Chad A. Clark's Blog, page 13

Baked Scribe Flashback : Networked

 

All of this over a simple argument. Over George Romero of all things. One argument in a chat room that had brought this nightmare down on him. He couldn’t even guess how the guy had found him, but one thing was for sure, from now on he would have to be taking a lot more care in selecting his user names.

The guy was lumbering after him through the parking lot. He didn’t even know what his name was and it wasn’t like he could call him FoxBro79.

“Why are you walking away? Don’t you want to finish this?” the guy said. “Tell me some more about how pedestrian I am?”

The guy was not at all what Kaden had pictured, night after night, as the two of them had engaged in verbal warfare from thread to thread, sniping at each other, hi-jacking each other’s posts with no shame, in an all-out effort to humiliate the other. In his mind’s eye, he had always pictured someone about his age, pushing the limits of what was considered a healthy weight, screaming at his computer screen in the basement while his mother called down to find out if he wanted more jalapeno poppers.

“Come on, tell me about how I should just stick to cartoons!”

Finally, tired of the charade and ready to just face up to whatever it was that this guy wanted to say to him, Kaden turned around and looked the guy up and down, trying to guess all the places from which he could potentially produce a weapon.

“What is it that you want from me exactly?”

The guy stopped short and paused, as if unsure what to say next. No, that wasn’t it. The look was more incredulous, as if he was hurt that Kaden even had to ask the question.

“I just want you to apologize.”

An apology. The level of absurdity was beyond belief, but if it would get the guy to let go of whatever he thought had happened between the two of them, why not?

“All right fine, I’m—”

He stopped as FoxBro79 stepped up right next to him, close enough to steal a kiss. He winced at the pinch from the needle of the syringe plunging into his neck, behind his ear. His legs immediately went numb and he started to fall, dropping into FoxBro’s arms, who then eased him down to the ground, whispering to him in a voice that now sounded like it was coming from the other end of a large tunnel.

“No, I think I want a different kind of apology.”

 

Issue # 167 : Slipping Through

 

The house wasn’t real.

It was the inexplicable thought he couldn’t shake from his mind. The house had thrilled him, drew him in but also scared him more than anything he’d ever seen.

Kevin pushed the cart down the sidewalk, keeping his head down as he passed it again. He saw proof in his conclusion from the fact that in any other neighborhood as nice as this one, he would have been escorted away by police, long before now. It was like the pervasive sense of wrong was so powerfully exuded by the house that no one in the neighborhood bothered to take note of him. He had been terrified of it from the moment he had seen it but could not stop himself from coming back here, every day.

Each time he passed, he hoped to see anyone who looked like they lived there. The sight of a soccer mom, loading a small squadron of precious brats into a minivan would alleviate his anxieties. Even if was it was a pissed off looking executive, casting a scornful glance at the piece of garbage parading through his neighborhood as he hopped into his Prius.

He never saw anyone.

And yet, there was always the sense of a presence inside the house, peering out at him as he passed. It was as if it was waiting for the day when he would finally break down, enter and discover the truths that lurked behind the heavy oak doors.

He couldn’t articulate any reason why such an immaculate house in this pristine neighborhood could bother him. The twelve windows on the front were perfectly and evenly spaced, the sparkling glass somehow reflecting just enough of the daylight to prevent seeing inside. It always felt colder here than anywhere else on his walk and there always seemed to be a haze in the air, like noise from a distant radio. There were voices in the air, too soft to understand beyond knowing that they were there. As he always did, he scanned the other houses, looking for an open window through which he might have been hearing someone speaking.

As with all the other times before, he saw nothing.

The notion was crazy. He was taking every random sight and sound, and cramming it all together into one unified reason to get himself worked up. There was nothing to it, it was just a house.

Just a house.

And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was seeing a rip in the fabric that let things into the world that were evil and wrong. It was like a thick sludge had been wiped away from his perception and he had been briefly gifted with this curse of sight.

He knew what he had to do, the only solution to this mania and unrest in his soul. He had to address it, even if it meant embarrassing himself in front of some wide-eyed six-year-old, gaping up at him through the front doors.

Kevin released the handle of the cart and turned to stride up the slight hill towards the house. He had to do it now, before his resolve was gone for good. He couldn’t go on letting this house dictate his life and whatever sanity he still clung to.

When he stepped up onto the front porch, he immediately lurched forward, as if the ground itself was about to tilt and spill him down onto his face. It was like standing on the deck of a ship on stormy seas, where any sense of stability was long forgotten.

Kevin knew that everything was fine, the ground didn’t just move or shift. People lose their balance sometimes. Still, he reached out and placed a hand against the aged wood of the house to steady himself.

When the pain began, his scream almost happened reflexively, before he had even consciously acknowledged what was happening.

He felt the searing heat of dozens of needles puncturing his hand. They protruded out from the house and passed through the meat of his palm. That was what he felt, but he actually saw nothing. He tried to pull his hand away but it would not move from the surface of the house. His skin tented upwards, as if something pushed up from underneath, but he could see nothing actually protruding from them.

