Edward Lorn's Blog, page 102

Ruminating On: Genesis and Beyond

In the beginning, there were lies.

Many of you know this first bit, so if you recognize the tale of five or six year old me, feel free to skip ahead to the next paragraph. When I was in elementary school (probably kindergarten or first grade) I got up in front of my class and told everyone my baby brother died over the weekend. I received the expected condolences and tears. Even the teacher cried. After school, I walked home as I would any other day. But this afternoon, my mother was waiting for me just inside the door, my father’s leather belt—the one with “Pete” burned into it—clutched in one white-knuckled fist. She lay into me with a fury I hadn’t witnessed prior to that day. See, I didn’t have a baby brother. I’d lied to my class, hoping to garner the reactions that I coveted so dearly. Seems my teacher had called Mom during my walk home. She expressed her weeping condolences for the loss of my mother’s youngest child. Even though I wasn’t there for the conversation, I can see my mother quite clearly, her face getting redder and redder until finally reaching her boiling point. After explaining to my teacher that this tragedy never occurred, my mother asked the woman what she thought a mother could do as a stopgap measure for her son’s lies, because I obviously wasn’t going to stop. My teacher responded, “Have him write this stuff down. The boy can tell a story.” After turning my ass many different shades of red, Mom went out and bought me a Brother typewriter. Seemed odd to me, receiving a gift so soon after a punishment, but there it was. Mom gave me the two extra ink spools she’d purchased and away I went. I never looked back, either. Thanks, Mom. Love ya.

Now for the bit none of you know. I won a local writing competition in the second grade. That story took me to state level and, eventually, to nationals. I lost Nationals, though. In fact, I didn’t even place. I was up against some pretty seasoned professionals, not to mention junior and high school kids. Trust me, had I won, I would have been published far before the age of thirty-one. Imagine a seven year old winning a national writing competition. Every publisher in existence would have been knocking down my door. My story had a major flaw, though, one that I still laugh about to this day. No one ever mentioned it so no editing was ever done to the document, which I still have to this day. The story was about a group of fantasy-type folks—a warrior, a wizard, a dwarf, and an elf—all journeying to slay a Minotaur of legend. There was a twist at the end where the reader finds out that the dwarf had actually raised the beast from birth. Together, the Minotaur and the dwarf kill the rest of the party. Dark content for a kid, but horror was always my thing. I received more praise for the twist ending than I did for any other part of the story. Everyone seemed so amazed that a seven year old had plotted to fool grownups and succeeded. Well, the joke was on them. I didn’t plot the story out, and I still don’t to this day. They were all so enamored with my piece that everyone failed to mention the problem with the title. Though the story was about a Minotaur the piece was actually entitled “The Matador.” Did everyone overlook the error in the title because of my age? Probably. But I wonder, had I titled it properly, might I have gone a bit further and placed?

I wrote my first novel when I was nine. I only call it a novel because of the word count, though fifty-two thousand words of utter nonsense is a more proper descriptor. The book was entitled Good Versus Evil. The story revolved around God and Satan personified in modern day California (well, modern day back in 1989 at least). God’s earth-name was Jacob Dog and Satan’s was Jacob Lived. Spell each of their names backward and you’ll see what a nine year old considers a plot-twist. For a major part of the book, Jacob Dog was actually a canine. I have no idea why. He just was. In the climatic conclusion, Jacob Dog and Jacob Lived had an epic sword fight in a graveyard. The end. Now, everything seemed kosher while I was writing the book, but on my second read-through, I realized I’d made a major foible. Both my antagonist and protagonist had the same first name. Damnit! I shelved it without another thought. Looking back, it’s funny, as the same-named characters should have been the least of my worries. Oh well, I was nine. At nine, you get a pass.

