Edward Lorn's Blog, page 107

The Lorn, by Samal McNealy and Cartoon Violence

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Ruminating On: Bay’s End

One year ago today, I uploaded Bay’s End to Amazon. Since then, my world has been a maelstrom of successes and failures. I’ve learned quite a bit in the past 365, so I figured I’d drop some of that earned knowledge onto your collective heads.

You can write about anything. Bay’s End taught me that much. No matter how graphic the content, people will follow you along until the end as long as there’s enough heart at the center of the story. But, with that being said, you must also be mindful of the language you use if you’re a thin-skinned individual. One big lesson Bay’s End drove home was that some readers will ignore certain atrocities as long as your book isn’t laden with foul language. I’ve questioned myself constantly because of this. Should I take Bay’s End down and clean up the language? Should I wash it’s mouth out with soap to appease those few individuals that are offended by the continuous flow of f-bombs spewed forth by Trey and Eddy (granted, mostly Eddy)? In the end, I decided not to. My reasoning was simple. The book is what it is. To this day, I appreciate the fact that Jude Lance never cussed, and when Officer Mack Larson did swear, he excused himself by uttering the words he would become famous for, “Pardon my French, o’ course.” I find this juxtaposition apt, as both men, no matter their evils, found that foul language was the only thing of which they should excuse themselves, as if all their other crimes paled in comparison to swearing. So, was the language in the book needed? Yes, I think it was. It still makes me confused though, as people rarely mention what happened to Candy toward the end of the book, but they’ll scream from the mountain tops their abhorrence toward Eddy’s choice of verbiage. Makes me wonder, are bad words that much worse than a child’s abuse?

As far as marketing yourself is concerned, I learned that going free can have its pluses and minuses when it comes to promoting a book. I’m happy to give Bay’s End away for free every now and then, but readers have come to expect such from me. Now that I’m with a publisher – Red Adept Publishing (RAP) – this has become a slight issue. I’ve been told by a handful of potential readers that they will just wait for my new books to go free. Considering RAP needs to make the money they invested into the book back, I don’t think Dastardly Bastard or Hope for the Wicked will be free anytime soon… if ever. Dastardly has been on sale for $.99, but I’m almost positive neither book will ever be given away en mass. I also learned that a good cover makes all the difference. If you go to Goodreads, you will see a very simple black cover listed as the cover for Bay’s End. Though I loved that cover at the time, I soon realized I needed something a little more eye-catching. I contracted with Glendon Haddix of Streetlight Graphics and, wow, did he ever come through. My cover-dealings taught me patience is critical to a new author’s success. If you don’t have the scratch for a nice cover, do not settle. Be patient and save your pennies. It can make all the difference. Proof of this came the same week I uploaded the cover that now adorns Bay’s End on Amazon. My sales quadrupled.

I’ve met many new friends and fans because of Bay’s End, and I thanked most of you guys on Facebook today, but here I would like to talk about a very special guy – Angel Vargas, and his tremendous voice acting. A month or so after Bay’s End’s release, J. Marie Ravenshaw, who was there, chapter by chapter, while I was writing the book, introduced me to a man that would become a quick friend. When I mentioned my book to him, he offered to read it aloud over Skype. Wow, that was an experience. He gave my characters voices, made them far more real than I could have ever imagined. His version of Officer Mack is soul-chilling and utterly terrifying. One day, I want an audio version of Bay’s End done with him at the mic. Up until now, neither of us have had the time to do such. Maybe one day, though. I will upload his take on Officer Mack after this post, in case those of you who are new to this blog are interested in hearing the man’s work. Nowadays, everything I write goes through Angel first. I edit my work while he reads it to me. If any of you aspiring authors are looking for some sage advice, I would say you need to find someone to read your work to you. They don’t have to be voice actors, they simply need to read what is written, because if you read it, you’re bound to read what you thought you wrote instead of what’s actually down on paper or the computer screen.

I have published two other works, indie-wise, since Bay’s End. My collections What the Dark Brings and Three After, taught me that short story collections should be used to help sell your other, lengthier work, not the other way around. Right now, Three after is free on Amazon and Kobo, and will be for the duration of its existence. I did this to garner new readers. Still to this day, “World’s Greatest Dad” is my favorite story. If you haven’t read it, hop on over and grab a copy of Three After .

I wouldn’t be here without Lynn Macnamee and her staff over at Red Adept Publishing. Back before she opened the publishing side, Lynn edited Bay’s End in its roughest form. She believed in that book, and for that, I will be forever grateful to her. I thanked her in the novel, but I will say it again here. Thank you for making me sound good, lady. Love ya!

Putting yourself out for the world to critique is not an easy venture. You must have thick skin, or be able to grow said armor at an exponential rate. To quote Michael Cane in The Dark Knight, “Some men just want to watch the world burn.” There are those that will tear you down for no other reason than to see you fail. Forget building themselves up, some act certain ways just to make you look bad. This can be for many reasons or no reason at all. You will make enemies, it’s just the ugly truth of being a public persona. Still, I’ve found more good inside people than I have bad. Because of that, I smile. Though Bay’s End isn’t perfect, I know I wrote a good book and no one will ever take that away from me.

