Chad A. Clark's Blog, page 17

Baked Scribe Flashback : Hunters Hunted

 

Before the crew had even finished the landing sequence, the delegation of Khaln’aari had emerged from the forest to greet them. Captain Altranor led them down the ramp to meet the party with the crew already in full dress uniform. Theirs was one of the first crews to come to the planet, and it lifted their spirits to find such a warm reception.

The digital network that was streamed through their comm badges was able, albeit slowly, to translate what the Khaln’aari were saying. Before long, the formalities of the reception had lessened somewhat to a more comfortable familiarity. They exchanged gifts, the Captain giving the Khaln’aari a glass figurine of Thoth, the Egyptian god of wisdom. The Khaln’aari had given each of the crew necklaces of tiny, but intricately sculpted pieces of brawn’dak stone.

The two groups entertained each other at the reception site with traditional myths native to each others’ cultures. They traded the stories, back and forth, until the sun was starting to set beyond the southern horizon.

The food was by far, the highlight of the evening.

Being nighttime hunters, the Khaln’aari allowed several members of the crew, including the Captain to join them on that evening’s excursion. The crew had been able to achieve several kills, even though all they saw of the animals were dark shapes running through the trees. The Khaln’aari had several dozen kills, and they sent the younger hunters of the tribe to collect the bodies and clean them for the feast.

Hours later at dinner, the servers brought out pots, steaming from within. The stews, all different, were served to everyone, dark and rich, with the most moist, and flavorful meat any of them had ever eaten. The over-sized glasses of blood-red wine went straight through them, and soon, most were seeing the table through an unsteady haze of pre-intoxication.

The Captain stood to toast the hospitality of their hosts and to thank the Khaln’aari for the feast.

There was a tittering of laughter in response to the toast and for the first time, the Captain looked uncertain. The leader of the Khaln’aari rose and spoke loudly for quite some time, the rest of his delegation chuckling as he went on. It took a minute before the neural network was able to fully translate what was being said, and another minute before the implication of his statement set in.

“That is precisely what the last group of humans who visited here said. I know that you believe you were the first to set foot here, as did they. You were incorrect in that assumption, as were they. They enjoyed their meals as well, that is, before they knew what they were eating, or rather, who they were eating. As great as their anger was at being tricked into hunting their own kind, the humans who had visited here before them, it paled in comparison to the revelation that it was those fellow travelers who they had been dining on.”

The crew all pushed back from the table, meaning to stand, reaching for weapons that the Captain had not let them bring for fear of offending the Khaln’aari. Before they could even rise to their feet, guards stepped forward out of the shadows and held them down in their chairs. The Captain stood frozen in place, unable to move or react. The leader spoke one last time, “I wonder,” he said as he lifted a glass, “how the next crew will feel about hunting you. Do you think they will enjoy the food?”

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Behind Our Walls : Deleted Scenes

 

Fiona slammed the spatula down onto the flattop, splashing hot oil and food debris onto the floor. This was the third time she had cooked the burger for the prick out there, the self-appointed expert on everything. No, that wasn’t the right kind of cheese. Really? Because the server asked you twice if that was what you wanted. No, there’s was too much pink on this burger and the grill marks aren’t right. It was enough to make her want to go out there and dump the guy out of his chair. For at least the fourth time that day, she wished that the kitchen was closed off from the restaurant, instead of being on display for everyone via the pass-through.

The television in the kitchen was showing the same soccer match that was being played out in the seating area. It was a testament to how much of an overbearing prick the owner was that none of the old timers complained about having to watch European soccer matches. There was still a hole in the plaster next to the Budweiser wall calender from a low-ball glass that had been hurled in protest of a Manchester United loss.

Fiona scooped up the patty and tossed it towards the plate. It skipped and bounced off onto the floor. Lifting it up, she brushed off what debris she could spot, tossing it back onto the grill for a few seconds on each side to sear off whatever else was there. She returned it to the bun, hiding any other evidence under a small mountain of shredded cheese and barbecue sauce. The fries which the a-hole had demanded to have re-made were still on the warming plate in the oven. She pulled them out and dumped them onto the new plate.