The surface of his skin was now peppered with tiny red dots. The coloring deepened and blood welled up out of the wounds. Soon his hand and wrist were coated in his own blood as it dripped down from the unseen objects which had impaled his hand.

Without thinking, Kevin lifted up a foot and braced against the wall to push himself free. His voice cracked from the strain of shrieking as new pain, now in his foot came to the forefront. He leaned back, trying to use his own weight to pull himself free, but only ended up hanging in place from his hand and foot, now firmly attached to the house. His strength was fading but as he tried to lower himself down, the pain doubled. He frantically sought purchase with his other foot and stood back up, hopping to try and keep his balance.

He could see the wounds on his foot, could feel the touch of whatever protruded through but could see nothing. The porch spun around him and he realized with a nauseating feeling that he was about to fall. Pressing his hand and foot against the house and gritting his teeth through the intensifying pain, he tried to brace himself and maintain balance. Still, he felt himself slipping.

Frantically, he tried to pull himself free from the wall but before he could make any progress, he fell straight down. He screamed at the sensation of a hundred nails ripping sideways through his hand and foot. The world expanded around him as they cut through flesh and bone and his eyes rolled back, barely recognizing the splash of blood against his face.

After an eternity of darkness, Kevin opened his eyes, now on the porch with his head to the side. He didn’t know how many different places his body had been punctured, just that he was now pinned down, unable to move anything. It felt wet underneath him and he could detect the rusted smell of what was left of him, trickling out below.

The floorboards creaked and in that last moment, he saw a darkened figure step over him, through the door and into the house. From the pitch black hallway, the thing turned back and Kevin saw the blaze in the eyes, the cracking and bleeding skin that made up that horrible visage of a face. It sneered down at him as it reached for the door. A hot breeze of air flowed over him as it slammed shut and the sound of it was all that remained to usher Kevin on into whatever world awaited.

 

Tracing The Trails Of The King : IT, part one

“Maybe there aren’t any such things as good friends or bad friends – maybe there are just friends, people who stand by you when you’re hurt and who help you feel not so lonely. Maybe they’re always worth being scared for, and hoping for, and living for. Maybe worth dying for too, if that’s what has to be. No good friends. No bad friends. Only people you want, need to be with; people who build their houses in your heart.”

-Stephen King, IT

.

I’ve been dancing around this for a few days now, writing reviews for the books that led up to it and then the books that immediately followed. Maybe I was a little afraid of tackling the book, trying to put down into a relatively succinct amount of words how I feel about this planetary system of a novel. Exhibit A for the jury, upon writing this very paragraph, my immediate response was to stand up and wander off to make a cup of coffee.

Well we got that sorted, didn’t we?

Any Facebook updates? No. How about now? Still no?

Okay. Enough stalling.

My introduction to IT came in the form of Tim Curry. Thanks to him for a childhood packed with nightmares and inability to walk slowly past air ducts and storm drains. I know that the current generation of movie goers, spoiled with all of their precious digital effects look back on a movie like this and dismiss it as cheesy tripe. And yes, not all of the acting is particularly great. I’m pointing my finger in particular at the horribly awkward musical interlude (set to the sounds of Smokey Robinson) that gave us Richard Thompson hopelessly trying to look cool in some kind of contorted pseudo flash of a pretend gang symbol. Yes, the movie wasn’t perfect and it hasn’t aged well.

Still, it scared all holy hell out of me. So what was my natural reaction to this experience?

Well, of course I had to read the book.

From the start, I immediately knew that this was going to be a completely different experience from what I had watched in that miniseries. In truth, the movie just barely scratched the narrative surface of what exists there and if there is anything I have learned from all the subsequent readings of this, it is that IT is quite possibly one of the least ideal books to be adapted for the big screen. And I am not one of the type who bemoans every movie and how much they ruined or destroyed the book that I loved so much. I understand that there are always going to be necessary changes to a book when it makes the transition into a different format. But in the case of IT, I think that expecting a movie to carry that much weight is like taking a twelve course meal from a renowned chef and condensing the entire experience down into a few bites. Sure, you can capture the broad strokes of the story, recreate the bare bones, but there is so much more richness and complexity to the story that I think you miss out on.

Unless you read the book.

IT is ultimately a story about friendship. It’s a story about growing up and losing touch with the things that make us powerful and unique. It’s a story about standing up to the things that frighten us and vanquishing them with the most powerful tool we have at our disposal, each other. In the days we live in now, it’s heartening to see it suggested in a story that the confrontation of evil can only be enhanced and strengthened when it is filtered through our love of each other. It is a story about the loss of innocence, the rediscovery and repeated loss of that same innocence. Put simply, the book is a masterpiece on all fronts and if I had to scrap every single Stephen King book in my collection, save for one, this would be the one.