Over the course of the next twenty-two years, I would write fourteen more “trunk novels”; some on my Brother typewriter, and the rest on a 333 MHz Barbie computer my sisters bought my mother in `97. I could probably publish the final five of those novels and, with the proper editing, pass them off as new material, but I won’t. I only keep them around because they’re my history; the tales that made me the writer I am today. In 2011, I joined writing.com. I met several friends on that website, and in the course of a single year, posted over one hundred and fifty short stories. That number does not include works-in-progress that I never finished, novelettes, novellas, or even an atrocious, unedited version of my debut novel, Bay’s End. Out of those 150 shorts, I published thirty-five of them in 2012: three in Three After, nineteen in What the Dark Brings, and the rest in various ezines and anthologies. In total, I have over 900 short stories (all written between 2011 and now) on a terabyte harddrive, ninety-nine percent of which I wouldn’t show my bestest friends in all of creation. I’ve also written three more trunk novels since I published Bay’s End. That’s right, I’ve written eighteen books and nine-hundred shorts that none of you will ever see.

Storytelling is all I know. Today’s blog is not me bragging, but simply me shining a light on the road I’ve traveled to get where I am today. Out of every book I publish, I trash at least one other one. For every short story I show you, I’ve discarded ten. So, when asked that age-old question of “When did you start considering yourself a writer?” I will forever answer, “I don’t consider myself a writer. I’m a storyteller. If I were a writer, more of my stories would be readable.” Of course some of you will disagree with me and say things like, “You write all this down, right? So you’re a writer.” Let me just say, “We shall agree to disagree.”

Whoa, that went on much longer than I expected. I haven’t blogged in weeks, so we’ll attribute today’s long-windedness to that fact. This was good, though, as it got me back into the swing of blogging again.

Until next time, I have been E, You have been you, and together, we’ve been us.

LYF!

E.

NEXT THURSDAY: Ruminating On: Style Versus Voice.

Life After Dane Cover Reveal!

Life After Dane Cover Reveal!

Streetlight Graphics did another fantastic job. This one has to be my favorite yet.

Got Your Goat

Got Your Goat

by Edward Lorn

The goat’s balls were huge, planetary. I shined the flashlight in between the animal’s legs while Gary rustled around in his pack. My friend grunted. I swung the beam to where he knelt by the barb wire fence as he yanked the hedge clippers from his too-small satchel.

“Sumbitch got caught.” Gary, all of five foot and balding at thirty, spat into the grass. He stood up, adjusted the crotch of his coveralls, and joined me by the billie with the gargantuan testes.

“You’re really gonna do this?” I asked.

“Fuck yeah, po’ boy.” My name was Patrick, but Gary liked to constantly remind me that he was better off in his monetary situation than me. “Bastard killed my Cooter.”

Cooter had been a sour-smelling Blue Tick hound Gary had owned since he’d grown hair on his particulars. The dog was known for never leaving the porch, but earlier that week, Jasper Bumgardner ran the dog over out on highway 14 going into Autugaville. What the hound had been doing out that far—a good ten miles from Gary’s shack of a palace—neither my friend or I knew. Jasper had called it in to the local PD and deputy Shaw relayed the news back to Gary. Gary went out to collect what was left of Cooter from the side of the road. Jasper’d been gone, but Deputy Shaw had waited for my friend. The Blue Tick’s back had been snapped clean in two and his guts were hanging out his ass. Gary wasn’t crying when he called me, but I heard the ghosts of sobs hanging on his every word.

“Hold the thing,” Gary said.

I leaned down, half-expecting the well-endowed goat to just take off and leave me in his dust, but the animal let me pet him. With calm, soothing strokes, I gained its favor. I dropped to one knee, wrapped both arms around its midsection, and shined the flashlight back between its legs.

I said, “Ready. Make it—”

Before I could utter “quick,” Gary snipped off the goat’s sack with the hedge clippers.

A keening noise came from the goat as he bucked me. The damn thing sounded like a lady screaming. I’d never heard a thing like it in all my days. The noise drew the females. First two stepped into the ambient glow of the flashlight, then four more, until I was surrounded by brown and gray ladies, sniffing and chuffing.

I released the billie and he ran away. I assumed to bleed to death.

And then the feeding frenzy began.