In conclusion, this isn’t the end. My next full length novel, Life after Dane, is right around the corner, and for those of you waiting for the next Larry Laughlin book, Pennies for the Damned is almost complete. Ignore the word count meter in the sidebar, as I have yet to update it because the count changes to quickly for me to keep up. After all that, Chucklers is my next task, as I will be extending my short story, “He Who Laughs Last,” into a zombie-ish type novel. Also, I have a concentration camp story I’ve been wanting to tell for ages and I may have found just the twist I need to make the story interesting. 2013 will be a blast for me, and I cannot wait to show you guys all that I have in store.

From here until the end, I adore you guys, my friends and my readers. May your own dreams come true.

E.

I Have a New Hobby!

Future videos will be much shorter, but this one was just too much fun to stop.

Ruminating On: The Death of Critical Thinking

What I’m about to riff on is not a new topic. Blind followers have existed for as long as humans have been walking the earth. They’ve been called many things over the course of time; village idiots, mindless mobs, religious nutjobs, but they all share similar characteristics. They don’t think for themselves. Nowadays, though, their ranks are increasing. More and more unknowing souls have been seduced by the garbage they subscribe to on social media outlets. What these people see is scripture, and what they read can be perceived by them in no other way than how it is explained to them. In other words, if you tell one of these zombies that the sky is raining frogs, then show them a photoshopped image wherein torrents of amphibians are falling from the heavens, they will believe in your message without even the simple thought of looking out of their own window. The only thing that has changed recently is my willingness to suffer droves of sheep.

Here’s a thought, Einstein, why not research a topic before sharing a Facebook status or Twitter post? Not everything you witness on the internet is real, or in many cases, even possible. Some might say, “Who are they hurting? Let them be stupid if they want, E.,” but then I would respond by saying you’re part of the problem. Should we also ignore children with learning disabilities just because they don’t get it? Maybe we should leave those poor, neglected brains to themselves, because after all, how are we to ever succeed as a species if we don’t use the backs of those below us as stepping stones. Pardon me if you can’t take sarcasm, but here’s the Cliffs Notes version of what I’m getting at. Stupidity, when unchallenged, begets stupidity. It’s fucking contagious. Those of you hanging around, nodding your heads at your computer screen, dig in, because it gets tricky.

So what are facts? Well, the description I found on dictionary.com states, “a truth known by actual experience or observation.” Ah, therein lies a dilemma, does it not? I just got through saying you can’t believe everything you see, and then we’re given a quagmire of sorts. Plenty of religious persons have experienced events that make them believe that their faith is based on reality, but there are no facts to back them up. Also, if observing something makes it a fact, why can’t we lend credence to every meme we run across on the internet? The answer is critical thinking, and some of you are severely lacking in it. I know, I know, it’s so damn hard for you not to jump on the bandwagon and share every little outrage you come across on the internet, but to become so engaged that you refuse to change your mind when a rational explanation is posted only serves to shine a light on your lesser qualities. In other words, you end up looking like a moron.

All I want you to do is think. Really, is that so much to ask? Instead of jumping to conclusions that you will end up regretting, settle down, take a step back, and breathe.

In conclusion, all this crap is subjective. I’m going to think what I think and you’re going to go along with whatever you believe, but if you don’t question your knee-jerk reactions, you’re nothing but another part of the brainless throng. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with keeping your own opinions to yourself. I’m just to stubborn to take my own damned advice. If you disagree with this post, good. Maybe that hamster in your head isn’t dead upon the wheel. By the way, you should feed that bastard.

E.

Ruminating On: Characters and Caricatures.

I was going to use this for my upcoming Hope for the Wicked blog tour, but I got a wee bit angst-filled while writing it. Being that I take my characters very seriously, I thought I’d share with everyone my do’s an don’t's when it comes to creating life-like story inhabitants.

By the way… It’s good to be back

Nobody likes reading about caricatures. You know what caricatures are good for? Pub walls and souvenirs. The biggest difference between a character and a caricature is showing and not telling. Yeah, yeah, it’s the age-old adage regurgitated for you once more, but it’s also the truth. Not to mention, using caricatures is just lazy writing.

When I put on my reading cap, I want to get to know the players involved in the story. I don’t want the author to come out and tell me their villain is a bad guy, I want to see the heavy’s actions prove just how vile he is. Same with the antagonist. I refuse to like a character just because they’re the main. The author has to give me a reason to root for him or her. I try to remember all this when I’m writing, as well.

I get bored easily so I tend to stray from verbose meanderings about character description, at least as far as physical appearance is concerned. There will be those that disagree with me, but unless your character’s looks come into play somewhere in the story, I don’t see any reason to force their likeness down the reader’s throat. For the most part, no matter what you put on the page, your reader will come to see the character in their own head. And if your work is ever made into a movie, forget about it, because people will forever attribute those actors to your characters anyway. Take Stephen King’s Carrie for example. In the book, Carrie is a chubby girl, but you don’t get much skinnier than Sissy Spacek, or Angela Bettis… or even the newest actress to play the young Ms. White, . If you would like to create a caricature though, by all means, tell us about your leading lady’s high cheekbones, her pallor skin tone, hair of darkest night and eyes of oceanic blue, but I’ll probably skip that part. Honestly, what does any of that really tell you about the character?

So what do I want to know about the characters I read about? Whatever helps the story move forward. Nothing else. I don’t need a history lesson that starts from birth and ends with the present day, but if your character’s been damaged by a significant trauma that has shaped them, or, as with my stories, could come back to haunt them, that’s definitely usable. The fact that your character was in a car accident when they were nine wherein they spilled a strawberry milkshake onto their brand new cowboy boots, ruining them forever, could effect whether or not they wear boots to this day, but does it help the story progress? If your character kills people in cowboy boots by drowning them in strawberry decadence, sure, let us know. If not, keep that to yourself.