“Order up!” she called out and dropped the plate with a sharp crack onto the counter. As she began to scrape down the flattop, she pretended to not notice the idiot glaring at her from his table, as if she should be eternally grateful for the opportunity to prepare his dead animal. She grabbed the plastic bottle and showered the grill with water to create a wall of steam that she could at least temporarily hide behind.

She was getting ready to finish up the cleaning by spitting on the grill when she noticed that most of the conversation in the diner had suddenly stopped. The soccer game had been interrupted for a news report, with some footage of the President smiling and waving at various crowds.

“Again, the Pentagon is reporting that thirty minutes ago, the President was evacuated to the protective bunker underneath the White House. Despite the fact that this bunker is used to protect the President in times of imminent attack, the Pentagon’s chief of staff assured us that there is no immediate threat to the public at large. There will be an official briefing in another thirty minutes, at which point…”

The rest of the statement was drowned out in an uproar of conversation. She stood there, staring at the regulars at the counter, feeling sure that at least she wouldn’t be filling any of their orders any time soon.

“No, I remember something like this going on in ‘47.” She didn’t know any of their names, but she recognized this one as the voice of Moron Without Glasses.

“Nah, you’re thinkin’ of ‘49.” That one was Moron With Glasses.

“’49? What are you talking about? Nothing happened in—”

“You’re both wrong. Besides, back then we likely wouldn’t have even heard of it.” The third voice was Stupid Sweater Guy. “Remember? Only way we got news back then was in newsreels and they wouldn’t have told anyone about something like this going on. Would have scared half the country to death.”

“I had an army buddy who told me about it.” Moron With Glasses was pressing his point.

“You don’t have any friends,” said Moron Without Glasses.

“I did then, you think I…”

Fiona spun away from the grill and headed for the back. She pushed the door open with one foot and held it open while she lit a cigarette. It was all bullshit. Half the crap she heard from these guys was just hot air, trying to prove how much they thought they knew.

She was getting down to the last drag when the dishwasher walked behind her, coming about as close as he could get without actually touching her. She didn’t know if it was possible for anyone to be more of a sleaze, but she could actually feel his eyes on her ass even when he thought she wasn’t looking. God only knew what was happening with those mental pictures he took on a daily basis. He came back from the sink and tried to squeeze through the hallway with her in it, but she stepped out of the way before he could take the opportunity to accidentally bump into her.

“Crazy news, huh?” he commented. She didn’t know where his determination came from. She had never been friendly to him, let alone polite or even cordial. The only reason why she hadn’t put the heel of her foot up his ass was because his daddy was the owner. Fiona tried once again to ignore the kid and walked back to the grill. She felt his eyes following her and jerked down on her shirt to try and maximize the coverage it provided. When it occurred to her that she was only causing it to cling more tightly around other parts of her body, she ceased the effort.

“Crazy news,” he repeated as he shifted his gaze back out to the parking lot, as if there were some kind of revelatory sight that only he was privy to. She was sure that he fancied the expression he was putting on to be thoughtful and insightful, but to her it still just looked like a donkey wearing clothes. “What do you think is going on up there?” he asked, nodding towards the television.

“How the fuck should I know?” She glanced quickly at the customers as soon as she said it, not sure if anyone had heard her. Fortunately the news on the TV was still enough of a distraction.

“No need to be rude.” He ambled towards her now, letting the door slam behind him. She tapped the spatula on the flattop, even though there was nothing for her to be watching at the moment. The knives were just to her right though, still within her grasp if that possibility became attractive.

The stench of garlic on his breath reached her several seconds before he did. She flinched as he leaned in over her, putting an arm over her shoulders and began speaking in one of the worst John Wayne impressions ever uttered. “Just reckoned you might need some protectin’ little lady, if you—”

His hand was starting to slide down her back now and that was what finally broke her. She reached around and grabbed, twisting it as she did so. He yelled out in surprised pain but before he could do anything else, she slammed his hand down onto the grill and smacked the spatula down on top of it. The oil and water sizzled with a sudden rank smell as his yell of surprise turned into an embarrassing shriek of pain. Fiona immediately let up and shoved him away from her. He stumbled back, tripped over a compost bin and sprawled back onto the floor.

