Edward Lorn's Blog, page 92

Ruminating On: What Matters

I’ve been kicking around this planet for a little over thirty-three years. In that time I’ve transitioned from diapers to big boy undies, learned my ABCs and 123s, found out how to love and laugh and hate and cry, and even wrote a few stories. Fast forward to a week ago today. I had an epiphany. I’m doing the exact thing that I had always said I wouldn’t. My love, my passion, has become a fucking job. I don’t like that. And, because I believe myself a creature capable of change, I’ve decided to do something about it. I’m starting over.

You will find that I’ve left Facebook. Nothing’s going on over there anyway, aside from Duck Dynasty bullshit, holiday well wishes, and the ever-present cat photos. You can still find me on Twitter, through email, here on my blog, Goodreads, and Booklikes. I need some time away from that goddamn news feed before I cuss everyone out. I cannot promise I’ll be back.

CRUELTY has been unpublished from Amazon. You either know why or you do not. Suffice to say, the next time you see it, the story will be complete. Hell, you might see it before then, if you know what I mean.

Look for something different from me in 2014. I have several novelettes, novellas, collaborations, collections, and even a few novels coming your way. A great many of these titles will not be horror in the genre sense of the word. I’m stretching, so please bear with me. If I lose some of you, that’ll suck, but I’ll understand.

If you have any questions, feel free to post them below, or email me at edwardlorn@gmail.com

LYF,

E.

 

 

Old Scratch

The first of many.

“Hours” by E.

The policeman came. The roads were slick, he says. But Dad and I know different. The rain didn’t kill Mom. Life did.

Killian’s Irish Red is on the air, heavy and hoppy. Mom’s drunk again. She’s warring with dad because she’s out of beer and the liquor store is just down the road. He won’t drive her. He says she doesn’t need anymore; she’s had enough for chrissakes! She doesn’t think so. She never does. Dad pushes her out of the foyer. She stumbles back, falls, lands on her ass. She’s yelling, “How dare you hit me!” But he didn’t hit her. He should have, but he didn’t. He pushed her. But her pickled brain doesn’t see that. It sees danger. She’s a coyote with its paw in a trap. Fight or flight. She’s up and clawing at Dad’s face. He’ll need stitches when this is over. She head-butts him. Dad’s nose is filled with pomegranate juice. He drops to his knees. She pushes past him. Her keys jingle together as she grabs the door handle. She’s still yelling, calling him all kinds of useless. She’s gone. I’m kneeling beside Dad, crying. I’m pinching the bridge of his nose. My hands are slippery with his blood. He’s mumbling something about how it’s all going to be all right. I don’t see how that’s possible but I’m nodding. In two hours, Mom will be dead.

Rain pelts the window. Mom moans about the bad hand life has dealt her. Dad’s telling her to man up, which I find funny because she’s a woman. This is while the fighting is still somewhat comical. All bark and no bite; like Ralph on that Honeymooner’s program they show on Nick at Night. “To the moon, Alice!” No one’s hit anyone yet. Mom says she has to drink. She doesn’t have a choice. Dad says she has plenty of choices but she won’t listen long enough for him to tell her what her options are. A dog barks outside. Barking, but not biting. I’m in my room, on my bed, clutching a stuffed fox who I’ve named Foxenne. I’m petting her and wishing for ice cream. I ate all my dinner but no one’s mentioned dessert. I always get dessert when I eat all my dinner. I silently pray that Mom and Dad will stop talking about choices and options and other nonsense so I can have a bowl of rainbow sherbet. The rain comes down in sheets across my windowpane. Dad says he’s tired of it all. Mom says she is, too. She’s tired of his weakness. Dad doesn’t respond. The dog gets louder. The bite is coming. In five hours, Mom will be dead.