People fall in love with little details, quirks and personality traits. Even in real life, you come for the beauty but stay for the imperfections. It’s what makes us unique, those little things. Let’s say your character chews their nails when they’re nervous. Let us know that once, then, later, you can save your word count and get rid of the filler. No need for, “He chewed his nails nervously, anxiously awaiting her response.” You can just tell the reader he began chewing his nails and the blanks will fill themselves.

There will be those literary purest that want everything spelled out for them, but I don’t ride that bus. There are far too many stops. I want action and purpose, not filler and mental notation. Tell me what’s important and get out of the way so I can enjoy the story.

Trust me, nobody cares if your character has on purple suspenders, unless they’ve strangled someone with said suspenders and a crime scene investigator just found a lavender thread. You dig? I hope so. Now go write about someone you would want to read about and leave the caricatures to New York street artists.

Hope for the Wicked Now Available!!!

And on sale, at that! Grab your copy today for only $2.99!

Click on the imagine below to purchase through Amazon.com!

Hope for the Wicked’s Release Date!

Coming January 14th, 2013!

Sometimes, bad people do good deeds.

Larry and Mo Laughlin are retired killers turned private investigators with monetary woes. So when their handler introduces them to the Trudeaus, one final job is placed on the docket.

Jacob and Bernice Trudeau need their teenage daughter, Amy, found, and they also want the men responsible dead. Two million dollars is an offer Larry and Mo can’t refuse.

To find Amy, the Laughlins must travel to Mexico, where they are thrust into a world of debauchery so foul they will be forever changed.

One crazed pimp, a veterinarian turned doc-for-hire, and an enigmatic facility called “The Show” lie in wait for the wayward couple.

Is there any hope for the wicked?

Cracks – Chapter 3

You know the drill. Another Thursday, another chapter. Let me know what you think in the comments, or simply vote in the poll at the end of today’s section. No worries, the poll is all anonymous.

3.

Aubrey took Caleb’s glass to the kitchen while he went to attend to his pants in the bathroom down the hall.

Maria yelled from the living room, “There’s a hair dryer in there if you need it!”

“Thanks!”

The bathroom door was ajar. Caleb laid his hand on the cool wood and began to push it in. The way the hallway was set up, Aubrey and Maria’s room sat at the end of the hall. Caleb had a view of their nightstand, where toys—he only assumed they’d been used the night before—sat on the couples’ nightstand. One was a stoic looking number, thick and pink, with a tapered, bullet-shaped end instead of the usual mushroom-headed devices he’d seen for sale in Petri’s Adult Books on Highway 231. The second dildo looked like the Hydra from Greek mythology. The multi-headed appliance’s green skin glistened in the light from the lamp that sat on the corner of the nightstand. Caleb smiled. No shame passed before these two women, because to them, the outside world didn’t exist.

Caleb’s arm extended and the bathroom door bumped against the wall behind it. He walked in and turned around to close the door, but the sight across the hall stalled him. He looked into the guestroom, the sight of the made bed slowing the natural rhythm of his heart.

And like that, he was back there—memories coming on faster than a spark from a struck match.

In Caleb’s memory, Aubrey was passed out on the sofa, snoring loudly in the dimly lit great room. Maria bent over and scooped her wife up. Maria laughed when her drunken gait almost ran Aubrey’s head into the entrance of the hallway. Caleb, just as drunk as Maria, had the miraculous foresight to see the blow coming and lifted Aubrey’s head out of the way.

“Thanks.”

“Not a problem.” Caleb gave her a wink, then stood there, waiting until the two disappeared into their room before he moved on to the guestroom.

Monty had always been a lightweight. On the rare occasion Caleb and him smoked weed together—only twice in their four-month relationship—Monty ended up quitting after two hits, no matter the strength of the herb. Monty was even worse when it came to alcohol. That night, only two fingers of Grey Goose passed by Monty’s lips, but that was enough. Monty patted Caleb on the thigh and tucked himself away in the guest bed.

When Caleb came in, almost three hours later, he slid into bed silently, hoping not to wake his boyfriend.

“Hey,” Monty whispered, smiling in the light passing through the shades. Moonlight played across his face in linear patterns.

Caleb leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thought you were `sleep.”

“Been thinking.”

“About?”

Monty slid his arm over Caleb’s chest, down his stomach, then back up under his shirt. The movement excited a rather drunk Caleb and he moved in to kiss Monty.

But Monty pulled away.

“What’s wrong?”

Monty rubbed Caleb’s chest. “You ever gonna tell you’re father about us?”

All the fuck went out of Caleb. He laid back and put his hands behind his head. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I know, I know. I don’t understand your father, and all that crap. But I love you, Cay. Seeing you so embarrassed to be with me hurts. If we’re ever going to be more, you’re going to have to fess up. You just have to.”

“What more can we be, Monty? Seriously? You want to run off to Canada and get married? You want me to abandon everything I’ve worked so hard for here? Do you?”

“I didn’t say that.” Monty stopped rubbing Caleb’s chest and removed his hand from his shirt. “Would you ever choose?”

Caleb tried to find Monty’s eyes in the dark room, but not even the moon could highlight those sad, gray things. “What?”