IT takes place over two time periods. One is set in the present day or, what was the present day at the time it was written. The heroes of the story, the Loser’s Club, sit at the center of the story and in the present day we see them as adults. We see them in the course of their day to day lives when out of the blue, they receive a phone call from home, a call from an old friend they had actually forgotten even existing. The message from their friend and their past is simple.

They have to come home.

The second part of the story takes place around the same seven characters, but in the past as children. In both timelines, the Loser’s Club is forced to face down an ancient and powerful evil, one set on the domination and destruction of the town of Derry, Maine.

The Loser’s Club is the ultimate gathering of archetypes in my opinion. If you have ever felt like an outsider for any reason, there is likely at least one if not multiple characters in the Loser’s Club that you are going to relate with. Like Ben Hascomb, I have had issues with weight for most of my life. As with Eddie Kasparack, I have suffered on and off with asthma. And while I have never had a stutter, like Bill Denborough, I have had to live with the stigma of Tourette’s Syndrome and know full well what it feels like to have people staring at you like you are an “other” or a “freak”. I think that IT is designed to make you immediately relate to and root for the characters. You can see yourself in their shoes and find yourself wondering how you would react, given the same situation. What do you do when all the things you never thought possible start happening and the only ones you can turn to are the loser friends who claim to be seeing the same things as you?

Stephen King has always had a knack for writing characters who are children. IT is one book in particular where he shines in this regard. His love for rock and roll is also something which comes through clearly in the flashback portions of the book. Based on the amount of time he spends on the younger versions, they certainly seem to be the ones he cares about the most and is the most invested in revealing.

IT is a book about losing touch with things, losing touch with your childhood, losing touch with your own memories of yourself and those around you. It’s a book about losing touch with your core being. Some of the most powerfully tragic aspects of this book is seeing the adult versions of these characters coming back together and clearly having difficulty fitting each other back into their lives. For a group that was so powerful, largely due to the emotional connection with each other, it is hard to see them acting almost like strangers as they answer the call and return to Derry for one last confrontation with the worst childhood fear imaginable.

And I think it should come as no surprise to anyone that knows me even a little that this was going to be a multiple part review. Tune in next week for my thoughts on one of the most talked-about and controversial scenes that Stephen King has ever written.

Until next week, friends.

My name is Chad Clark and I am proud to be a constant reader.

.

.

.

Ramblings On The Craft : Feeling Trapped By Your Genre?

 

DISCLAIMER : I consider myself to be a life-long writer but I am still an aspiring author. What’s the difference? Essentially, to me anyway, it means that while I have devoted a great deal of time to my words and my art, the amount of money I have made as a professional writer to date could maybe be used to purchase a nice steak dinner for two. So while I have a deep and devoted passion for writing, I do not claim in any way to be an expert or authority figure. What you will find in these essays represent my personal thoughts and feelings about various issues related to writing. I think that in any endeavor, it is essential to have the mindset that there is always something to learn, something you don’t know. As soon as you start to think that you are an authority on anything (besides how to eat a hot dog or perhaps, spelling your name) there might be a problem. With that in mind, I am fully cognizant and comfortable with the fact that on any and all of these issues, I could be completely wrong.

Put another way, I recognize and admit that I could be full of shit.

For those who have been subjecting themselves to my periodic rants on the craft of writing, you will have likely picked up on the fact that one thing I generally oppose in all its forms is the notion of “conventional wisdom”. I think there are way too many people out there who have managed to stumble across some level of success and have tricked themselves into believing that their success was a result of their brilliance and guile. The misconception is that they have figured out a road-map and that, if it worked for them it will certainly work for everyone else. Their map is the only one that really works. Only one road leads to Oz, after all.

Sure. Except, no. Not really.

The thing is, we all come about success in our own way. You aren’t forging a path that has never been walked before and it’s somewhat of a fallacy to point at any one decision as the key to your success. Still, there are droves of authors on the Internet, pushing their opinions down people’s throats in the form of “well-intentioned advice”.

One prime example, and what is ultimately the subject of this particular rant, is that of the genre that an author chooses to write in. The idea here is that you should take very careful consideration in picking a genre for your writing because once you’ve chosen, you need to stay within said genre. The commonly held belief is that your readers will be unwilling to accept the change if you move from one to the other, that you risk losing people somehow along the way. If you would believe the great, wandering masses out there, if you are determined to write a new book in a different genre, you should do so under a new author name so as to avoid the risk of alienating or confusing your readers.

I realize you can’t hear the words as I’m committing them to print here, so let me be clear that most of that last paragraph was written in a sarcastic fashion.

First of all, I can’t even begin to imagine how maddening it would be to try and maintain multiple author profiles. My brain just isn’t set up for that level of engagement. Posting on-line as this author instead of that author and trying to keep everything straight in your head seems maddening to me. Also, there is the practical issue of creating unnecessary overhead. You want to set up a separate pseudonym? That means paying for another website as well as the domains for that site. It means creating new profiles across all your social media sites of choice. Ultimately, it leads to a ton of extra work that you probably don’t even have to do.

