Edward Lorn's Blog, page 98

Rumanting On: The Future

Updates abound!

The Larry Laughlin’s Series has evolved into something much bigger than I ever imagined. I have enough story line for a total of four more novels, and one more novella, after Pennies for the Damned releases early next year, not to mention three novellas from Mo Laughlin’s POV, set before the events of Hope for the Wicked.

I’m also working on my first YA novel (which I will be publishing under a different name) entitled Dead Men Don’t Chew Bubblegum, and a literary drama I’m calling Flight (that will also be published under the new pen name)

During all this, I will be independently publishing Cruelty (A Serial Novel) in monthly installments via Amazon for $.99 an episode. The first season will be ten episodes in length, with each episode being 15,000-20,000 words in length. You can look forward to the first episode of Cruelty some time this fall. Cover reveal coming soon

Jeff Brackett and I are still working on Chucklers, but there’s no telling when that monster of a novel will be done. Once completed, the book will be submitted to Red Adept Publishing.

I know this sounds like a tremendous undertaking, but I have the best support group imaginable. Without the help of David Antrobus, Kealan Patrick Burke, Lynn McNamee and her staff at Red Adept, along with many, many more, none of these projects would be possible. Thank you all for your constant support and encouragement. But, most of all, thank you for reading.

E.

Ruminating On: Choices, Choices…

Hello all you wonderful reader-type folks. I have a dilemma that I believe only my readers can help me with. At the end of the day, whatever makes you happy makes me happy.

I want to combine two of my favorite forms of media, slasher films and TV shows, to create a television experience in literary format. The project will be episodic, each chapter ending in a cliffhanger, just like my favorite programs. The title of this project is Cruelty. The story revolves around a large cast of characters as they struggle to survive against an unstoppable killer. And, although each episode will end in a cliffhanger, there is a definitive end to season one. The first season will run for ten 15,000 word episodes. By the end, you’ll get a 150,000 word story. Future seasons (which I already have plotted out) would follow depending on the success of season one.

My dilemma is this. I have three different options in which I can release this story. I publish it in serial form here on the blog with a donate button. You pay what you think it’s worth or nothing at all. The problem with this option is, the episodes will be much farther apart, probably coming out two to three months apart, if not longer. The second option is, I release it on Amazon for $.99 an episode. The parts will come faster, every month, but you will have to pay for each one as they come. The third and final option is, I wait and release the entire thing as a full-length novel. The only problem with this last option is, you will not see the book for some time, at least over a year, if you ever see it at all. Editing is expensive, as is cover design and formatting. I’ve tried Kickstarter in the past but have not had much success. This is the price of trying something new.

I also plan on doing the audiobook version of this story line in whatever format is chosen by you. But that’s for later.

So, there you go. Below you’ll find a poll with your options. It only takes a second to click your choice. Don’t be shy, voting is anonymous. I want to do this, but, more importantly, I want to know if you want me to do it, and in what form.

For accurate results, you can only vote once. What’ll it be?

Take Our Poll

Ruminating On: Narration

This week I’ve posted two short stories. They’re nothing special, just a couple of thousand word horror tales I was inspired to tackle. Then, last night, I decided to give narrating them a shot. The recordings turned out much better than anticipated. I uploaded them to a podcast website and received some valuable feedback. They are not perfect, but they’ll do for a beginner. If you’re so inclined, click the link below and swing on over to check them out. Comment and all that good stuff.

http://edwardlorn.podomatic.com/

LYF!

E.

Ruminating On: Odd Inspiration

I was tooling around Facebook today when an acquaintance posted a picture of their new home. I was fascinated by that blue house; inspired by its red door. The first line of a story came to me, so I ran with it. Take a journey…

Behind the Red Door on Market Street

Behind the red door on Market Street, the clock took time.

Dalton Delacroix heard the ticking from the street. He didn’t hunt the sound, simply knew from which direction and what house it was coming from. He looked back to where his beaten up Ford LTD station wagon sat on the corner. His hip was sore, his feet burning, but the ticking seemed to beckon him. Dalton wasn’t one for superstitious nonsense, but he felt pulled toward the red door. He’d soak his feet when he got home and slather Ben-Gay over his thigh until he smelled of old people and recovery.

A boy on a bike did circles in the street behind him, the tires humming electronically.