“Between us and the life you have now. Since it seems that you think you have to be denied one or the other, would you ever choose and stick to only one?”

“I’m drunk, Monty. And I’m tired.”

“I’m getting tired, too, Cay. Just in a different sort of way.”

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

“You can figure it out. Goodnight.”

Like a shot, Caleb was back in the present, standing in the doorway of Maria’s bathroom, staring at an unused bed where all of his problems had begun. Before that night, things had been simpler. Monty and him shifted after that evening two months prior. Their relationship was different after that. Up until the final fight, then things were over.

Caleb no longer wanted to think about Monty. He closed himself in the bathroom and locked the knob behind him.

The hair dryer sat on a shelf above the toilet, within easy reach. Caleb pulled the device down and laid it next to the sink. His eyes, set deep within his thin face, lingered upon his reflection. Bags were beginning to form under his eyes, though he got plenty of sleep at night. The stress of losing Mom must have worn on him harder than he first thought. His cheeks were normally red—his mother always said he’d had thin skin—but that day, they looked bloodless.

“Maria was right, Cay,” he told himself in the mirror, realizing his voice sounded like Monty’s. “You look like shit.”

Snick.  

The sound caught Caleb off guard. He yanked his head away from the mirror. There, in the center of the glass, was an inch long crack that hadn’t been present on the mirror before. Caleb reached out and ran his finger down the hairline fracture. As he pulled his digit down across the crack, an oily streak appeared in its wake. The clear trail turned pink, then red. The pad of his index finger burned. He pulled his hand away, studyied it. A slit, the width of a paper cut, shone wet with blood in the center of his pointer finger.

Sniiiiiiiiiiiiick.

Caleb about gave himself whiplash, the way his neck snapped up. The crack in the mirror lengthened, reached from one corner of the mirror to the other. The break ran on the diagonal, looking like the upside of a mountain range. In the dead center, a depression appeared, as if someone stood there with their thumb pressed on the middle point of the mirror.

Snick… Sniiiiiick… Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick.

The glass spider-webbed. Haphazard lines zigged and zagged across the surface. Caleb saw himself in twenty or more different pieces. The medicine cabinet shook on the wall. Shards of glass fell into the sink, shattering on impact.

Caleb could feel himself backing away, though he had no thought of fleeing. The sight had his heart racing, but he was eerily calm given the circumstances. He kept looking from the cut on his finger to the glass raining down into the sink, back and forth, until his neck seized and the muscles in his throat constricted.

He couldn’t breathe.

Caleb’s hands went to his pants pocket out of pure instinct. The action was a survival mechanism and had been well utilized over the years. His mind told him to calm down. He began to cycle needless information around in his brain. The square root of 24 was 4.89897949. The 350 engine in the Nova was bored 30 thousandths over to a 355. Monty looked good in skinny jeans. Mom used to cut the grass when Dad broke his leg and Caleb was away at bible camp. Celeste fell in love with Caleb that summer, but he told her he didn’t want a girlfriend, that girls were too much trouble. She’d slapped him. He couldn’t catch his breath after chasing her down to pummel her. Poor Celeste, with her split lip, crying about how he “weren’t suppose to hit women!” Dying Caleb, with his failing lungs, hunting his inhaler—sucking wind, Dad called it—sucking wind and not finding a bit available. Sucking wind and still nothing was working. Because the container was empty.

Caleb slammed his inhaler in between his lips, and pumped. That familiar, unpleasant metallic taste flooded his mouth and he sucked wind like never before. He bent at the waist, supported himself there with a hand on each of his thighs, his inhaler poking out from between his thumb and his bloody forefinger. The red ran down the shaft of the pump, and dripped—splat splat splat—onto the tile floor. The spatters of blood formed the shape of an elephant—a big crimson monstrosity equipped with trunk and all. At least that’s what Caleb saw.

Maria banged on the door, asked, “Yo, CC! You fall in, or what?”

“I’m… okay. Gimme a… minute.” Caleb’s head rose until he was looking in the mirror. Not a crack anywhere to be seen.

“Didn’t hear the hair blower goin’. Thought maybe you couldn’t find it.”

“I got it. Be out in a minute, Mare.”

There was a brief silence, then, “If’n your shittin’, spray `fore you come out!”

“Yeah… will do.”

Caleb listened for Maria’s receding footsteps before he went to the mirror again. He raised his finger to eye level, found no cut. He thumped his thumbnail against the glass, opened the cabinet, and glanced inside. The back of the door was unmarred; no cracks hid there either. Bottles of over-the-counter allergy medicine and analgesics lined the shelves of the cupboard. Nothing seemed disturbed. He closed the mirror, watched himself shake his head in the unbroken reflection.

“I’m losing my mind.”

Caleb checked the floor for the crimson elephant his blood had created, but it had been herded away. Pale, egg-shell-colored tile welcomed him with a deadpan stare. The floor seemed to ask, “What the hell are you looking at?”

He answered, “I wish I knew.”

“What?” Maria called from the end of the hallway, her voice distant and muffled.

“Nothing!”

Caleb plugged the hair dryer into the wall socket between the sink and the medicine cabinet. With the flip of a switch on its back, the dryer whirred to life. He played the appliance over his damp lap in languid revolutions until the fabric was dry to the touch. The aroma of tepid alcohol filled the small bathroom, reminding Caleb of when Mom would bring a shot of warm whiskey, flavored with a drop of honey and lemon, to him those days when he got sick as a child. The brew would open up his passageways quicker than any inhaler and give him that fuzzy feeling that preludes sleep.