Richie was immediately there, standing in the swinging doors. His gaze shifted back and forth between his employee and his son on the floor, rolling around in agony.

“What in the crispy Christ is going on here?” It was hard for her to not laugh at his choice of words.

“Dad, she burned my…Jesus, Jesus she burned my…” It was the most he could manage before giving up. He staggered to his feet and ran towards the ice machine. Richie put a hand out to try and stop what was about to happen but it was too late. The kid ripped the door open and plunged his hand into the mountain of shaved ice inside. His face went lax from the obvious relief as he sagged against the machine.

Richie spun to face Fiona. “All right, I’m done with you.”

“You need to tell your grabby son to keep his hands off—”

“Shut the hell up, you crazy bitch. You’re lucky I don’t call the cops or bill you for how much time it’s gonna take to have that God dammed ice machine sanitized. Get the hell out of here.”

Fiona grabbed her backpack and pulled off her work shirt, even though she knew that the pervs out there were going to get the sight of their life, seeing her march out in a tank top. She tossed the shirt onto the grill and shoved past Richie as he dove to grab it before it caught on fire. As she threw the backpack over her shoulder and got to the door, she turned to face the crowd that was now staring her up and down long enough to give them all the one-finger salute. She kicked the door open and marched outside into the mid-morning sun.

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 Purchase Behind Our Walls today. Click on the page above for Behind Our Walls for links to purchase your copy in paperback or for the Kindle.

Launch Day!

This is a day I have been anticipating for a long time, years in the making. My first novel, Behind Our Walls, is now available for purchase, in either paperback or Kindle editions. Many people have generously donated their time and perspective in order to bring this to fruition and to all of those people, I say thank you.
Click here to purchase Behind Our Walls for your Kindle or reading device.
Click here to purchase a paperback edition of Behind Our Walls
Thank you for any support you are willing to offer, that’s what makes this all worth the time. Enjoy the rest of your day.

Top Picks : Rabbits In The Garden, by Jessica McHugh

To be clear from the start, yes I am somewhat biased. I think that Jessica McHugh is a bright and original voice in the landscape of popular fiction and is a name that more people should be aware of. I came to her books first via the Darla Decker series which, if I can take a brief aside, if you are of roughly my age group and have fond memories of the great YA fiction of the eighties, make your way on over to Darla and check those books out.

I first met McHugh via the thought-waves and picture sharing landscape of Facebook but I had yet to venture out into her more adult offerings and Rabbits In The Garden was my first step out of Darla’s universe. I was happy to find that the level of passion and enthusiasm for her characters and her craft came through just as clearly in this book as it had in anything else of hers which I had read.

Allow me to set the stage for you with an arbitrarily simple description of a book that is anything but. It is set in Massachusetts in the 1950’s, centered around twelve year old Avery Norton. Avery is experiencing the idyllic lifestyle in Martha’s Vineyard but the book wastes no time in bringing that all crashing down around her. A crypt is discovered under the family home containing the remains of countless bodies and against any sense of rationality and reasonability, Avery ends up being the one held responsible for all of those deaths. Because of her age, she is imprisoned in Taunton State Lunatic Asylum.

That’s about as far as I’m going to go in terms of an actual synopsis because I think that as a whole, the book is better enjoyed as a total experience and there isn’t much I can reveal about it without potentially spoiling the experience for a new reader. I already knew that McHugh had a knack for writing vividly real and engaging characters so Rabbits In The Garden shouldn’t have surprised me but I was blown away by how much I reacted to the primary players of the story.

First off, Avery is an incredibly sympathetic character. She gets drawn into a situation beyond her control and becomes the worst kind of victim imaginable. Namely, someone who is being treated horribly and victimized by terrible people but the problem is that they are the same people who she would normally turn to for protection. So if a person’s protectors are also their persecutors, what are they supposed to do? It is a situation that, as a child you are completely hopeless to fix or solve, being completely at the mercy of your jailers. Who can you reach to for help? To me, it’s like putting someone into a special kind of jail where, not only do you throw away the key after locking the door, the key actually ceases to exist once those tumblers fall into place. The book is an emotional roller coaster ride with Avery that is engaging to watch unfold.