Mom’s on the back porch, crying. She’s a squall—simply blowing through. An empty bottle of Killians languidly twirls on the table. Dad’s behind her, rubbing her shoulders. He’s crying, too, but not as fervently. I watch them from my bedroom window. This brief moment of shared kindness is a welcome respite from the norm. I need it. Relish it. Reside within it. These times will be gone soon. When Dad gets tired of the drinking, the bottles will shatter against one wall or another. And when Mom gets tired of all the money Dad’s wasting by destroying her escape plan, she’ll start slapping and clawing and rending him from her. Dad will be a different man after she’s dead. He’ll actually be a man for the first time in his life. The dog’s not barking yet. It hasn’t even whimpered. There’s nothing but cold abandon. A giving up of things best kept. An attrition of the soul. In eight hours, Mom will be dead.

Mom pulls me back on the swing. Her beer bottle tinkles against the chains. I go up. Storm clouds are overhead. I come down. The green of my backyard rushes away. I am drawn back once more. The worn rut beneath me races by. Mom’s laughing, as am I. Dad’s in the kitchen window, watching, smiling, beaming. The first drop of that day’s shower lands in my eye. In twelve hours, Mom will be dead.

“Ain’t Nobody Asked For Nothin’” (An Original Crimbus Song, performed by E.)

One jealous hubby doesn’t want Santa delivering any packages this year.

Lyrics:

Any other time of year

A B&E charge would be quite clear

Cause ain’t nobody asked for nothing

At my address this year

 

You can keep your naughty list

And your jingle balls to yourself

Ain’t nobody asked for nothing

At my address this year

 

My wife don’t need no new lingerie

Substitutin’ milk ‘n’ cookies for Chardonnay

Ain’t nobody asked for nothing

At my address this year

 

Nobody needs Kris Kringle’s Ding-a-ling

Swinging down the chimney to do its thing

Ain’t nobody asked for nothing

At my address this year

 

I’ll encircle your wreath and draw up your sash

Stuff this mistletoe up your sugar plump ass

Ain’t nobody asked for nothing

At my address this year

 

I wish Mister Santy Clause

Would keep his package to himself

Ain’t nobody asked for nothing

At my address this year

About that CRUELTY update…

I kinda sorta gave the exclusive to another website. Read the interview below for the good news.

http://ravenousreads.blogspot.com/2013/12/author-interview-edward-lorn.html

Ruminating On: Top 5 Reasons You’re Not Unique

Fight Club went a little deeper into this subject than I will, so read that book for a comprehensive list regarding why you are not a snow flake.

#5. You breathe.

Sometimes I can’t believe it either. One would think that with such little brain activity you wouldn’t be able to work those air bags, but once again, you are a medical marvel. Good for you!

#4. You bleed.

That red stuff coming out of you every time you try to replace emotional pain with physical pain in an attempt to exist without existing so you can not be while you’re being. (My head hurts) Anyway, yeah, you have blood. You bleed that blood when your skin has an owie. I know it would seem to the contrary that I don’t pour gravy from my wounds, but I swear, I drip the red goo too.

#7. You can’t count.

Didja notice that I just went from #5 to #7? No? Well I didn’t expect you to. Moving on…

#2. You sustain yourself in some fashion.

Whether you gobble down goodies, drink protein shakes, or pump food into yourself via a tube like a car filling up at the gas station, you must feed yourself in some way. You need nourishment and stuff. It’s all scientific and whatnot. I’d provide you with numbers but I don’t math. See reference: #7.

#1. You shit and shit.

You cop a squat from time to time. You drop the boys off at the pool. Some of you fill up a bag attached to your flank. It’s all ABCs and 123s with you, but your fav is number two. You shiver after a massive deposit just like the rest of us. There are times you’ve risen from the commode feeling a whole Backstreet Boy lighter. And you do not smell like roses. More like a week-dead skunk with hygiene problems. More like the nether region of a swamp ape. Your aroma is only slight better than Tom Cruise’s love life, but a sight worse than his bank account. In other words, you fucking reek. Just like me. My point here, people, is, we’re all the same. Get over it. Be unique the only way you can. By being yourself. Contrdictory? Perhaps. Then again, some people know how to spell “contradictory.”