Before leaving the bathroom, Caleb unplugged the hairdryer and put it back on the shelf above the commode. He glanced over the mirror once again, making sure no cracks were present. Only his pallid face stared back at him.

Aubrey was waiting when he returned to the living room. She stood in the center of room, between the sofa and the recliner, beside to the Marshall amp, holding a clear Dixie cup.

She gave him a wink. “Don’t think this one will crack on you.”

“Thanks.” Caleb took the cup and sat down on the sofa.

“Everything come out all right?” Maria asked, smiling.

“I didn’t have to go.” Caleb figured honesty was needed, though he wouldn’t tell them everything.

“What took you so long then?” Maria scratched at her boob again. Caleb almost told her she might want to get that seen about.

“I was thinking about Monty.”

“Oh?” Maria’s hand stopped moving under her breast but she didn’t remove it.

Aubrey sat down beside him and rubbed the small of his back. “You okay?”

“It was the guest room that did it. Brought back the last time me and him were here, you know? We sorta argued that night. Well, that isn’t quite right. But it was the first time he brought up me telling Dad I’m gay. Didn’t go over well. Seeing the bed, how empty it was, kinda made me think about how things ended.”

Maria asked, “You feelin’ empty, CC?”

“Or, guilty?” Aubrey quit massaging his back and met his eyes.

“You know what, guys? No. It is what it is. I’m not telling Dad, and that’s it. It wouldn’t make a whole hell of a lotta difference now, anyway. Me and Monty are finished.”

“You’re a stubborn li’l sissy if I ever saw one, CC. You allergic to easy? Because you sure love makin’ things hard.” Maria shook her head, sipped her whiskey, then removed her hand from under her heavy breast. She smelled her fingertips and proceeded to chew the nail on her pinkie.

“Nasty,” Aubrey said, faking a gag.

Maria stuck her tongue out at her wife. “You still love me.”

Caleb thought the subject had moved away from Monty and him, until Maria looked back over and said, “Well?”

“Well… what?”

“Why do you have to make things so goddamn hard? Sheesh, you’re stubborn and stupid, to boot!”

“You think it would be all dandelions and sunshine if I told my dad I like guys? Are you kiddin’ me, Mare? There would be nothing easy about it. That man would castrate me.”

Aubrey broke in, “That would kinda spoil things, Maria. I’m sure Monty likes Caleb with his sack attached.”

Maria scowled. “You’re not helpin’, lady.”

“Besides, Monty needs to move on. He needs someone…” Caleb thought about the mirror from moments earlier and his guts tied into knots. “Someone more stable right now.”

“I wasn’t saying you two need to hop right back into the sack together, CC. I was sayin’ that you need’ta give it some thought. Rummage on it for a while.”

“That’s ‘ruminate’, not ‘rummage’, hon.” Aubrey corrected.

“Whatever. CC, you had a good man. You’s just dumb as a brick to let him go. Asshole father or no asshole father, you fucked up. Royally.”

Caleb said, “Preachin’ to the choir, Mare.”

“Then the choir needs’ta shut the hell up with all that Jesus noise and listen. I’m not asking you, CC, I’m straight up tellin’ you that you screwed a donkey lettin’ Monty go.”

Caleb erupted, “I know that!”

“Whoa, hon,” Aubrey put her hand on his shoulder, but he snatched it away. “Damn. Okay.”

Caleb brought his cup up and downed the Crown Royal in one swig. The fiery liquid went down so fast Caleb imagined his esophagus singed by trails of flame, the DeLorean’s tracks in Back To The Future descending his throat.

“Easy, CC. We’re just talkin’.”

“Then talk about something else.”

The room grew quiet, and Caleb started feeling bad about his outburst. Maria and Aubrey only wanted to help. He had been a jerk. He’d broken Monty’s heart and there was nothing he could do about it. The thought pained him, but there was no need to lend The Drivers any of that hurt.

Aubrey finally broke the silence. “How `bout that Crimson Tide? Those boys sure can make a touchdown.”

“Aubrey?” Maria asked in a calm voice.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Maria lowered the foot rest of her recliner, crossed her forearms over her exposed chest, and leaned forward. She stared into Caleb’s eyes. His guts went squirmy.

Maria said, “Besides your momma and Monty… anything else bothering you?”

Caleb wondered how much he should tell her. Would she believe the nonsensical hallucination he’d just been through in the bathroom? How about his thumb the night his mother passed away? Could he trust his own eyes? They’d all seen the crack in the glass and the whiskey in his lap. Maybe he could confide in them.

In the end, he shook his head. “Aren’t Monty and Momma enough?”

Maria nodded. “I reckon so. Thought I would ask, anyway.”

“Do you want another one?” Aubrey asked, pointing at his empty Dixie cup. Brown liquid had settled at the bottom, an auburn iris surrounded a milky-white pupil.

“Sure.” Caleb handed her the cup. Aubrey went off, playing bartender once more.

***

Caleb drew three sheets to the wind around eight o’clock that night. He sat back in the couch and listened while Maria played Beethoven on her new B.C. Rich guitar. Her punk stylings forgotten for the moment, knowing Caleb didn’t need to hear anything hard and heavy that evening. Aubrey toyed with a fretless bass she’d pulled from a closet in the hall. The stock said Fender, but a glittery-blue Gibson sticker adorned the pick guard that was surrounded on all sides by a golden sunburst pattern Caleb felt must be a vision of Heaven. The bass looked older than Aubrey and smelled of lacquer.