Dalton moved through the chain link gate, which was attached to a fence made of the same interlocked aluminum. Moving across the concrete walkway toward the front of the house, the grass on either side of him was a vibrant green. Dalton could hear the clock ticking louder. So he hadn’t been mistaken. The sound had come from behind the red door after all. He took the porch steps of the house with caution. The deep red of the front door stood out against the baby blue paint on the house’s outer walls in stark contrast.

As Dalton made to knock on the red door, it swung open. No creaking hinges, no coffin-like whine, but he still felt a sense of dread, could see gooseflesh pop up on his extended forearm.

The door led into a blue hallway. An archway on the right showed the corner of a once-white claw-footed sofa, now aged-yellow, the talons curling into horrid shit-brown carpet. A living room, he assumed. Through another doorway on the left, sat a kitchen, where a fridge hummed and clicked like a swarm of locust. Other doors, closed and silent, sat along either side of the hall. The grandfather clock sat quietly at the end of the hall, its lacquered-red wood polished to a mirror finish. Behind the glass, a pendulum hung, unmoving.

The ticking stopped.

The home was not his, but he stepped in all the same.

First, he was walking. Then, he was sitting, the bright lights of Manhattan whizzing by. They were on the FDR. Lola and he were fighting about the kid again. She was screaming. He was fuming. The boy wasn’t his, and he knew it. They hadn’t made love in over a year, but, somehow, they’d had a child. She argued that he didn’t remember that one time, that time he’d been drunk. He said he remembered, all right, because he’d been drinking whiskey, and she knew good and well he couldn’t keep it up after more than two shots.

Ahead, an old woman with dementia entered the FDR by way of the exit ramp. Lola didn’t see her coming, but Dalton did. One catastrophic head-on collision later and Lola was dead; her chest crushed by the steering column. Dalton lay in the wreckage, his hip shattered, awaiting emergency personnel.

Dalton spent six months in rehab while his sister watched the baby that wasn’t his. Later, after he’d been sent home and had reclaimed the boy, he stood above the sleeping child, shaking, hating the bastard in the crib. With whiskey on his breath and hatred in his heart, Dalton reached down and pinched the boy’s nose closed, covering the child’s mouth with the palm of the same hand.

He’d just lost his wife. No one questioned the boy’s passing. Crib death, they called it. Dalton buried his wife and the bastard eight months apart. It was all just a horrible tragedy.

The clock began ticking again. Dalton stared dumbly at the swirling face. All three hands spun with impossible speed, giving off the illusion of a vortex. He felt drawn – sucked in – and saw himself reaching for the grandfather clock.

The backs of his hands had become ungodly old, wrinkled and thin-skinned. He drew a hand back in fear and felt his cheek. Baggy flesh the texture of wet parchment welcomed his fingertips. He stumbled backward, his hip creaking, and crashed down onto the hallway floor. He rolled over. The hip he’d injured in the crash seemed to be dissolving inside him – crumbling like a clump of salt dropped on the ground. He clawed at the shit-brown carpet, crawled its length, and arrived back out on the porch.

The boy on the bike studied him from the curb. Dalton wanted to call for help, but something was wrong with his throat. He wasn’t breathing.

***

Georgie Stapleson watched as the monster dragged itself down the porch steps of the blue house. The red door slammed shut behind it. The creature seemed to be deflating; the skin pulling tight across the bones, as if the thing were being vacuum-sealed. Georgie, frozen with fright, could only sit atop his Huffy and witness the ever decaying thing move toward him. An aroma of fruity gum lingered on the air. Georgie spat to get the taste out of his mouth. He heard a sound akin to rice cereal when milk is poured over it.

The monster shriveled into a fetal position, its skin cracking over its bones like old paint. Georgie thought he recognized the clothes it wore, had seen them on the man who’d entered the house. But that man hadn’t been so old before. The monster must have stolen the guy’s suit.

Soon enough, the monster was only a dusty mound of clothes.

Georgie got off his bike, let it fall. He moved automatically, without thought. He stepped through the gate, over the pile, and went up the steps. The red door swung open.

He stepped inside.

He stood poolside, where his sister had drowned. At least that’s what Georgie would tell everyone. Sister shouldn’t have snitched to Mom about the money he’d stolen from the nightstand. Holding sister under the water had thrilled him.

Behind the red door on Market Street, the clock took time.

(Note: This blog is not professionally edited. Cry me a river.)

