David R. Michael's Blog, page 35

My Short Story Challenge 2011 Story: "Secondhand Coffin"

 
I wrote this story as my submission for NYCMidnight's Short Story Challenge 2011. I wrote the first draft last week, on Tuesday, then spent Friday afternoon editing it (cutting it down to the 2500 word maximum) and polishing it. After getting some feedback from first readers and doing a bit more editing, I submitted the story on Saturday. That's what the SSC is all about: writing a short story from idea to final draft in 8 days.
 
The title for the story came to me nearly as soon as I saw my particular (Heat 14) story requirements.
 
Genre: Ghost Story
Subject: Claustrophobia
 
In fact, the idea of a ghost stuck in a coffin seemed so obvious to me that I tried to think of another approach to take. In the end, though, I followed my instincts. Here is the story I came up with.
 
Enjoy!
 
-David
 
Synopsis: A coffin isn't always a final destination. Sometimes it's part of the journey.
 
Secondhand Coffin
By David Michael
 
Every time the funeral home salesman with the gold nametag closed the coffin, Lacey tried to push against the lid, to keep it open. She tried to grab the hands of the salesman, or the lapels of his charcoal suit jacket. She tried to shout the name on his gold nametag–"Mr. Fetterman!" Every time, she failed. She could push nothing, grab nothing, shout nothing. She could only watch the lid descend. Watch the warmth of the recessed lighting reduced to a thin line, then vanish.
 
Then she was back again in the rolled rug. Unable to move, unable to see, unable to stop the memory.
 
Every time the coffin lid closed, she relived her death. Every time, she screamed and fought against the rug wrapped around her and the weight of the cement as it poured over her and settled around her and soaked into the rug. She could not move her arms. She could not move her legs. Once the cold and the wet reached her neck, she could no longer breathe the musty, dank air as the weight of the cement pressed down on her.
 
Every time, she remembered when she was a child, maybe four years old, playing with her brother and sister. They were playing in the bedroom she shared with her sister. Her brother convinced Lacey to let him and her sister roll her up in one of her blankets. "It'll be like a sleeping bag," he said. Except it was not like a sleeping bag. She could not move her arms or her legs. She could only twist her head and try to get away from the fingers that tickled her feet. She thrashed about on the floor like a goldfish suffocating in a room full of air. Her brother called her a baby for crying and screaming, and tried to tickle her nose. She bit his finger, her desperation pushing her sharp baby teeth through his flesh until she felt bone. She could still remember the scrape of her teeth against the bulge of a joint, and the taste of his blood. He yanked his bleeding finger free, and ran out of the room crying. Her sister just stared at her as she thrashed about trying, and failing, to get the blanket off until Mom came in and saved her. Her brother and sister never rolled her in a blanket again. It was months before she would even sleep with a blanket, much less let anyone, not even Mom or Dad, tuck her in.
 
Mom had not come to save her this time.
 
She remembered the taste and the grit as the cement that fell on her face seeped through the layers of the rug and tried to drown her even as it crushed her to death and suffocated her.
 
She waited in the cold rigidity of the hardened concrete and tried not to count the seconds until the lid of the coffin would open and she could see the light again. If she counted the seconds, time would stand as still as the building above her. She tried not to think of the building above her, whether it was a home or a shopping center or an office building or a warehouse or even a storage shed. She tried not to think of the people who came and went from the building. She also tried not to think about why she had been killed. Murdered. Wrapped in a rug and buried alive with cement. She tried not to think about why–how–she was still counting seconds and seeing and feeling. She tried not to think about why, when the coffin lid was opened every day in the funeral home showroom, she saw the light and wept tears that did not wet her cheeks. She tried not to think at all. Thinking made time move too slowly.
 
The lid of the coffin opened sooner than she had refused to hope and she fled the hell of her body in the foundation of urban progress back to her padded, satin-lined slice of purgatory in the funeral home.
 
The light was different this time. Colder. Harder. Instead of the display room with the other coffins–which Mr. Fetterman insisted every day were more properly called "caskets"–the coffin opened into a room with overhead fluorescent lights and white walls. Further, the lid of the coffin was fully opened. Not just the top half of the split lid.
 