Caleb tried to learn guitar in high school, so he was able to discern certain chords as Maria serenaded him. He named notes in drunken syllables that fell from numb lips. Maria brought up the fret board, played high on the strings, held the E with the thumb of her left hand in the F position while her index, middle and ring fingers formed a D. With her right hand, she picked. Fingers caressed strings, as if those nickel bound chords were Aubrey’s more tender parts. Maria seemed so content playing that hauntingly soft music on such a jagged, evil looking instrument. The juxtaposition was not lost on Caleb. It was ugly and beautiful at the same time. Rather like his life.

He let the throb of Aubrey’s bass soothe him into a lucid dream-like state. The whiskey warmed him through and through, so the steady baritone acted like a monotone pool in which he could float, warm and peaceful. The notes were birds flying on a melody’s airstream. Aubrey began to hum—a high, mournful noise Caleb imagined Sirens had used throughout history to drive a ship’s captain and crew to their deaths upon stony shores.

He closed his eyes and saw his mother’s face, heard her dying words.

           Caleb’s voice came out toneless, lower than the music around him, “Step on a crack. Break that bitch’s back.”

And the band played on.

Next Chapter coming 1/10/13.

 

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2012 in review

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4,329 films were submitted to the 2012 Cannes Film Festival. This blog had 14,000 views in 2012. If each view were a film, this blog would power 3 Film Festivals

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Cracks – Chapter Two

At the end of every chapter there will now be a poll. Please vote. No worries, it’s anonymous. Not even I can see who votes what.

2.

Caleb buried his mother at a quarter-past-two on a Thursday afternoon. The middle of January in central Alabama was no time for a funeral. The temperature stayed in the forties, but the wind chill bordered on freezing. Caleb pulled his leather jacket closed and waited for his mother’s coffin to drop into the earth.

His emotions were a mixed bag of fear, grief, and relief. He was afraid of the days to come, how his father would handle daily life without Mom by his side. Caleb mourned his mother’s passing as any son would; he missed her, thought the world was a lesser place without her presence. He felt relieved, mainly because Mom was no longer in pain. If Heaven existed, somewhere up there above the world, he hoped she’d gone to that place. Maybe she could breathe easily now, unlike him. It occurred to Caleb he might die the same way Mom had—sucking wind, as Dad put it—,his lungs finally give out.

Chance Combs cried. Caleb’s heart grew heavy while watching the old man grieve. Dad had never shown much emotion, other than anger, so the sadness present on the man’s face pained Caleb greatly. Their relationship wasn’t peaches and cream. More like nails and barbwire. The father and son grated on each other. Dad was static, while Caleb needed to be constantly moving. The old man denied change, didn’t welcome it. Caleb coveted new experiences, sought them out like shiny trinkets and fancy baubles. Then there was Caleb’s sexual orientation. No matter the length of time, he doubted highly that Dad would ever accept the fact that his son was gay. That, more than even the death of his mother, made Caleb sad and angry.

Father Carlisle, with his gray mustache and receding hairline, said, “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.”

Caleb made the sign of the cross over his chest for the first time since he left Our Holy Mother’s pews for a dose of the real world. Once upon a time, his family had been devout Catholics. Mass seemed to be the only time the Combs ever spent together as a family. Mom would usher them along every Sunday morning, hollering orders, judging attire, fixing bad hair and smelling armpits for deodorant. Bad hygiene used to be something Caleb and his father had in common. Showers were, for the most part, an activity performed only once a week. By the time Caleb turned sixteen, all that had changed. Suddenly, Caleb wanted to impress people. He began to dress nicer—cardigans, button up dress shirts, and high priced slacks filled his closet, all paid for by an after school job at the Fresh Market in Prattville. He drove the Nova, even back then, but the car was rusted out in those days. He still carried pictures of the ride’s evolution everywhere with him in his wallet. Rust changed to primer. Primer turned to cherry red paint. Bald, bare-radial Firestones were replaced with classic whitewalls, and gun-metal gray bumpers transformed into chrome you could style your hair in. When Caleb graduated from high school, and got on at the Hyundai plant in Hope Hull. Church became the last thing on his mind. For one, he didn’t feel welcome, as Catholics frowned on homosexual lifestyles. For another, he just thought religion was full to the brim with steaming horse manure.

He saw the old man sign the cross, and Caleb resisted a grin. Chance Combs had only attended church because his wife had made him. Caleb didn’t think he knew any other individual further from the Lord than his father. Dad was just going through the motions, like he did with pretty much everything else in life. His father firmly believed, that to rear a child, you must be forceful and unbending. To have a happy marriage, a man must pay the bills and pleasure his wife. These were all things he tried to instill in Caleb at a young age. The birds and the bees happened on the tailgate of a pickup truck that was five years in the junkyard by the time Terri Combs died. The day was hot, damn near a hundred degrees according to the mercury in the thermometer that hung on the wall of the garage. Caleb remembered how he’d squirmed while his father taught him about sex, and how to protect himself against diseases and unwanted children. Caleb shifted from butt-cheek to butt-cheek, not because the topic was uncomfortable, but because the bed of the truck was branding the back of his thighs. The talk was half informative, half trite. Disease might be a concern for Caleb, but there was no need to worry about fathering any children. He knew his seed would never find fertile ground long as he lived.