Ruminating On: A Free Story

Another slow news day brings me a chance to share a freebie. Ladies and gentlemen, here is…

Firstborn and  Forgotten

Barney could hear the rocking chair in the living room from all the way down the hall.

Creak… creak… creak…

Barney drew his covers to his eyes, hands shaking. His eyes darted back and forth, hunting the gloom of his room and seeking movement in the shadows. He wanted to call out, to beg for Mommy and Daddy to come running, but he knew what trouble that would bring.

“You’re eight years old, for chrissakes, Barney!” Daddy would say, while Mommy stood beside his father, shaking her head in disappointment. “Betcha pissed the bed, too! Didn’t’cha?”

The bellowing would continue until the belt came out. Barney’s butt would be tender for a week, like that time he crapped his pants at the movies. Daddy hadn’t let him go to the restroom. “I paid good money for you to watch this movie, so you’re gonna sit and watch it. Thinks money grows on trees, this kid!” Mom had shaken her head. Some days it seemed as if his mother didn’t have a neck at all, only a swivel.

From the living room, a soft voice sang, “Rain, rain, go away… ”

The tone was female, childlike.

Creak… creak… creak…

Barney shivered. His teeth chattered. He hadn’t had a drop to drink since bedtime, but his bladder felt ready to give way. If he soiled his sheets, Daddy would be angry. Then the belt would come out. Eight across the ass; one lick for every year Barney had been a bed-wetting sissy-boy.

Across the hall, Barney could hear his father snoring. Daddy’s whistling hiss and accompanying snorts belied the depth of his sleep. Once the pads of Barney’s feet touched the hardwood floor of his bedroom Dad would be up, belt cutting air like a child writing his name on the Fourth with a sparkler.

“Come again… some other day…”

Barney glanced at the window on the far wall next to his Disney’s Planes and Monsters University posters but saw no moisture on the pane. Outside, the leaves in the trees were dry and still. Not a drop fell through the rays of the sodium vapor streetlights. All the saliva in Barney’s mouth dried up.

The rocking chair moved faster, the creaks coming quicker; the soft female voice rising in volume until Barney thought his head would cave in from the weight of the fear that had settled upon him. His heart trip-hammered in his chest. A warm wetness spread across his lap and ran down his pinched together legs like water on an amusement park slide.

He’d gone and done it. Not only was there some kid playing on the rocking chair, but now he had his own father to be scared of.

Praying he could be silent, channeling his inner mouse, he slithered out of his covers and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. He placed warm feet on cold flooring and stood, intent on cleaning up before Daddy found him.

Creak. Not the rocking chair this time but him. Across the hall, his father’s snore stuttered then stopped all together. A new bolt of fright coursed through Barney.

His father had heard him.

Quick, heavy footsteps signaled his father’s approach. The bolt on his parents’ door snicked. The hinges squeaked. Three thunderous steps to Barney’s door. Then, there he was, bigger than a cat in a mouse hole; Daddy’s hand shot into the room, found the light switch and flipped it on. Daddy’s cheeks were red with anger, bright with rage, and Barney thought he could feel the heat coming off them from over ten feet away.

“Didja piss yourself again?”

Barney shook his head. His lie only enraged his father further. Daddy took a single step into Barney’s room and froze. Eyes widening, Daddy seemed to be having trouble breathing. His inhalations were quick and his exhalations long.

Something went “Shhhh…” behind Barney. His blood froze in his veins – popsicles wrapped in cellophane. The room dropped ten degrees. Barney’s breath was blue mist before him. He shivered. Daddy dropped to his knees, wetness collecting in his eyes then spilling onto his barreled-chest.

A girl floated by, feet pointed straight down, toes hovering two inches above the hardwood. She wore My Little Pony pajamas; had blonde hair just like Mommy’s. As she passed Barney he could see her forefinger placed across her cupid’s bow, shushing the big man as he dropped to his knees.

“Margie,” his father stammered. Daddy knew the floating girl; Barney thought that was the scariest thing of all.

“You’re not going to hurt him anymore, Daddy, not like you did me,” the girl whispered.

Daddy said, “I didn’t mean to, baby.”

“Shhhh…”

The girl laid a hand upon Daddy’s forehead. The front of his briefs dampened and yellow puddled underneath him. Barney felt oddly good about watching his father wet himself. Daddy sobbed uncontrollably, sucking snot and begging forgiveness.

“Shhhh…” she repeated, her hand still upon his brow. Daddy twitched once and went to sleep.