Mr. Fetterman was there, as he always was, but he was not wearing his charcoal suit with his gold nametag. Instead, he wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled. His normally serene expression of concern and condolences as he explained the features of Lacey's coffin to the bereaved loved ones was gone, replaced with fear that pulled at the skin around his eyes and lips.
 
"This is the last time," Mr. Fetterman said.
 
"Whatever you say, boss," said another man Lacey could not see over the rim of the coffin.
 
"I mean it, Thacker."
 
"Stop whining, Fetterman. I'll be back to pick it up before four. This one won't even be here overnight. Now give me a hand with this."
 
Stop whining.
 
Lacey remembered the words, then the voice.
 
Stop whining, Fetterman.
 
The voice had been muffled, heard through the throbbing pain and aural haze of a concussion as well as the rug wrapped around her.
 
She remembered waking, bound in the rug, unable to move. She had screamed and struggled to break free. The nightmare blanket of her childhood had found her again, and this time would not let go.
 
Damn it, Thacker. I thought you said it was dead. In her memory, she recognized Mr. Fetterman's voice.
 
Dead enough. And even more dead soon. Now stop whining, Fetterman, and give me a hand.
 
The same voice as the man who had stood there, smirking at her, when she opened the door to her apartment the last time. Evening, ma'am. We had a report of a gas leak?After that, she could remember only the sudden pain in the side of her head and the odd thought, as her head bounced off the frame of her front door and she slumped to the floor, But my stove is electric–
 
Mr. Fetterman moved out of her range of vision.
 
She heard a grunt, then Mr. Fetterman said, "God, this one is heavy."
 
"You're such a wimp, Fetterman. I thought you threw bodies around all day."
 
"I sell caskets, you moron. I'm not a mortician."
 
"Whatever."
 
A large, rolled rug was lifted into view, blocking the light. Lacey brought her hands up to ward off the rug as it dropped, but it fell through her hands and her arms and then through her. Darkness contracted around her. She felt the stiff and cold presence of the body wrapped in the rug even though she could not see it.
 
She heard Mr. Fetterman say, "What is with you and those Oriental rugs? You buy them in bulk or something?"
 
She did not hear Thacker's reply, as the lid of the coffin closed.
 
For the first time since she had died, Lacey wanted to be back in her body crushed beneath unyielding concrete and the weight of a building. She wanted to be away from this cold, dead stranger who had been killed by the same man who had killed her.
 
But this time the closing lid of the coffin pushed her into the body. Into the emptiness where some other soul had once resided.
 
She could not move. She could not breathe. She could almost feel her brother tickling her feet, could almost hear him gloating that there was nothing she could do about it.
 
She screamed.
 
The sound was like an ice pick through her ears and into her mind.
 
Stunned, she stopped trying to move.
 
"Damn it, Thacker. This one isn't dead either?"
 
She had made the corpse scream. In all her time in the rug and in the coffin, however long it had been, she had tried to scream, she had tried to be heard, so many times. And failed.
 
She made the corpse scream again. The alienness of the sound that came out of the corpse, heard through the corpse's ears, fascinated her.
 
"You losing your touch, Thacker?"
 
"There's no way," Thacker said as she screamed again. "There's no fucking way."
 
The lid of the coffin opened above her, but she could not see the light. Instead, as the coffin opened, so did the eyes of the corpse. She could not see in the darkness of the wrapped rug, but she could feel the two men looking down at her. She tried to sit up. The rug gave only a little.
 
"There's no way," Thacker said. "I shot him in the head, right between the eyes."
 
"I don't care where you think you shot him," Mr. Fetterman said. "You obviously missed." There was a short pause. "You can't leave that here for five hours. Not alive."
 
Lacey twisted back and forth, both her and the corpse fighting against the rug.
 
"You know what? Fuck it. I'll just have to kill him again."
 
She heard a metallic click.
 
"No!" Mr. Fetterman shouted. "Not while it's in the casket. You'll ruin it."
 
"Then help me get it out and on the floor. This floor has a drain, right?"
 
Lacey let loose with another scream.
 
"To hell with that," Mr. Fetterman said. Lacey could not see him, but she could feel him moving away.
 