And just so I’m not coming across as being dismissive, I think that there are situations where using different author names can be a good decision, that ultimately just depends on the specific author and their body of work. If you are talking about books where one genre is more popular with children or younger readers and the other is more appropriate for adults, than it might be better to use different names. My only point is that you shouldn’t automatically assume that you have to create a new author just because you’re trying a new genre.

My main issue with this kind of logic is that you end up not giving your readers enough credit. Sure, people tend to stick with specific genres. I certainly read my fair share of horror and dark fiction. But I do take trips outside of my comfort zone from time to time. I don’t generally read YA but I will check out titles from authors who are friends of mine or if it is by someone whose work I have enjoyed in the past. I think that the advice to stick with a genre comes by positing the conclusion that readers are incapable of consuming more than one genre, that anything outside their normal reading habits becomes scary or too confusing. I say that if your writing is engaging and people enjoy your work, they will be just as likely to follow you to a new genre. Just as an example, I generally shy away from a sub-genre of horror that seems to be blossoming right now, that of “extreme horror”. Despite this hesitation, I picked up a book by an author I admire, even though it was in a genre I wasn’t as comfortable with. And I ended up really enjoying it. So who knows, you may end up taking some new readers with you into this less explored area.

But let’s say for a moment that it is true, that some or even a lot of your readers won’t be willing to pick up your newly published western romance that you’ve always wanted to write. They loved your science fiction but aren’t interested in seeing something too radically different from you. Say all of that happens. Well, guess what? Your new genre has fans also. Who’s to say you don’t end up grabbing up new readers as a result of publishing something they like? Maybe you end up causing these new readers to cross back over into your original genre. The point is that unless you can legitimately see the future, there is no way to really predict how your readers are going to behave.

Story rules over everything else. That is ultimately what you have to pay the most attention to before you worry about what kind of a box you put it in. If the writing isn’t up to par, it won’t matter what genre you choose. If the writing is crisp and top-rate, have trust that there will be readers out there who will enjoy it. You shouldn’t have to feel like your genre choice is a prison sentence. Write whatever feels right to you because one thing I will tell you is that if you force yourself to stay on genre because you think you aren’t allowed to change, that frustration can often end up in the writing itself. If you aren’t passionate about what you’re writing, I think it can make the reader less passionate about reading it and in the end, that is much worse than the possibility of confusing people with your body of work.

The only real rule of writing is that you need to believe in your own words. Work hard and be true to your own vision. Never feel like you have to be subject to what other people out there think you should be doing. Ultimately, you are the voice behind the voice and you get to make the decisions. Be true to yourself and believe in yourself.

I believe in you.

 

Baked Scribe Flashback : With A View

 

Jordan stepped up onto the ledge and looked out into the golden expanse of the glittering morning sunlight. The birds were now fully awake, filling the air with their songs, as the cool breeze made his skin stand up. He held his arms straight out to each side, balancing as he teetered along the edge, glancing down at the miniaturized cars driving past on the street below.

From the edge of the roof, he heard a beeping as the intercom squawked with an indistinct voice, probably the front desk calling up because one of the occupants from the offices across the way had called out of concern. New tenants, more than likely. The ones who had been there longer were used to seeing Jordan out here for his morning excursions.

He was so occupied with searching the windows across the way for someone staring out at him, possibly waving their arms crazily and screaming at him to get down, that he almost didn’t notice the loose piece of gravel that had somehow ended up there on the ledge. The rocks scraped loudly across the concrete as he swept them off the roof with one smooth motion of his foot.

As he turned around the corner of the rooftop, and out beyond the protection of the building, the wind howled as it blew in off the lake, buffeting him and knocking him back on his heels. As he felt his equilibrium shift, he lifted one foot and extended it out into open space, leaning back against the gravity that fought to pull him down to a crushing death on the street below.

The sounds of brakes grabbing tires and of rubber being left behind wafted up to him, shattering the serenity of the morning. He rolled his eyes in annoyance at the intrusion. He was also starting to hear the muffled cries of his latest guest, who was still securely restrained inside the utility shed. The wind continued to howl as he hopped down off the ledge and strolled over to his workbench. He looked down over the tools laid out in front of him and chose carefully, selecting a brass pair of needle-nose pliers as well as one of the new scalpels he had just purchased.

Time to get back to work.

 

Baked Scribe Flashback : Night

 

She looked up into the sky and saw her dreams, highlighted in starlight. On one hand, she liked to imagine that she was looking at a rich black canvas be-speckled in bright white colors. But it also could have been an infinite expanse of white light, slowly blinking away to black. The vastness of it all was enough to take her breath away. The thought that she wasn’t even seeing the tiniest sliver on the smallest blade of grass in the most insignificant of all the galaxies. How do you really conceptualize the idea of a space that has no finite space? She tried to picture the ocean of stars and planets and black holes and quasars, and watched, as they tumbled away into infinity, limitless as the confines of her imagination.