Promised Update…

My promised update on Cruelty has been delayed once again. I’m still working out what I can and cannot say regarding the project. As soon as I have a cement answer, I will let everyone know.

What I do know for certain is that Cruelty will be getting another episode, but that the third episode will be the final episode for a while. It will also be longer than the previous two episodes. Could possibly end up being novel length. It all depends on how much of this story I can use. Hint, hint, wink, wink…

 

CRAWL, by Edward Lorn

Soon…

Cruelty: Episode Three Update…

I may have a rather large announcement next week concerning my serial novel, Cruelty. Either way, Episode Three has been delayed. My apologies, but big things are on the horizon. I should know more by December 11th. Do me a favor, will you? Cross your fingers and toes for me.

E.

Ruminating On: Top 5 Reindeer Meat Recipes

Tis the season to eat Santa’s mode of transportation. Due to elevation, meat supply, and the lack of a sense of humor results may vary. Cook at your own risk.

(A special thanks to Ty Johnston for supplying today’s topic. Ty is a fellow author. He writes unicorn porn. Or epic fantasy. I can’t remember which. Check him out at http://tyjohnston.blogspot.com/)

The Top Five Reindeer Meat Recipes.

#5. Rudolph’s Balls

2 pounds of red-nosed reindeer, 3 eggs, 4 hooves, red dye #12, and 1 oz plutonium.

Let meat come to room temperature. Grind plutonium into dust then add red dye. Beat eggs. Mix with hands until all ingredients form a gelatinous mass. Scoop into testicle-like shapes. Cook at 350 for fifteen minutes. For maximum irradiation, serve hot.

#4. Prancer Pudding

1 cup pistachio pudding mix. 6oz reindeer loin. A dash of cinnamon. 2 garlic cloves. 1 quart of Southern Comfort Eggnog, fistful of Vicodin, 1 fat spliff, seen?

Smoke spliff. Hold recipe out in front of you while laughing manically. If maniacal laughter cannot be attained, trying giggling. If failure to giggle persists, swallow one bottle of Southern Comfort eggnog, take Vicodin, and call the police. When first responders arrive, invite them in for Prancer Pudding. Watch shit get real. 

#3. Blixen Biscuits (known in the UK as Shite Cookies)

Half a pound of flour (not flowers, for you homophone fans), three pats of cold unsalted butter, ice water, reindeer flank, elf pheromones, and penguin knees.

Make biscuits like one makes biscuits. Bake biscuits as one would bake biscuits. Fry flank and knees in separate pans, dashing each with adequate amounts of pheromones. Get randy. Shag an elf. Shag the flank. Shag the biscuits. Ignore the knees. Only wankers shag penguin knees. God save the queen!

#2. Donner Steaks

One Christmas vacation. A hatchet. Zero food. One family, preferably fattened during Thanksgiving and left to tenderize in front of televisions airing football games and seasonal cartoons.

Become lost and snowed in. Try to hold out until the last minute. Kill family with hatchet. Eat raw. Store remains in snow banks. Enjoy holiday season without the nagging of in-laws, drunken uncles, cheek-pinching grannies, warring siblings, and depressed parents suffering from empty-nest syndrome.

#1. Comet Suaasat

1 kg reindeer meat (cubed)

2 liters water

200 ml pearl barley

3 onions (chopped)

300 grams mushrooms (wild)

2 carrot (sliced)

200 grams dried cherries

1 lemon zest

1 tsp rosemary (chopped)

1 tsp thyme (chopped)

1 tsp sage (chopped)

sea salt

black pepper

Pour the water into a large pot and add the meat (as is), the vegetables, the cherries, the mushrooms, the salt and pepper to taste and the herbs and bring to a simmer, simmering on medium heat until tender about 1 hour.

Add barley and the lemon zest, check and correct the seasoning and cook until the soup is thick about 30 minutes.

(Seriously, that’s a legit recipe from food.com. You’re welcome.)