Uncle Lucky and Aunt Felicity—Caleb’s grandparents on his father’s side had been professional gamblers in their heyday—came over once Mom was lowered into her final place of rest. Lucky looked forlorn, as Caleb expected, but Felicity was smiling, her face matching her name. Chance shook his brother’s hand, and Lucky pulled the old man in by his wrist into a bear-hug.

While the brothers embraced, Felicity spoke to Caleb.

“How you holding up?” The question almost made Caleb laugh. It was the stuff of funeral etiquette, and he didn’t quite know how to answer the query.

He shrugged. “Well as can be expected.” Felicity put a hand on his shoulder and her face contorted into a look of compassion.

“You ever need someone to talk to, you just call me. Okay?”

“Sure.”

Felicity asked Chance. “How you doin’, little brother?”

Caleb’s father looked at Felicity over Lucky’s shoulder and shook his head. The way the two siblings stood there—Lucky and Chance—arms around each other, tuxedoed bodies mashed together, made Caleb think about how Monty and him might’ve looked had they ever seen their wedding day. He shoved the thought to the back of his mind, focused on reality.

Chance said, “I’m gonna miss her, sis.”

Felicity gave a beleaguered smile. “I bet.”

Caleb had an uncontrollable urge to flee. He wanted to be gone from all of them. Mom, soon to be six feet under unsettled earth, was gone. Time to move on, to get away from everything for a while. He began walking, not knowing where he’d end up, only knowing he couldn’t stand to be around family at that moment. His feet seemed to carry him away on a cloud of air without any effort needed on his part. Caleb floated toward the Nova—a ghost traveling through the surrounding tombstones. No one stopped him. Nobody called after him. When he hit the road, he rounded the end of the Nova. He expected to see someone, anyone, chasing him down, intent on stalling his departure, but no one was there. In the distance, Lucky stood alone, graveside, his back turned to Caleb’s escape while Felicity and Chance talked amongst themselves. Caleb’s stomach tightened with the thought that they had not noticed he’d gone.

Caleb slid in behind the driver’s seat and started the car. He sat there for a full minute, glancing up every now and then to see if any family members were looking around, hunting his whereabouts. After he was certain he would not be missed, he pulled out of the cemetery and turned into the afternoon sun. The glow of the stellar body glinted off the crack Monty had put in his windshield. Caleb needed to get that fixed, but the chore would have to wait. He was driving north toward Prattville, approaching Day Street at a steady clip. Maria and Aubrey Driver lived there, and they would be a sight for sore eyes.

He needed someone to talk to, someone to confide in, and whatever he wanted to get off his chest would be welcome in the Driver’s home. Those two women would understand, if for no other reason than they’d pretty much been through it all.

Maria’s family disowned her when she came out of the closet. The same situation befell Aubrey when she told her parents she was in love with a woman, but shortly after Aubrey’s confession, her father had a stroke. Aubrey made it through with her sanity, so she might have some words of encouragement for Caleb. If nothing else, she would be an open ear connected to a shoulder in which he could shed some tears.

The couple wasn’t quite married in the legal sense of the word, but they’d exchanged their vows, had a modest ceremony, and settled on Maria’s last name. Everyone who knew the two women knew them as The Drivers. Caleb included.

Caleb pulled into Brookshire Estates just after three-thirty that afternoon. He got out of the car and strode up the cobblestone walkway to the Driver’s front door.  The one-story Spanish-style-villa had been painted since the last time he’d seen it—the drab tan of the exterior swapped for an avocado green. Dead Kennedys could be heard through the walls of the house. Caleb knew the song, but couldn’t place the name. He thought the song rather fitting, given his current state of mind. The angst-driven guitar, accompanied by the staccato assault of a drummer seemingly possessed by Satan, mirrored the warring thoughts crashing through his brain. He walked up the two steps that led to the enclosed front porch—fully equipped with mesh to keep Alabama’s giant skeeters away during the swampy months—and yanked the screen door open. The floor of the porch had changed in the weeks he’d been absent, as well. Gone was the beer-stained, egg-shell carpet that had covered the floor. Instead, green Astroturf crunched under his feet.

“Don’t dirty near as easy,” Maria said from the door, pointing to the faux grass. The punk music died. Caleb thought perhaps Aubrey had turned it off.  ”Glad to see you ain’t dead, CC.”

Maria Driver was every bit of her fifty years. Her crew-cut-style, salt-and-pepper hair dripped perspiration at her temples even though the day was frigid. She had her left hand under one heavy breast, scratching an itch that must have been annoying her by the look on her face. Her bare body didn’t unsettle Caleb. The woman was a nudist, thought clothing was an inconvenience she couldn’t be bothered with. She’d been a red head in her younger years—the ginger triangle between her legs proved as much.

Caleb gave her a nod. “Hey, Mare.”

“All I get is a little movement of the head and a ‘Hey, Mare?’ You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me. Aubrey! This bottom done went and lost his manners!”

“No shit?” Aubrey’s high-pitched squeal was lighter than her partner’s muted baritone. “What made him go’n do that for?”

“Beats the tits off’ah me!”

Caleb smiled. “Kiss my ass. I get plenty of pitching time.”

“Not what Monty says, catcher.”

“Doesn’t really matter what Monty says, Mare. Me and him are a done deal.”

“So’s I heard. Come the hell in before you freeze off what little meat you got left on them bones. You look like shit! Boy-hoo, do you ever!”