Off in the distance, right at the edge of the skyline, she could see mountains, the tops of which reached up so high, they were almost kissing the bottom of the star-field. As she looked up, she just caught the tail end of a shooting star as it passed beyond her sight.

A cool breeze made its way along the hilltop, ruffling the tall grass as it rushed up at her, pin-pricking her arms from the cold. The wind picked up and began waging an auditory battle against the sing-song of the crickets and cicadas. She had the vague thought that next time she should add a thunderstorm into the mix.

The images around her rippled slightly, and the exceedingly polite voice chimed in that her time was about to expire, would she care to purchase more? She let the timer run down and watched the hillside and the stars blink out of existence as the holo-projector shut off, returning her to the stark interior of the pod. She stepped out and resumed her daily walk to the Tran platform, looking up at the metal enclosures of her underground city, and daydreamed of an infinite sea of stars which she would never actually see.

 

 

Issue #166 : Locked In

 

I don’t know where I am.

I can hear what sounds like water out there, but I don’t know for sure. There’s a sloshing sound, something washing up against the side of this box and the way it’s pitching, I have to be on the water.

I just don’t know where.

There are sounds that could be seagulls when they swoop out over the canal for their morning breakfast but I’m not even sure what time of day it is. The box is sealed up so tightly, I can’t even see enough of the outside to see if it’s daytime.

The last thing I remember is the poker game, trying to figure out why the martini tasted so off, like the olives had turned or something. I guess I know what was going on. It’s like waking up after the worst blackout with an even worse headache.

I have no idea how I ended up inside this thing. It seems like the size of an old-style luggage chest. It isn’t long enough for me to stretch out, but I can sit up. 

It scares me that I can’t see the outside light. Is this thing airtight? If that ends up being the case, how long will I be able to survive in here? There has to be some air getting in. I couldn’t have lasted this long, could I?

I’ve tried yelling. I’ve tried kicking the size of the box. I tried forcing the top open, pushing up with my back and I could’ve sworn it gave way a little but I’m still stuck in here.

Somebody’s got to find me eventually. Especially if I’m floating around, out on open water. Eventually someone will have to spot this thing and get me out. I just have to be patient and stay calm.

Sure. No problem.

The box is moving more violently now and I think I felt an impact of some kind. I’m pretty sure I heard a bell that could have been a buoy. That would put me in the channel.

Then why the fuck hasn’t anyone seen me?

And why would they stick me in here in the first place? Okay, I owe the guy some money. Is this how adults deal with situations like this?

There’s that horn again. I know I’ve heard it before. I’ve heard it somewhere, I just can’t place it.

The box is moving again. I just cracked my nose against the side. Pretty sure it’s bleeding. I swear, I would trade one of my organs right now for a cell phone. Even an air horn or a whistle. Anything.

Stay calm.

This can’t go on forever. Someone’s going to find me and in a few hours I’ll be sitting in a comfortable hospital bed under observation. And you can count on me giving my statement to a detective, telling him who did this. Anyyone who knows me knows that I have no trouble with calling…

Anybody.

Anybody knows.

Why would they stick me in here if there was any chance of me walking away and pointing the finger at them? What would be the point?

Unless they’ve done this before.

Unless I’m not supposed to walk away from this.

The horn again.

And now I’m smelling something. I don’t know why I didn’t before, because it seems plain as day now. It’s a bad food smell. Vegetables, or fruit that’s been left out in the sun for too long, like…

I know that horn.

Son of a bitch.

I’m not in the water.

I’m on one of the garbage scows.

Nobody will ever hear me from inside this thing.

 

Top Picks : Slaughter Beach, by Benedict J. Jones

Sometimes the greatest things you come across happen completely by accident.

I happened to put a call out for novella suggestions, and through that request, I came across Slaughter Beach, by Benedict J. Jones. It didn’t take very much to convince me, I don’t think I even looked over the premise of the book. And while I always say that you shouldn’t judge a book for superficial reasons without actually reading it, this was one example where an awesome title and great cover art definitely sold me on the book.

This is my second spotlight on Dark Minds’ novella series, my previous one being of Kids, by Paul Feeney’s. As I write this I am about to begin reading the remaining book of the series this far (What The Find In The Woods, by Gary Fry) and I am anxiously awaiting the fourth by Rich Hawkins, to hit the shelves later this year. If you haven’t read any of these books, I can’t praise them highly enough. They are fantastically conceived and executed little books that more people should have their hands on.

Slaughter Beach is centered around the character Don Curtis, who runs a private charter operation, somewhere in the south Pacific. He is approached by a notable celebrity photographer who is trying to get to a specific remote island for the purposes of conducting a fashion shoot with his small brood of models. Don takes the job and, along with his crew, takes the group out to the island.