I heard tell that goats’ll eat any-damn-thing, but I always imagined that meant trash and tin cans, cotton batting and shit. Not recently removed testicles. Didn’t that make them cannibals, or at the very least, carnivores? I believed all goats were plant eaters. I guessed I was wrong.

Gary laughed at the sight of the throng of munching females. “Them bitches is ruthless! Let’s see how ol’ Jazz likes it when he finds his prized buck without its mail bag. Come on, po’ boy, let’s grab a beer at Sissy’s.”

“I gotta get home, Gary. I got work in the mornin’.”

“Pussy.” Gary snatched up his pack, shoved the bloody shears inside, and made his way toward the fence. In less than ten seconds, he was out of the reach of the flashlight.

Something about the females bothered me. The testes had been devoured, but now the goat ladies seemed intent on trimming the blood-splattered grass around them. Off in the distance, the billie screamed again. Jasper’s house was forty acres west of where he kept his goats. No chance he’d hear his prized billie lamenting, but fear swelled in me nonetheless.

“Gary?”

No answer.

“Gary?”

I should just leave, at least that’s what my brain was telling me. Still, my feet felt anchored, like someone had poured cement on them and parked their car atop my stone-set shoes.

The screaming billie fell silent.

“Gary!”

I swept the flashlight over the crowd of lady goats, up over them, and into the vast field before me. The light died twenty feet ahead, consumed by shadows. With the flash on, my night vision was shot. Everything in my peripheral vision was made of squid ink.

I could hear something stomping toward me. At the edge of the beam, something lumbered into view. The breadth of the thing’s form caused me to retreat a full four steps, all taken in rapid succession. I lost track of the hulking monstrosity.

My heart hammered in my chest, as if someone was knocking on my ribs in slow motion. The barbs of the fence stabbed into my back. I hadn’t realized I was so close.

I spun on my heel and used the fence post to help me vault the wires, much like I’d done when Gary and I first arrived.

I ran.

Gary’s Subaru crossover was parked fifty yards away, at the road. I could see the headlights. The closer I came to the car, the more I realized something was wrong. The driver’s side door was wide open, but Gary wasn’t behind the wheel. I looked left, to the front of the car, then right, to the rear.

Gary’s brown Timberland steel-toes stuck out from under the rear bumper, lit dim red by the rear lights. I took a step toward him, and another, then stopped altogether.

I did not see what had happened to my friend. Not that night, because, into the crimson glow emanating from the back of the car, stepped a terrible thing. Its long torso, covered in matted clumps of coarse, wet hair, rose and fell with breath. Steam poured from cavernous nostrils set below two eyes with square pupils. Black fluid coated the man-goat’s jutting horns.

It leaned forward and screamed its lady-like scream. Spittle and hot, fetid breath washed over me.

In the blink of an eye, I was in the car and doing ninety, headed for home. After all, I had work in the morning.

Something A Little Different

A while back, David Antrobus invited me to continue a short story which he’d posted on his blog. Once I accepted his challenge and wrote my section, JD Mader followed up my section with his own addition. Then, the incomparable Jo-Anne Teal hopped aboard to finish out the collective. What came of our coupling was a single, cohesive body of work. I am proud of my section, but the real stars of this show are Antrobus, Mader, and Teal.

This is much different from than my normal horror/thriller fair, so don’t expect any bloody adventures. This is the literary side of E. With that being said, if you’re a fan of good writing, definitely pick this book up.

Seasons is only $.99 through Amazon.com.

http://www.amazon.com/Seasons-ebook/dp/B00CLG16YA/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1367429474&sr=1-1

Ruminating On: Labeling Myself a Horror Author

I’ve received several reviews concerning my need to label myself a horror writer. In fact, I just found another one today. I figured I’d touch upon that subject and try to give people a little understanding.

I started out as a straightforward horror scribe. Anyone who has read my short story collections will see where my journey started. Those tales were my attempts at scaring people. Since I was a kid, I’ve had an undying affection for the horror genre: slasher films, monster movies, dark plots, buckets of blood. That’s just me. It’s who I am. I’m a fanboy. But, some of my favorite scary movies have nothing to do with horror. The kid-snatching candyman in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is still one of the most terrifying characters I have ever come across, as is Nurse Rachet from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. When I started my longer-form works, I wanted to do more than just scare people. I wanted to create characters that would stay with you, the type of players you could care about so that when the bad things happened you had more than just a singular response of horror.