Caleb stepped past Maria into the foyer. The heater welcomed him like a warm blanket, and he understood the sweat present on Maria’s brow. “Hot enough in here for you?”

“Shuddit. Winter tends to harden the nips if’n I ain’t diligent with the heat. Cuttin’ glass ain’t my thing. You need a brew? `Cause you look like someone upped and died on you.”

Caleb stopped just inside the door, his head dropping quicker than a bag of concrete down a well.

“Ah, fuck,” Maria groaned. “Not her. Goddamnit! Aubrey! Get the hard shit, darlin’! Caleb done lost his momma!” Caleb kept no secrets where his mother’s health had been concerned. Maria knew the deal, was smart enough to figure things out without being told the details.

If Maria Driver was a bull, Aubrey would be considered a lipstick. As nude as Maria always was, Aubrey tended to seem overdressed.

Aubrey came out of the kitchen clothed in a silk blouse and a flowing, knee-length skirt, a fifth of Maker’s Mark in her left hand and a gallon of Crown in the other. Her strawberry-blond tresses were pulled up in a bun. Caleb had seen that hair when it was down, and her locks about reached her ass.

She asked, “Short swallows or overnight gallows?”

“I don’t have anywhere to be.” Caleb sat down on the mauve couch in the middle of the room, and put his feet up on a Marshall practice amplifier. The well-used amp made for a comfy footstool.

The first time Monty had brought Caleb over to meet the Driver’s, Caleb had been uninformed of the couples’ band, The Mass Debaters. It seemed he’d committed blasphemy by asking if they actually played the twelve vintage guitars that lined the walls of the living room. Maria and Aubrey didn’t own a television. They made their own entertainment—if that’s what you wanted to call the thrash-punk their three piece band played. The only missing element lived in Troy, Alabama—an hour and a half drive from the Driver’s home in Prattville. Her name was Dude, and she played drums like Animal from The Muppets. Caleb had only met Dude once, and she was the only woman—other than his mother—that he’d ever been scared to be around.

“You got a new guitar.” Caleb pointed to the odd-shaped, axe-looking instrument which held center attention on the wall.

“It’s a B.C. Rich Bich. Cost me a grand and some change. Fuckin’ thing wails balls when you crank `er.” Maria wiggled her fingers as if she were riffing on a fret board.

Aubrey retreated back into the kitchen, but Caleb heard her screechy voice clearly when she asked, “Ice?”

“Please.”

“Comin’ right up to fuck ya up!”

Maria flopped down across from Caleb, raising the footrest of her old, beat-up Lazy-Boy as she crashed into the recliner. “When’d she go?”

“Week ago.”

“She go peaceful?”

“I `spose so.”

Maria’s brow furrowed. “Did you get to tell her?”

“At the end… yeah. She was talkin’ nonsense, though, Mare. Doubt she fully understood me.”

“Sorry, CC. That shit’s rough, buddy. Never wished no hurt on nobody other than myself.” Maria rubbed the hesitation marks on her forearms. The scars were old, wounds from a life Maria no longer lived. Aubrey had dulled the need for the razor. Maria told Caleb as much the first time they got drunk together two months before, long after Aubrey and Monty passed out for the night.

Caleb said, “So, you heard from Monty. What’d he have to say?”

“Nothing good `bout you, kid. But that ain’t why you’re here, so quit changin’ the damned subject.” Maria stuck her middle finger in her mouth and chewed. She ripped the tip of her nail off and spat it into the brown carpeting.

“I’ll talk about it when I need to. Let me settle a bit.”

“This place is good for that. Settlin’, I mean. You come to the right place, CC. We’re settled, me and Maria. Might help you settle some. Might help that junk that’s causing your engine to misfire settle down at the bottom of your tank. Get me?”

Caleb laughed. “Words of wisdom from a bull-dyke. Just what I was hoping for.”

“Look, CC, I know you need to joke `cause you’re all fucked up right now—what with losing Monty and your mother in a week’s time—but you gotta take life as a lesson, or else you end up lessening life.”

“Lor-Dee! Pull up your pant legs, Caleb. Shit’s getting deep ‘n here!” Aubrey was shaking her head as she walked back into the living area with two glasses of amber liquid. She handed one to Caleb, and gave the other to Maria. Aubrey leaned down and kissed Maria on the cheek.

There it was again, Caleb thought… happiness.

Maria yelped. “You’re go’n make me spill my drink, heifer. Go on, now!”

“Yes, sir, ma’am.” Aubrey slapped Maria’s left breast as she retreated to the sofa. The pale flesh rippled—a spoon dropped in Jell-O.

“Insufferable twat.” Maria blew Aubrey a kiss.

“Them words `bout as big as your boobies, hon. Watch how you throw ‘em around.” Aubrey winked at her partner.

Caleb laughed. It felt so damn good to laugh again.

He’d known going over to Maria and Aubrey’s house would serve a greater purpose than just a venue where he could shoot the shit. The women seemed to be the light at the end of his tunnel. For a while, he could stop watching the center line without the fear of running into the walls of the dimly lit corridor of life.

Caleb felt something wet spreading on his lap. He looked down and saw his whiskey dripping from the bottom of his glass.

Caleb growled, “Shit!”

“What’s wrong, hon?” Aubrey asked.

“Could I have another glass? I think this one’s got a crack in it.”

 

Chapter Three coming 1/3/13

 

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