To say the shit hits the fan quickly would be the King Kong of understatements.

I don’t want to get too much into the details of what transpires because I don’t want to spoil the surprises within the book. But suffice to say, there is a dark presence lurking on the island that is quick to set upon them as soon as they make their way to shore.

This book is not going to be for everyone. I kind of hate that phrase since this statement can be applied to pretty much all the books, can’t it? Still, it seems to be more important of an issue in books with more of s dark twist to the tale. There is foul language. There are some brief moments of sexuality and there is violence of a graphic nature. Again though, if I may be frank, I feel like the title of the book itself should be sufficient enough of a red flag for most people. And personally, I loved the gore in the book. I thought it was handled with a high degree of skill and discretion. Too often, writers will toss in some graphic description as a substitute for narrative direction and in no way did I feel like this book fell victim to that trap. I thought it had a fantastic kind of retro feel to it of some of the grittier horror films I watched growing up. There is nothing to be reasoned with or pacified. This is a situation of survive or be killed. No mercy or quarter for anyone.

Slaughter Beach is also the perfect length, in my opinion. More and more I find myself becoming a huge fan of the novella as a narrative form. You get a good taste of a story without the author going off on too many flights of fancy, delving into extensive back-story and set-up that might be intellectually interesting but doesn’t necessarily add anything substantive to the book. I thought that Jones did a great job conveying the stories of these characters without having to rely on a ton of tedious exposition or archetype. Some of the characters tended to blend together for me, but in terms of the main actors of the play, I felt like he did a good job sorting them all out and providing them with a unique place in the story.

I also liked that the antagonist of the story got some time on the page as well, as opposed to simply being your standard-fare, faceless monster. As much as you root against the villain of the story, there is also just a touch of sympathy here. This isn’t simply a raving mad cartoon of a monster. This is a complex character who has just as much right to the camera as the resr. Jones has crafted a well balanced story that comes at you from several different directions.

I found both the pacing and the quality of the language to be top notch. I read the book in close to one sitting and never really wanted to put it down. Jones has crafted some great characters and a villain that you will love to root against. The action is great and really well conceived. It’s gruesome and it hits you hard, making no apologies along the way. My preference in books has always leaned towards the dark and the bleak side of things and this book definitely fit the bill.

One critical note I would make is that I wish it had been a little clearer that the book was set in the 1970’s and not the present day. Ultimately I had no problem with suspending my disbelief, but I think the story would have felt more probable to me if I had known this detail. It’s a minor issue however, it’s a fantastic book either way. 

So why are you still here? Looking for a cool book to read on your next vacation? Grab a copy of Slaughter Beach. Going to be stuck in a car for twelve hours and you want a book to help pass the time? Get yourself a copy of Slaughter Beach. Know in advance that you’re going to be stranded on a desert island for a while? Before you go, grab up a copy of—

You probably know what I was going to say there.

Check it out. It’s well worth you time and dollars.

Oh and as a side note – if you do decide to read this, please consider supporting a great artist and a great book by posting a review. Thanks!

.
.
Click here to purchase a copy of Slaughter Beach, either in paperback or for your Kindle.

Baked Scribe Flashback : Rural Research

 

The barn loomed tall against the pitch black of the nighttime sky. Oscar looked up as he heard the sound of birds taking flight and could see the darkened silhouettes as they rushed by. There was a hint of thunder, as lightning kissed the furthest reaches of the southern horizon. The heat felt oppressive, pressing in on him with physical force. They needed this rain.

“Sorry I had to bring you out here so late at night like this.” Daniel was the caretaker of the property, the one who the bank had arranged to give Oscar the tour. “Frankly, I don’t really know why you’re so interested in this place anyway. Nothing here you can’t read about in books and police reports.”

“The paper wanted me to be thorough,” Oscar explained. “It’s been ten years since Mr. Rollins’ disappearance and they want the coverage to be extensive.”

“Sure,” Daniel said as he continued fiddling with the padlock.

“I’m surprised that all of this is still here, with what the land has to be worth. What’s the point of just leaving it abandoned?”

‘Well, it isn’t like anyone would ever want to live here. The property went into some anonymous trust, and our company is being paid for the upkeep. I have no idea what the owner has planned for this place.”

The walked into the main part of the barn. Oscar heard the fluttering of wings from somewhere up above. There was a strong smell of mildew in the air, indicating not complete neglect, but of a definite absence of attention.

“So what are you looking for anyway?” Daniel asked.

Oscar took out his notebook and flipped it open. “You’re a local, right?”

“Sure. All my life.”

“Would you mind going over with me what happened here, your memories of the events? Just so I can make sure my facts are right?”

Daniel nodded and dropped his gaze to his feet, shuffling them in the dirt as he contemplated his answer.

“Mr. Rollins was kind of a nobody around here. Came in after the war. You didn’t really like or dislike him. He kept to himself for the most part, minded his own business.”