To this day, I market my debut novel, Bay’s End, as a work of horror. I’ve heard from several reviewers that the book is so much more than that, and I appreciate their kind words, but, in the end, that novel scares the hell out of me. It’s horrific. Sure there’s the coming-of-age aspect, the message of friendship, and the trappings of first love, but the overall theme of the story is human evil. Imagine how readers would respond if I’d labeled that book Young Adult or Literary Fiction only for them to get to the trials Candy goes through. Not to mention all the language in the story. Part of my reasoning for marketing the book as horror is a stopgap measure for those who’d find the scene toward the end of the book too much to handle. By saying it’s a horror novel, I hope to keep people that might be overtly offended by it’s content away from the book.

The pivotal scenes in my books are horrifying. I touch upon some rather taboo subjects. I try to stay as far back during these scenes as I can, to tell them sideways, if you will, but some need a close up look for them to work, as with Hope for the Wicked. If you haven’t read that Larry Laughlin novella, I’m going to warn you now, Bay’s End is all unicorns and rainbows in comparison. I have my reasons for writing about such vile happenings, but I can’t tell you here, as they are mostly spoilers.

Later this year, you guys will get a chance to read my first real “commercial horror novel.” Life After Dane isn’t the darkness thing I’ve ever written, but the title character gets under your skin. Aside from rewrites and edits, I finished working on Dane back in October of 2012, but Dane Peters still haunts me, no pun intended. If I’ve done my job right, horror fans and literary types both will find something of interest within Dane’s story.

In the end, I write about these things to vanquish my own inner demons. I’m a visual guy, and once I see something I can’t unsee until I write it out. Trust me, I’m just as appalled at some of my content as you are. Thank you for letting me share my nightmares with you.

E.

 

Hope for the Wicked On Sale!

Only $.99 for a limited time!

Click on the cover above for buying options!

Impossible Astronaut Day

Don’t forget.

Just Short of Paradise

Just Short of Paradise

 by Edward Lorn

 ”Mom,” Katlyn said, “I’m gay.”

She watched her mother’s hands on the steering wheel, at ten and two. The knuckles blanched, bloodless.

“Sorry,” Mom said, “what was that?”

Mercy Me played over the radio, “I Can Only Imagine,” set to repeat. Before Katlyn could repeat herself unnecessarily, Mom began humming along with the song.

Katlyn thought, You can’t spell ignorance with out I-G-N-O-R-E.

The interstate rolled out in front of them, dull and gray, the most exciting part of it the broken yellow line running toward them. The song faded and began once again, the tinkle of piano keys accompanied by the low melody of the singer’s soft tones. Katlyn laid her head against the warmth of the passenger side window. The sun, magnified by the glass, had turned her forearm a deep red. She reached over and rubbed at the ruddy skin, took a deep breath, and bent forward to turn off the radio.

Mercy Me fell mercifully silent.

Katlyn let it all hang out. “Becky’s not my friend. She’s my lover. We’ve been together for over a year now. We plan on getting married. I want you to acknowledge that fact, whether you like it or not.”

A shaking hand left the steering wheel to smooth perfectly coifed blonde hair. Her mother’s face remained stoic in the moment but Katlyn could almost smell Mom’s fear.

After a full minute of silence, Mom said, “I didn’t raise a homosexual.”

“No,” Katlyn said, “You gave birth to one. You didn’t do anything to make me this way. I just am this way.”

“Homosexuality is an abomination.”

“So are your social skills, but you don’t see me complaining.”

Mom shot her a quick, harsh look, then returned her eyes to the road. “You’re not funny.”

“Depends on who you ask.” Katlyn tried to smile but the hurt on her mother’s face aborted the grin.

Mom’s hand went for the radio. Katlyn smacked it away.

Mom barked, “Katlyn Marie Carlisle!”