The girl gave Barney a thin smile and was gone.

Barney crawled back into bed.

The next morning, Mommy found Daddy face down in a puddle of piss. She screamed hysterics into the phone as she tried to explain to the person on the other end that her husband had had a stroke or a heart attack and that he’d had bad blood pressure and diabetes and high cholesterol and hadn’t laid off the sodium and still ate bacon and the ambulance should hurry just fucking hurry because she felt faint and my God the boy saw the whole thing.

While she wailed into the phone, Barney tugged on his mother’s hand.

When she paused to breathe, Barney said, “Mommy, who’s Margie?”

His mother stared down at him, blinking. She dropped the phone. It splashed in the piss.

“Where… where’d you hear that name?”

Barney pointed to Daddy.

Barney didn’t think Mommy could have looked more scared than when she found Daddy dead, but she did. Oh, yes, she did.

In the living room, the rocking chair started up again.

Creak… creak… creak…

“Rain, rain, go away…”

 

(Note: This blog is not professionally edited. Because reasons.)

Ruminating On: Nothing

Dropping a line to let everyone know there is no news today. I’m spending the day with my fiction. See you guys tomorrow.

E.

Ruminating On: Safer Sex for Profit

1. Park it right here. That’s what she said.

Switzerland now has its first drive-in sex establishment. The legal sex operation has been touted as a way to combat violence against Roma gypsies who sell their nu-nu’s for profit. Nine small cabins, what locals are calling “sex boxes,” have been set up in a park. The Happiest Place on Earth comes to mind, but this time you don’t have to worry about being goofy or mini when it comes to getting laid. Swiss conservatives have complained about their tax dollars being used to fund a safer sex trade. What’s wrong with a little drive-in nookie if all participants are consenting adults? When asked for comment, a working girl said, “Would you like fries with that?”

2. Wrap it `for you slap it

It’s like Click It or Ticket, but for your sloppy dolphin. In California, porn stars are outraged. The west coast adult film industry is in the news because they’re petitioning against a law which requires all male performers to wear condoms. Say what? Exactly. Instead of taking the initiative and making their workplace a safer environment for all involved, sexy-time movie creators want to risk their employee’s health and lives to ensure bareback quality fuck-flicks. I liken this to an average film maker asking their actors to jump off a building without a safety net. I don’t know about you guys, but I couldn’t care less if the close-ups in my porn show a cloaked cock or not. If wrapped peen turns you off, then a game of whack-a-mole must not have been all that pressing (for the porn-loving ladies out there, here’s your masturbation metaphor: buffin’ your muffin’. You know, because I wouldn’t want you to feel left out when it comes to my vulgarity). I think this is backward as hell, but I want to know what you think. I’d ask if you even watch porno movies but, well… you know.

Daily Tip: Sex can alleviate headaches. Make love not excuses.

E.

(Note: This blog is not professionally edited. Take it like a man!)

Ruminating On: Why You Should Hate Me

I’m more apt to ask why someone likes me or the things I do instead of wondering why they don’t like me. Usually someone’s distaste for me is rather clear. And mostly, I tend to agree with them. I’m foul-mouthed, brutally honest, and rather offensive to soft-minded individuals who throw stones in glass houses. But the qualities I possess that get under these peoples’ skin are the same qualities that I value in myself. I will not lie to you based on whether or not I will shatter the precious little bubble that surrounds your fragile ego. If you ask me how I feel about something, I will give you my honest opinion. If you cannot handle another person’s views, do not ask for them. Nothing is gained by perpetuating falsities. Sure, I can tell you you’re the bee’s knees, but if you’re actually the monkey’s asshole, me lying to you isn’t going to help either of us. Then again, if you actually are the greatest thing since sliced bread, I will be sure to let you know. Believe this: I will not smile to your face then spit at you behind your back. If I like you, I like you. Hating you is pointless, a pure waste of my time. That amount of fuck I do not give.

As far as those of you who I offend, here’s a quote from Stephen Fry:

“It’s now very common to hear people say, ‘I’m rather offended by that.’ As if that gives them certain rights. It’s actually nothing more… than a whine. ‘I find that offensive.’ It has no meaning; it has no purpose; it has no reason to be respected as a phrase. ‘I am offended by that.’ Well, so fucking what.”