“What did he do for a living? My understanding is that he owned the farm but didn’t actually do any farming himself.”

“Yeah, he rented out his fields to the neighboring farms. He inherited the land originally, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t have any interest in working it. Times were good enough that the farmers around him could afford to expand onto his land and he made enough money renting out the property.”

“And when did things start to go wrong for him?”

“An older couple came into town claiming that their son and his girlfriend had been driving through here and had gone missing. Sheriff was ready to write them off until someone found the kids’ car, partially buried in the woods.”

“How was it found?”

“Well, whoever had done it had rushed the job a bit. Some of the bumper had been exposed, likely from a recent wind storm. They called in the Staties and started going door to door, questioning people. They didn’t have anything else to go on.”

“Until they talked to Mr. Rollins.”

“Not even then, at first. One of the officers thought that he was acting strange, but wrote it off. After a few weeks of chewing it over in his head, the officer decided to report his concerns. They were so desperate that they went and got a search warrant based off of it.”

“And that was when they found all the bodies?”

Daniel nodded. “Dozens of them, piled up all over this room here. Whatever he had been doing with them, it had been going on for a pretty long time. The bodies had been hacked up, thrown all over the place. It was a dammed mess. There was a bunch of strange equipment down below and it looked like he had been operating, conducting tests of some kind.”

“And Mr. Rollins was not present during the search, wasn’t heard from again?”

“That’s correct.”

“And what about his research?”

Daniel snorted. “I guess if that’s what you’d call it. They found boxes of Steno notebooks full of his chicken scratches. Crap about other universes, lots of mathematical equations, numbers and more formulas, dates for test subjects. Kept going on and on about finding something. ‘I’m going to figure out how to get there, I will leave this world for good and enter the next.’ Shit like that, mostly.”

Oscar looked up at that. “What was he talking about?”

Daniel shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Do you think the people he killed were the test subjects he was referring to?”

“Probably. Anyway, the last entry they found just had one word. Success.”

Oscar strolled around the barn’s interior. As much as the property outside had remained untouched, most of what had been in here had long since been removed. All that remained was a few stray bales of hay. The wood surfaces all around were colored, stained from the sins of acts long past. He bent down and ran his hand along the handle of a water pump that was jutting up and out of the ground.

“Who were his victims? The people he killed, was there any kind of connection established?”

“Best anyone could tell, they were all drifters, people out on the road for some reason or the other. He never killed anyone who lived here. Guess he didn’t want the attention.”

Oscar nodded, but didn’t say anything to add to the theory.

“Your paper said that you were going to want to see the cellar, is that right?”

“Yeah, I think I need to go down there, unfortunately. Is that a problem?” Oscar found himself half hoping that it would be.

“Nope. The trap door is just over there by the back wall. It’s just that…if it’s all the same, I’d just as soon stay up here.”

Oscar shook his head. “That’s all right. Not a problem.”

Daniel seemed to relax noticeably and went to unlatching the door. Oscar stared down the stairs leading into the cellar and contemplated the immensity of what had likely occurred down there.

“There’s a work light,” Daniel said. “About ten feet to the right from the very bottom of the stairs. Just turn as soon as you step off and go in a straight line, you’ll run into it.”

Oscar nodded and began walking down, wincing at the groaning from the wood, sure that he was about to end up trapped down here for hours while Daniel tried to get a rescue unit out here to fish him out. The stairs held out though, and he soon found himself standing on the cellar floor. There was a rectangle of light around him, cast from the open trapdoor above and all else was darkness.

He took several stops to the right, waving his arms around until he made contact with the light, hanging from the ceiling. As he fumbled with it, trying to find the switch, he had a brief image of Rollins reaching out to him from across the room.

The light finally clicked on and cast illumination all around the thirty square foot room. There was an even stronger smell of damp mildew and mold down here, bugs and worms oozing out from the walls and the muddy mess that the floor had become. There was a wooden work bench set against the wall with pegs, where various tools had likely once hung. Oscar found himself fixating on what Rollins might have been doing to all these people, what horrific lengths he had gone to, in pursuit of what he evidently saw as the needs of science.

The coroner’s original report had suggested that the cuts and wounds on the bodies were consistent with that of an axe, or possibly a saw. Standing here in this place, where so much violence and suffering had occurred, he could almost detect the metallic taste on his tongue of blood in the air.

There were random mechanical parts, in piles all over, but only one piece of actual, intact equipment, in the center of the room. It looked like it had once been the pilot’s chair of a plane, stripped out and mounted on the floor, which was possibly the reason it had never been moved. A primitive control panel of sorts was bolted onto one of the arm rests, with a number of dials and switches, marked with numbers and letters, but with no indication of their actual purpose.

Oscar felt an urge to take a seat, examining the contours that looked perfectly suited for his frame. There were two pedals on the floor of the contraption and, without really thinking it through, he reached down and pressed one of them with an open palm, pushing it down until there was a clicking sound from somewhere inside the mechanism, and the pedal made contact with the former floor of the aircraft.