“Janet Whatever Your Middle Name Is Carlisle!”

“I’m trying to drive.”

“I’m trying to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk about what you want to talk about.” Mom stared straight ahead, cords standing out on her neck from the sheer tension of trying to look in Katlyn’s direction.

“Then you’ll just have to listen, because I’m not shutting up. If you want to drop me at a bus stop and continue on to California without me, fine, but I’m gonna get this out.”

Mom went for the radio again. Katlyn beat her to it. She pressed the eject button, rolled her window down, and threw the CD out as if she were chucking a Frisbee.

Wide-eyed, with nostrils flaring, Mom fumed. She looked like she’d just got through snorting a line of cocaine laced with Tabasco sauce.

Mom said, “I’m calling your father when we get to Bakersfield.”

“What? Like I’m fifteen again? Like I just snuck out of the house for a night of drunken teenage abandon? I’m twenty-two years old, Mom.”

“Your poor grandmother. I’m glad she passed before she could see you like this.”

“Oh, that’s just low. Even for you. Here we are, on our way to the woman’s funeral, and all you can think about is how you’re glad she’s dead.”

“I am not—” Mom slammed the ball of her fist against the steering wheel, “—glad my mother’s dead. I’m glad that she went to her grave thinking you were a decent young lady and not… not… “

“Gay! I’m gay! Say it. For once, say it.”

“You sicken me.”

That did it. Katlyn hated her mother for the tears welling in the corners of her eyes. She despised the fact that Mom still had that kind of control over her. But there was also love, an undying feeling for the woman who had brought her into this world. Conflicting emotions waged war in Katlyn’s head, ebbing and flowing like rogue waves on weather worn pilings. God damn her for making this so hard.

            “I am who I am. I don’t harp on you for believing in some all-knowing all-seeing psychopath who hides in a galaxy far, far away. I don’t scream at you for believing that some three-day-old zombie shat out a bunch of multi-colored eggs. And I certainly—”

The backhand caught her directly across the lips. Blood exploded into Katlyn’s mouth, liquid pennies racing across her tongue. The tears leapt from her eyes and crashed upon her cheeks.

“Please, Lord, forgive my child.”

“You… bitch.” Katlyn’s hand found the door handle, and if it hadn’t been for the driverless car beside them, she might have pushed it open and jumped out.

Katlyn blinked.

“Huh?” The comment sounded stupid, even to her. She rubbed her eyes as the car, sans operator, drifted over toward her side. Katlyn noticed the rosary hanging from the rearview of the empty sedan just before the vehicle’s speed reduced dramatically. Mom pulled away from the car as it swerved into their lane, barely missing them. Katlyn dropped the visor down, lifted the cover of the vanity mirror, and watched as the car rolled into the concrete horses that segmented the east- and westbound lanes.

“There was nobody driving that car,” said Katlyn, more to herself than to her mother.

“Do not speak to me right now.”

“Mom… I’m serious. There was nobody in that car.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Though Mom’s face said she didn’t care to justify Katlyn’s words with any emotion, her mother’s eyes darted to the mirror and stayed there longer than a glance.

“See?”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Exactly.”

Mom sighed. “No, I mean I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

Katlyn slapped the visor closed, twisted around in her seat, and tried to get a better look at the now still car, but it was too far away by that time for her to see inside.

She flopped back down straight in her seat and tried to make sense of what she’d seen. A car driving itself. Or a car whose driver had disappeared. Too many options, no good answers.

An arc of brilliant light etched its way across a clear blue sky, causing Katlyn to cover her eyes; so bright that Katlyn’s eyes instantly burned even behind her closed lids. When she dared open them again, her hand glowed red, as if someone were on the other side, shining a flashlight into her palm.

Trumpets sounded.

Katlyn wet herself.

“Oh… ” Mom said, “it’s so beautiful.”

The crimson outlining Katlyn’s arm dimmed and she was able to drop her hand. Out across the concrete expanse before her, cars were either stopped or slowing down. Her mother rolled past a silver Lexus with a MY OTHER RIDE IS YO MOMMA bumper sticker. The driver seemed to be in a fit of a seizure, bobbing around in his seat like a buoy in a storm, until pop! he exploded, painting the inside of the luxury coupe with what looked like ketchup-covered meatloaf.