I don’t buy into racism, sexism, politics, religion, or any other group mindset (notice I left out spirituality). So go ahead and hate me for these things. But remember this. I gave you the reason, and therefor own your dislike of me.

E.

(Note: This post is dedicated to You Know Who You Are)

Ruminating On: Gingers Responsible for Flaming Baby

1. Baby, you on fire!

In Chennai, India, there’s a three-month-old baby that keeps bursting into flames and causing a ruckus. Nobody can pinpoint exactly why Baby Rahul keeps trying to imitate a phoenix, and scientists are baffled. The Times of India cites several sources that purport the baby could very well catch fire without help of accelerants. I have to say, I’m a wee bit skeptical. What bothers me is, no one is even considering child abuse. Here we have a three month old baby with burns, and the parents are the only witnesses to what happened. Sure, there’s no trace of gas or alcohol, but who’s to say mom or pop didn’t stick a torch to the kid? There is one other documented case of spontaneous combustion, though. Last year, an Irish coroner cited SHC (Spontaneous Human Combustion) as the cause of death for a 76-year-old man. Baby Rahul is set to be discharged tomorrow with a prescription for a fire extinguisher. The three-month-old is looking forward to his first birthday so he can light his own candles. Johnny Storm was unavailable for comment.

2. Gingers have souls as well as a higher risk of skin cancer

There’s this gene called MC1R which gives redheads their signature fire mops. Cool beans. Why’s that news? Because that same gene has been found to heighten the chances of melanoma. Studies have proven that you gingers need to stay out of the sun and tanning beds. Pale is sexy. And whatever else you need to tell yourself to get through life. I kid, I kid. I love redheads. You fiery fornicators are the spice of life. Just keep your pasty-pale asses indoors and out of those Easy Bake Ovens. Blonds might have more fun, and Brown-hairs might be of greater intelligence, but no one likes those black-haired demons of sin. At least that’s a thing, right?

Daily Tip: Budweiser is responsible for the majority of alcohol-related emergency room visits. Grab yourself a frosty cold health condition on me.

E.

. (Note: This blog is not professionally edited. Hey, you guys!)

Ruminating On: Bad-ass for Pope

1. Georgia BAMF

Part of the problem with society these days is our selective attention span. Point in fact: Sandy Hook Elementary in comparison to Ronald E. McNair Discovery Learning Academy. You see, both elementary schools had a shooter armed with a semi-automatic rifle burst in with murderous intent. Sandy Hook suffered losses no parent or family should have to suffer. But, in the case of Ronald E. McNair Discovery Learning Academy, no one died. Now, before you fly off the rails and scream things like, “Of course Sandy Hook got more press. Children died!” let me say this. Sandy Hook was a terrible tragedy. It deserved every ounce of spotlight it received. But so does Ronald E. McNair Discovery Learning Academy, or, more accurately, a bookkeeper named Antoinette Tuff. Michael Brandon Hill walked into the lobby of McNair Discovery brandishing an semi-automatic rifle and 500 rounds of ammunition. Antoinette Tuff talked him down. There’s no way to tell how many lives she saved, but there are 800 children enrolled in her school, not counting how many faculty she might have saved. If anything, this news story deserves the same amount of coverage as any one of the recent school shooting where people have died. You know what? Maybe if we glorified people like Antoinette, and not the shooters, fewer of these tragedies would occur. It’s a thought, at least. Antoinette Tuff, you’re an amazing individual. Thank you for a BAMF.

2. Flippity-floppity Pope

On February 11th, 2013, Pope Benedict quit the papacy. Catholics the world over were all like, “WTF?” what with him being the first Pope to do so in 600 years. Benedict’s lack of work ethic was explain away using his failing health as a reason for his resignation. Now, the story has changed. Emperor Palpatine’s stage double admits it was God who told him to retire. Not that he saw God or anything, but he had a “mystical experience.” Good on him. What I want to know is why he didn’t use this excuse when he first left his duties. “God said so” would have been a much better story for an all Catholic audience than, “I don’t feel so well.” If you ask me (and I could be wrong, it’s happened before) Catholics all around the world want to know why he’s still kicking around like a wind-up Nazi, so the 86 year old Pope Emeritus had to change his story. “You see, Hoss, it weren’t the sick that got me. It were the Lord!”

Daily Tip: Sleep burns more calories than watching TV. Get your lazy ass off the couch and go to bed.

E.

(Note: This blog is not professionally edited. Thank you for your cooperation.)