The barn began to shake, a deep rumbling that came from somewhere under the ground itself. He looked to his right at the sound of tools clanking against the wall. Tools that weren’t even there before.

“What the hell is going on down there?” He heard Daniel yelling at him, but from across a wide gulf. The building was shaking so much that pieces of the rafters were starting to pull loose and rain down on him. The bulb in the work light popped, fading to dark and showering glass down on him.

Oscar knelt down on the floor, crouched, with his hands thrown up over his head. He was afraid to make his way back to the stairs in the dark, not knowing what debris had fallen that he now couldn’t see.

The howling of the wind outside was joined by the ringing in his ears. As he started to stand up, another sound started to creep into his awareness. It was a dragging sound, shuffling across the dirt floor.

The sound of footsteps.

Rollins had never been found, presumably out there somewhere, making himself scarce. Despite that, Oscar somehow knew, in that moment, whose presence he now felt. It bore down on him like a sudden physical weight as his senses detected the new person, now in the room. Somehow, Oscar had managed to bring the man back from whatever infinite gulf he had figured out how to cross.

“Daniel?” He tried calling out to the caretaker, but there was no answer other than the sound of wood fracturing. The room shook with the sudden noise and impact of the stairs finally collapsing under the weight of some unknown force. He heard the footsteps approaching him in the dark, and now the sound of ragged breathing. He also heard something else, dragging like the footsteps, but this had a metallic edge to it.

The head of an axe.

 

Baked Scribe Flashback : Special Sauce

 

The health inspector walked alongside the counter, running his finger over the surface and frowning at the thick layer of grime and dust that he pushed through. Dale watched him go through his routine, wondering how long this particular dance would have to go on.

“So…What happened to our regular guy?” he asked.

“Food poisoning, I’m afraid.” The twerp removed his gloves long enough to scratch his nose and adjust the glasses that were perched on the end of his nose. Once done, he removed a fresh pair of gloves from his pocket. “Though I can’t say that his absence has been a bad thing, especially considering his obvious inattention to certain details.”

“Uh-huh.” Dale watched as the inspector looked over the menu scrawled onto an old chalkboard. He pointed at the listing for the house special, which was currently marked as unavailable.

“What exactly is a…luck of the…” He frowned and leaned in to get a closer look at the menu. “luck of the day-wich?”

“Just a sandwich. We use whatever’s on hand, you know? You get what we give you. But it has a real special kind of meat. Sort of need it, you know? It’s hard to get, real regular.”

The inspector smiled, a thin expression that did nothing to convey any kind of mirth or good will. “Charming.” He turned his back on Dale and began his seventh tour around the diner, an establishment that was barely larger than a one bedroom apartment. This was going on way too long.

“So what’s the verdict?”

The inspector ignored the question as he did another soul-sucking lap. When he finally returned to his starting point, he took his gloves off and put the pen back into his breast pocket.

“Perhaps we should go somewhere more discreet to discuss this?”

Dale stuck out a lip and shook his head. “Just get out with it, I don’t care.”

“Well, then where do I begin?” He lifted his clipboard and began tracing down it with his finger even though Dale suspected that he knew the whole thing by heart. “You have no hand-washing stations. I have observed your cook returning from the lavatory twice without washing his hands and when I asked him, he was unable to tell me what your procedures are for properly holding perishable food.”

“Well come on now, the sink in the bathroom’s just fine for—”

“You have unlabeled bins of meat in your reach-in, cooked meat sharing containers with uncooked meat, and vegetables that are mostly rotten. You have inadequate holding temperatures in all of your coolers, blood on the floors, no properly maintained dish-washing station and your waitress has been sneezing and coughing on the food the entire time I have been here.”

He looked up from his clipboard with a smug look of satisfaction as if Dale was supposed to just figure out the answer to his original question on his own. He tried repeating it, but slower and enunciating the words more effectively.

“So, what’s the verdict?”

“Sir, I cannot in good conscience allow you to continue serving food to the public in these conditions. You will need to shut down your kitchen immediately, confiscate any food from your patrons and you are not to charge anyone for what they have ordered or partially consumed. I will also need to see the documentation from your last inspection.”

“Yeah…” Dale looked around in the mess under the register, stealing glances at his customers who were all rolling their eyes at the show that this officious prick was putting on for everyone. “Tell you what. That green binder over there, next to the phone? Down by your knees? Pretty sure it’s in there.”

The inspector leaned down to reach for the binder. As he did so, Dale grabbed the meat cleaver that the cook was passing through to him from the kitchen. He raised it, and brought it down into the center of the prick’s back. The man shrieked as he fell forward and Dale brought the blade up for a second blow, this time to the back of the head. After a third, fourth and fifth time, the screams stopped. He tossed the cleaver into the sink and stood up with a grin lighting up his face.

“Special’s back on boys!”