"Get back over here, Fetterman. You can clean up after this guy, or I can clean up after both of you. Your call, Fetterman." A short pause. "That's what I thought. Grab the feet."
 
Hands grabbed Lacey's feet–the corpse's feet–and her head–the corpse's head. Lacey squirmed and the corpse squirmed with her. The hands lifted.
 
Lacey felt the corpse moving out of her, away from her, and grabbed with her hands and her teeth and her toes, seeking whatever traction she could find.
 
The corpse was lifted out of the coffin, and Lacey went with it.
 
Lacey flexed and threw her new body–the corpse's body–first to the right, then to the left. The hands on her feet slipped and her feet dropped. As she fell, she twisted again, trying to unroll the carpet, trying to break free of the other set of hands.
 
She hit the hard floor with enough force that the corpse bounced, and nearly bounced her out of its hollow core. She held on again, refused to let go. Part of her mind marvelled that she had felt no pain from the impact.
 
The two men shouted at each other as she rolled on the floor and tried get free of the rug. A gun fired, the shot louder than anything Lacey had ever heard. At the same time, she felt something hard push at her chest–the corpse's chest–and wondered if that was the bullet. Again, there had been no pain.
 
She felt the rug's grip on her slacken as she rolled over.
 
She lost count of the number of shots and where they might have hit her. Or hit the corpse.
 
With every roll, the weight of the rug became less, then it fell away and she could see the panels of the drop ceiling above her.
 
She forced the corpse to sit up.
 
Another shot. She saw the bullet erupt out of her chest.
 
Mr. Fetterman cowered in a corner behind a stainless-steel gurney.
 
Another shot. She felt the push against the back of her head, then saw the bullet exit through her right eye. She saw the bullet strike the white wall in a spray of black and red.
 
She forced the corpse to stand. She stumbled as she found her balance, but she did not fall.
 
Behind her she heard the sound of metal on metal, clicking, then sliding.
 
She turned around.
 
The man called Thacker stood there, a semiautomatic pistol in his right hand, his left hand digging in his pocket.
 
He was not wearing a gas company uniform now, or smirking, but she recognized him. She did not know why he had killed her, but she knew it was him.
 
She decided she no longer cared why.
 
Thacker backed away. He pulled a new magazine out of his pocket as the empty magazine fell out of the grip of his pistol. He slammed the new magazine into place as Lacey took a jerking step toward him, the arms of her new corpse spread wide. Thacker managed two more shots before Lacey could wrap the arms of the corpse around him.
 
She pinned Thacker's arms to his sides and raised him off his feet. A part of her wondered how she could be this strong. The rest of her just squeezed.
 
Thacker struggled to break free, but he could not break the grip of the corpse's hands clasped behind his back. He kicked with his feet, he even slammed his head into the ruined face of the corpse. Lacey felt no pain.
 
She pushed the corners of the corpse's shredded lips into a smile.
 
"Fetterman!" Thacker shouted. "Fetterman!"
 
She squeezed tighter, forcing the air out of Thacker's lungs the way the weight of the cement had forced the air out of her lungs. She felt the shape of his rib cage warp and heard the popping of bones bent and forced out of place.
 
Thacker managed one last scream before all he could do was grunt and wheeze.
 
Ribs snapped and Lacey felt jagged points of bone pushing against the chest of the corpse.
 
She did not release her grip until Thacker stopped kicking. Then she dropped him and turned around.
 
Mr. Fetterman still cowered in the corner. "Please don't kill me," he said. "Please don't kill me."
 
Mr. Fetterman said that over and over as she picked up the Oriental rug and laid it flat. She put Thacker's limp body on the edge of the rug, then rolled him up in it. She lifted the corpse and the rug and put them into the coffin.
 
When she moved toward Mr. Fetterman, he finally made a dash for the door. Lacey caught him by the neck and dragged him screaming toward the coffin, leaving a trail of his urine on the floor tiles. She forced his wriggling form into the coffin. Then she slammed the lid on both men, first one side, then the other. She heard more bones break.
 
She had only an instant of satisfaction, though, not even time to force another smile, before she lost her grip on the corpse and it fell away.
 
