agent at a writing conference and get advice that is the exact opposite of the previous agent, thus spinning yourself into a dizzy oblivion.
So the question is, how, with all this white-noise, and agents trying to make a buck off of their "expertise" do you filter out the static and find out whether or not you are good enough. How do you find out if you have what it takes? If this particular work has the power to stick?
Do you play by their rules? Even with the emerging E-market and the Nook and the Kindle and Smashwords...and...and...AND!
Their rules.
Their rules are you have to first get through the first line of defense. The first line being agents. You write your query letter, send it off, and hope you hit that donkey on the ass. If and when an agent decides you are good enough to enter the game on their terms, your agent then has to shop you and your work around to publishers and hope that they too think you are good enough to play the game, on their terms. Line up, spin around, hope, and pin that fucker on the ass!
What other business is run this way? With such little control? The owner of the business letting the bank call the shots? I don't think so. Sure, in a capital driven endeavor, the bank has some say, and sure, so too does a publishing house. After all, they foot the initial bill, absorb some risk. But how much risk is associated with the E-market? Admittedly, being ignorant of all the ins and outs of what a publishing house can do for an emerging author, I know that the cost to publish online is near to insignificant, and it is mostly profit. That is how I, a 9-5 employee, can afford to put my book out there on my own. I paid my own editor, commissioned my own cover art, and wrote the damned novel.
Full cost? Less than a grand.
What business owner in their right mind would rely so heavily on hope? Writers, you are business owners. You own your product, you are going to have to do most of the marketing for it anyway. You take all the risk from inception until hopefully someone appreciates you and what you created.
Is this folly?
I am not sure. But I can tell you that my father didn't raise a fool. If I am going to take all of the risk, provide all of the effort, come up with the marketing plan, and come up with the idea, why should I let someone who has the same English degree as me, probably read the same amount of books, understands economics about the same, and who is probably a step late on finding the next emerging market, tell me whether or not I am good enough to play a game in which they make all the rules?
Fuck that donkey. Fuck his tail. I don't even think the donkey deserves a tail. I'm gonna go play chess, where at least I get to create the strategy and have a say in the outcome. If I wanted to just sit around and hope, I'd play something as ridiculous as "Guess what number I'm thinking of?" I hate that game too, because the answer is unverifiable.
I hated English class as well. Not because of the reading and writing, but because your work was subject to the whim and interpretation of the teacher. Each teacher had a different format from year to year. You know it's true. You had to spin the wheel for the first paper nine times out of ten, and when the corrections came back, you adjusted your next paper accordingly. I can't tell you how many times I got a B or a C on a paper, only to wait after class, and patiently explain to the teacher what I was thinking, and how the remarks were off in their interpretation. I usually left with A's.
So, how do you know? How do you know that you're good enough to play by their rules? How do you know you're good enough to be a writer?
You write. You say, "fuck your rules." You pick up the pen, punch the keyboard until your finger tips are raw. You keep going until your eyes water from the bright light of the computer screen baking them in your dark, little, cat-hair filled office. You fight with your husband or your wife to find the time to write, and then you write some more.
You send out the query and hope...
But you don't give them all the power. You keep one foot on the self-publishing pedal. Get your tires squealing, and get ready to gun the engine. Give yourself a deadline from which to hear from them and to get your WIP a little greased up for the big show. You outline that next book as the deadline approaches, and if it comes and goes with out the coach tapping you on the shoulder and saying you get to play, you throw the bat down on the ground and go play your own game.
And know, that all along you were good enough. You could have won the game if they didn't spin you around and blind fold you. You could have hit a home-run if the coach just gave you a chance. You go play your own game and self-publish.
Don't be scared either. When you go and play your own game, you'll realize that there are a bunch of other bench-warmers who will come and play too.
Sure, the kids who got into the other game might laugh, they might say, "look at the un-cool kids, look at the nerds." But I'm happy to be a nerd. You know what else? When they see all the kids in our game getting a chance to play, when they see us having fun doing it too, and making the rules up as we go, eventually they are gonna look over their shoulders and say, "I wish I had played that game".
And we'll let em. Because that's what nerds do.
May 1, 2011
Everything prevented me from writing...even me
This weekend has been nearly a wash as far as writing. To be sure, I have some more time tonight to hammer out "make up" work, but all things considered it was a tough weekend. I knew there would be things that would get in the way, but life is full of unanticipated surprises. Is that redundant? Can surprises be anticipated?
I guess they could be, but that would defeat the purpose.
Just so you know what I am talking about, I set aside two hours to write last night. At 9:30, I sat down, turned on my computer, loaded up my WIP, and my outline. I cracked my knuckles, turned twitter off, went to iTunes, put on some Tom Petty, everything was ready to go....
and then....
My Mac decided to inform me I needed a Microsoft Word update.
Thinking that this shouldn't take long, I agreed to the update. Only now the update paused at 75% and informed me that Safari, Microsoft Word, iTunes, and my outline program all had to be closed to complete installation. Then it had to reboot. Then it paused with 1 minute left for installation for 15 minutes.
"ARG!" I said.
Still moderately determined, if not truly motivated anymore, I rebooted the computer.
I reloaded my programs, cracked my knuckles, and then...
Safari informed me it needed to update.
I could not believe it. So I updated Safari, which took ten more minutes, and through all of this my 2 hours became one hour. I wasn't feeling it. I was mad at the computer...
Things like this happen all the time. It ruins my flow, and I am convinced it drags my writing process out two to three times longer than it needs to be.
Oh and then my lovely kitties; they do things like this:
I can't even get mad at that though. (Look at her. Doesn't she look like she is actually reading?) But they do have an uncanny ability to know just when to complicate things even more.