“Holy shit!” Katlyn tried to crawl away from the sight. Though she was in no danger, she drew her legs up to her chest and pushed away.

“Look… ” Mom cooed. Her voice was melodic and almost sexual, as if post-orgasm. “He’s finally come.”

Katlyn fought with what to focus on. She could no longer form words. The man who’d turned into Sunday night supper before her eyes had stolen all semblance of rational thought away from her.

A tractor trailer jumped the median, but only the cab made it over. The rear compartment became snagged on the divider. The entire rig snapped to a halt, having lost the tug-of-war. Red goo ran down the inside of the window in gelatinous rivulets. Written across the top of the windshield, startling white against the maroon mess behind it, was the word SLAYER.

Mom pulled the car to the side of the road and killed the engine. Her door popped open. Katlyn watched in startled disbelief as her mother began walking down the breakdown lane, her arms out at her sides, head tossed back to the heavens, calling out, “Take me! Take me!”

Katlyn spilled out of her side, dropping to the gravel roadside. The horns continued to blow, their monotone trumpeting almost splitting Katlyn’s head in two.

“Mom!”

“He’s finally come back!”

Katlyn pushed herself up off the ground, yelling over the droning trumpets, “Who’re you talking about?”

“It’s the second coming.”

Katlyn heard her mother, but for some reason the words didn’t click. She shook her head, as if trying to align the pieces of the puzzle bouncing around in her cranium. Mom couldn’t be talking about…

No way. Nuh-uh.

Mom squealed, “It’s… rapture!”

Katlyn made it to her mother. She grabbed the woman’s shoulders and spun her around to meet her eyes. Bright, glistening orbs twitched and stared. Mom had lost her mind.

Hadn’t she?

            You better hope so, Katlyn heard a voice in her head respond.

A black Mercury with a Romney/Ryan bumper sticker sat in the breakdown lane ahead of them. Inside, the passenger side was thick was fleshy matter and dripping blood, while the right side was significantly cleaner. Katlyn let her mother go and strode over to the driver’s side door.

Clear as day, like Bug’s Bunny running through a brick wall, Katlyn could trace the outline of a person in the clean section of glass. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, what had happened. The driver had disappeared, but not before the passenger had went the way of a pimple under pressure.

She backed away from the car, shaking her head, willing herself not to go completely mad.

Then, something occured to her. She began to laugh.

Mom no longer beamed. Her face drew down in a horse-faced frown. Katlyn found her mother’s sadness all too funny.

“Wha-what are you laughing at?” Mom shook a crooked finger at her. “You see what you’ve done? He’s come back, taken his children, and you… you’re still here. Your filthy, abhorrent lifestyle has damned you to an eternity upon this earth. You’re in purgatory, Katlyn. Purgatory!”

Still, Katlyn laughed.

“Stop it! You stop laughing right this instant! Don’t you see? Are you blind to see why you’re still here?”

“Nope,” Katlyn said, managing to control her laughter for a moment. “I know exactly why I’m here.”

“Repent, child! Repent!”

“Mom… “

“What?”

Katlyn let her grin go wide until her cheeks hurt. “You’re still here, too.”

Mom’s face turned ashen, as if someone had dumped a gallon of White-Out over her head. Katlyn could see the understanding in her mother’s eyes. She didn’t know whether to feel sorry for her bigot of a mother or just continue laughing.

“But,” Mom said, “I… I don’t understand.”

“I’m still here because I never believed,” Katlyn said. “What’s your excuse?”

A Quick Lesson in Tense

Past Perfect – I had been down that road before.

Past – I walked down the road.

Present – I’m moving down the road.

Future – Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.

Life After Dane Announcement!

Drop on by, read the synopsis, and watch the new teaser trailer. While you’re at it, leave a comment.

http://redadeptpublishing.com/coming-fall-2013-life-after-dane-by-edward-lorn/