Lacey floated in the air above the corpse and the closed coffin. She heard muffled whimpers from inside the coffin as light wrapped around her and faded, taking her with it.
 

My Growing Art Collection

 
Today I picked up "Reese", a custom-painted mask by Don Michael, Jr.
 

 
This mask is the one Don used as a model when creating the cover art for The Summoning Fire:
 

"End of Days"
 
I can't afford "End of Days" yet, but I snatched up "Reese" as soon as I knew it was available.
 
-David
 

Counting Every Word

 
I hit my planned word count today (3000). Which is good.
 
But … nearly 600 words of it was my first attempt at starting a new chapter in GoSH1 (chapter 3, specifically). I decided what I had written was unusable. If it had been just a paragraph or two, I would've deleted them and moved on. Nearly 600 words, though, I couldn't do it. That was 20% of my daily goal. So, after a minute of pondering my options, I just hit those awful words with strikethrough and started over at the beginning of the chapter.
 
So, yeah, I wrote 3000 words today. With an 80% effectiveness rate.
 
-David
 

"It's a Story"

 
When I'm planning my stories, and then while I'm writing my stories (especially while I'm writing them), I find myself wondering, "Is this a good story? Or a bad story? A mediocre story? Does it even make sense?"
 
I've learned to answer myself the same way every time: "It's a story."
 
Because I don't know if the story is good or bad or meaningful or anything subjective like that. I know the idea appealed to me enough to plot it out and start writing. But excitement fades into the daily/weekly word production and the inevitable diversions of both the story and the life of the author trying to tell the story get in the way.
 
All I know for sure is that it's a story, and that the story begins somewhere near where I started, and ends roughly in the neighborhood of where I wrote (or hope to write) "The End".
 
This is somewhat analogous to Dean Wesley Smith's advice, "Dare to be Bad", because I'm removing from my shoulders the burden of writing a good story. I tell myself, "It's a story", and I can dodge around the self doubt and the second guessing and keep moving forward.
 
It might be a bad story. It might be great. I don't know. I'm not sure I can know–not until I'm finished, anyway. Even then, it's not my call. All I get to do is choose the story and write the words as they come to me. Whoever reads the story (eventually) will be the arbiter of good or bad or meh or weird or long or whatever.
 
Me? I'm just a writer, writing a story. What kind of story? Well…it's a story.
 
-David
 

Writing Progress Report

 
Writing progress report for the week starting Monday, February 7, 2011.
 








Writing Project


Words




Monday


GoSH1


3003




Tuesday


"Secondhand Coffin"


2674




Wednesday


GoSH1


1336




Thursday


GoSH1


16




Friday


Edited "Secondhand Coffin".


-189




Saturday


Edited "Secondhand Coffin".
GoSH1




516




Sunday


















Total



7356




YTD Total: 45107
 








Marketing/Submission




Monday


Announced giveaways for TSF, HG, and DC.
Updated promo threads for TSF with giveaway announcement on KB, NB, and MR.
Updated promo threads for HG with giveaway announcement on KB, NB, and MR.
Updated promo threads for DC with giveaway announcement on KB, NB, and MR.




Tuesday





Wednesday





Thursday





Friday


Sent "Secondhand Coffin" to first readers.




Saturday


Submitted "Secondhand Coffin" to SSC2011.




Sunday





 
Reading List

Fool Moon by Jim Butcher.
The Drunkard's Walk: How Randomness Rules Our Lives by Leonard Mlodinow.

 

Contest Story Submitted

 
I have submitted my entry to the Short Story Challenge 2011. Once I have my confirmation email, I'll post the story here. Then you can read it before the judges do.
 
-David
 

Lookitthat – More Words Than I Needed

 
The one day I need only 2500 words (because that's the max word count for the Short Story Challenge), and I overdo it. The first draft of my story "Secondhand Coffin" is complete at 2674 words.
 
I guess that gives me room to cut.
 
I figure I should cut at least 200 words (to account for differences between my word counter and the one the judge's use). I also figure that won't be too hard. I think I was getting a bit wordy in parts.
 