Anyone else get these minor inconveniences that just add up and add up to week long extensions of your deadlines? It really is, well, unreal.
In other news, I took a breather today and caught a Rays game. I promised a pic of the seats and here it is:
Now I am seriously off to write for a bit. Game of Thrones, episode three, comes on tonight. So I have to hit this WIP up before that comes to the front of Distractionville.
I guess they could be, but that would defeat the purpose.
Just so you know what I am talking about, I set aside two hours to write last night. At 9:30, I sat down, turned on my computer, loaded up my WIP, and my outline. I cracked my knuckles, turned twitter off, went to iTunes, put on some Tom Petty, everything was ready to go....
and then....
My Mac decided to inform me I needed a Microsoft Word update.
Thinking that this shouldn't take long, I agreed to the update. Only now the update paused at 75% and informed me that Safari, Microsoft Word, iTunes, and my outline program all had to be closed to complete installation. Then it had to reboot. Then it paused with 1 minute left for installation for 15 minutes.
"ARG!" I said.
Still moderately determined, if not truly motivated anymore, I rebooted the computer.
I reloaded my programs, cracked my knuckles, and then...
Safari informed me it needed to update.
I could not believe it. So I updated Safari, which took ten more minutes, and through all of this my 2 hours became one hour. I wasn't feeling it. I was mad at the computer...
Things like this happen all the time. It ruins my flow, and I am convinced it drags my writing process out two to three times longer than it needs to be.
Oh and then my lovely kitties; they do things like this:
I can't even get mad at that though. (Look at her. Doesn't she look like she is actually reading?) But they do have an uncanny ability to know just when to complicate things even more.
Anyone else get these minor inconveniences that just add up and add up to week long extensions of your deadlines? It really is, well, unreal.
In other news, I took a breather today and caught a Rays game. I promised a pic of the seats and here it is:
Now I am seriously off to write for a bit. Game of Thrones, episode three, comes on tonight. So I have to hit this WIP up before that comes to the front of Distractionville.
April 29, 2011
Crazy weekend ahead
This weekend should be fun. I have a birthday party for a college buddy of mine tonight at a place called The Lime. How can you go wrong with a place named that?
Lime sounds alive. I think.
Also, you put lime in rum and coke which happens to be my drink of choice.
As it stands, I am at the place, but the birthday guy and his cronies (fools all) are late. Late for your own birthday party, haven't even left the house. Lame. Though I have been late for my own birthday parties too... So there is that to consider.
Tomorrow I have to do some house duties, and write.
Sunday, the Tampa Bay Rays baseball game. Wonderful seats, I might post a pic while I am there.
Then I suppose I can write some more.
Hooray for the weekend, I hope you all have a great one too.
Sent from my iPhone
April 28, 2011
Failed.
I did not even come close to my goal yesterday. I hammered out a mere 500 words after all my talk of 2,500. Welcome to Suckville.
Residents: 1.
I am sitting down with renewed vigor tonight. I shall overcome.
Write. Like. Your. Life. Depends. On. It.
...until your friends ask you to play Call of Duty: Black Ops with them.
Or family gets mad at you...
But write I shall.
Peace out gangsters.
Residents: 1.
I am sitting down with renewed vigor tonight. I shall overcome.
Write. Like. Your. Life. Depends. On. It.
...until your friends ask you to play Call of Duty: Black Ops with them.
Or family gets mad at you...
But write I shall.
Peace out gangsters.
April 27, 2011
Cat video and Novel Updates
Finally, I have critiques of my manuscript coming in. This is wonderful for two reasons.
The first is that it means even though I had to ask, someone has read my story. "Yay" for begging, coercing, paying, and promising. Although the story has holes and spots that need definite editing, the general mood has been positive. Also, they seem to be reading it quickly once they pick it up. Readers finish it in a matter of days, which speaks to a decent flow, or page turn ability. So that is exciting.
The second reason why this rocks my socks, is that now I can use their fresh eyes, opinions, questions, and thoughts in general, to make a good story into a decent novel. That is what this is all about, after all.
Tonight I hope to hit 40,000 words in my WIP (work in progress). We will see how far I get. That would be a 2,500 word run tonight, so I really need to get busy.
In other news, my book cover is decided. You will have to wait to see which one I selected, but I promise you that you will be pleased.
On that note, sorry for the short post. As I usually do in such situations; please enjoy the video below and forgive me.
Special thanks to beta readers, @marnimann @christinmowery @allieburkebooks Chris, Paul, Aaron, and Jen.
#amwriting, #BNFF, #ForNothing
The first is that it means even though I had to ask, someone has read my story. "Yay" for begging, coercing, paying, and promising. Although the story has holes and spots that need definite editing, the general mood has been positive. Also, they seem to be reading it quickly once they pick it up. Readers finish it in a matter of days, which speaks to a decent flow, or page turn ability. So that is exciting.
The second reason why this rocks my socks, is that now I can use their fresh eyes, opinions, questions, and thoughts in general, to make a good story into a decent novel. That is what this is all about, after all.
Tonight I hope to hit 40,000 words in my WIP (work in progress). We will see how far I get. That would be a 2,500 word run tonight, so I really need to get busy.
In other news, my book cover is decided. You will have to wait to see which one I selected, but I promise you that you will be pleased.
On that note, sorry for the short post. As I usually do in such situations; please enjoy the video below and forgive me.
Special thanks to beta readers, @marnimann @christinmowery @allieburkebooks Chris, Paul, Aaron, and Jen.
#amwriting, #BNFF, #ForNothing