My plan is to edit the story after I do my writing tomorrow, then maybe hand it off to a couple people to give it a quick readthrough. That should give me time for one more edit before handing it in (due Saturday).
 
-David
 

Recent Lessons Learned (or at least Noted)

1. I should do my novel planning *before* I need it. Which is to say, I should plan my next novel (or two) while working on the current novel. Otherwise, I'm going to have downtime (AKA "days I'm not writing") between novels.
 
It's possible that the downtime between novels isn't a bad thing. I expect I'll always take a few days off between novels. But I didn't expect to take nearly 3 weeks off.
 
It's also possible, though, that it's *hard* to plan Novel B while writing 3000-4000 words a day on Novel A. I guess I'll find out.
 
2. I shouldn't sign up for short story contests and then almost forget about them and/or wish they would start later than they will. Or have.
 
Maybe I should just go back to my previous stance of "Don't sign up for (or otherwise participate in) writing contests." I mean, sure, prizes are nice…or they look nice. I've never won a prize in a writing contest. I don't take direction well, which is something of a handicap in writing contests.
 
I think the short story contest looked more interesting/doable in December, when I wasn't working on anything in particular. Now, I'm working on stuff in particular, and the contest feels a bit like an imposition. But I will write my ghost story with claustrophobia and send it off. And then forget about it. Unless I actually proceed to the second round. That would be weird. Cool, maybe. But weird.
 
3. I shouldn't check my book sales so damn often. My goal is to put off checking my sales numbers until the end of February. And then, hopefully, be pleasantly surprised.
 
It's not like checking sales reports makes the sales come in faster. I mean, duh.
 
Sometimes I might end up seeing sales-related information. Like when I had to log in to CreateSpace to complain about a misprinted book. But I will not seek out such opportunities and will try to ignore whatever information is there.
 
At my current rate of sales, checking the numbers is a lot like watching paint dry. Or watching cold molasses pour out of a bottle.
 
I expect sales to trend upward over time. I don't have much control over how much time, unfortunately, so I cope as best I can. Which means checking less often. A lot less often. And writing. And getting more books ready for release (The Door to the Sky is coming soon).
 
In other news, which has nothing to do with any lessons learned, I started writing GoSH1 today. I hit 3003 words. I finished the first draft of chapter 1 and started chapter 2 (out of 20 total chapters). I'm getting into the voice/mindset of the first of the main characters, and having fun defining her relationship with her little brother. Writing in the voice of 13-year-old Stevie Buckbee was fun. Writing in the distinct voices of three new 11-year-old girls should be a lot of fun too. If I can pull it off.
 
Onward the writing!
 
-David
 

Win a FREE Signed Copy of Demon Candy!

 
Enter from now through Monday, March 7, to win a FREE copy of Demon Candy!
 
1 FREE signed copy of Demon Candy in trade paperback will be given away.
 
Click Here to Enter
 
Four linked stories of Hell, and Life, and Life in Hell. Illustrated with paintings by Don Michael, Jr.
 
"Summer Breeze" – The demon Jike decides he needs a change.
 
"Inferno" – Undead hellcat Canto gets a night out on campus of lust and gluttony and the other deadly sins.
 
"Sweet Tooth" – Donut baker Ted Millet, divorced and broke, has a new customer that makes his ex-wife seem almost human.
 
And in the novella "Afterimage" Emily M-Something March, dead and damned for thirty years, finds herself back in her home town with a fifty-foot demon looking for her.
 
Click Here to Enter
 
-David
 

Win a FREE Signed Copy of The Summoning Fire!

 
Enter from now through Monday, March 7, to win a FREE copy of The Summoning Fire!
 
1 FREE signed copy of The Summoning Fire in trade paperback will be given away.
 
Click Here to Enter
 
All Reese Howard has left is pain–and a pump-action shotgun. Sam is dead. The Old Man killed her right in front of Reese, a blood sacrifice to fuel his latest powerplay in Hell on Earth. Reese hopes the Old Man made a mistake, leaving her alive and armed. But she doubts it. He knows she's coming. The bastard has to know. Whatever. Reese plans to make him pay. And she plans to die trying.
 
Click Here to Enter
 
-David