And that brings me to the other half of the equation, the character that so many books hang on in terms of succeeding or failing. For as much focus as we put on the hero of the story, the only way you even have compelling drama in the first place is if there is a credible threat to that hero’s well being. Namely, the villain of the story is one of the most important overall aspects of the experience. I love a good villain, the one where you find yourself yelling at the book, you are so incredulous that such a horrible person still hasn’t been put in their place.

In the grand scheme of evil, plotting mothers, Faye Norton has to rank up there as one of the greatest for me. At first, she comes off as maybe just a little tight, maybe somewhat pretentious and overly controlling of her daughter. She clearly acts judgmental towards Avery’s friends and has a clear knack for working her two daughters against each other. As the book unfolds though, and in a plot treatment that made me think a lot about Annie Wilkes, we gradually find out just how crazy and more importantly, how dangerous she is. As a parent myself, it was chilling to see her behavior and her actions, how she actively works so aggressively against her daughters. She was the supreme evil parental figure that you just want to see go down in a brilliant blast of vengeance. For me, most of the book was about the anticipation of the possibility of that moment.

And even through all of that, McHugh still makes Faye into a breathing, authentic human being. She doesn’t retreat to the easy stereotype of the shrill harpie. Faye is an awful person but you can also see that she clearly thinks everything she does is right. She doesn’t see herself as a “villain”, and part of the fun of well-crafted speculative fiction is coming to terms with a character like that. I never felt like I was reading a character “type” as much as I was getting to peek in on this incredibly complex and interesting person.

Rabbits In The Garden was a brilliantly conceived thriller, vivid in its characterization and engaging with the overall pace of the book. I loved that there was a hint of possibility of things supernatural without ever really confirming or denying anything. The things that happen to Avery could be happening, or not. She could be hallucinating, or not. The reality of the story is that both of those statements are likely true at some point. Knowing which is which, well that’s just what makes the reading the fun part. The story grabs you right away and holds on to you all the way up to a thrilling and satisfying conclusion.

Two things I wanted to mention before you go. If you happen to be a consumer of audiobooks, this title is currently available through Audible. The reading from Kristin Allison is actually pretty outstanding as this was how I first read the book. The second would be that Rabbits In The Garden is also set to be re-released soon as a special illustrated edition. It will be available in both paperback and hardcover and if you pre-order it now, you can get a copy which has been signed by the author. In addition to this, you can also get a sneak peek at the upcoming sequel. That’s right, a sequel is on the way, hopefully soon, and I will be keeping a keen eye out for it myself. Point your little magic mouse finger and click HERE if you are interested.

Jessica McHugh is an author that you should be aware of and Rabbits In The Garden is a great starting point. Give it a look. Tend to your garden. Do it.

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Click here to purchase Rabbits In The Garden today.
Click here to pre-order your special edition.

Baked Scribe Flashback : Last Road

The dry wind picked up, and blew the tattered remains of the newspaper through the faded memory of the long dead town. The buildings and houses that once lined the streets were now nothing but dilapidated, skeletal remains, hallow shells of a former life that refused to loose their grip on days gone by.

Far above the street, a crow perched silently on top of a pole. It shook out its feathers as it sat, surveying the landscape below, illuminated only by the pale light reflected down from the moon. There was no sign of life, nothing to swoop down and feed on, nothing but hot blasting air and forgotten dreams. The crow lifted up with a cry that quickly dissipated into the silence.

Inside the tavern, the stools remained, loyally lined up in front of the bar, even though the wood was rotting away from the inside, nearly collapsing from the weight of what little life was left in it. At the end of the bar, a former patron sat patiently, bony hand placed on top of the dusted remains of a pint glass.

A jukebox in the corner of the tavern still stood, albeit with most of the insides smashed to bits. Behind the bar, the glass mural had been shattered, shards littering the floor below.

A beetle popped out of a hole in the wall and surveyed the room. It danced around the various blood stains on the floor and managed to avoid the chunk of ceiling tile that came crashing to the ground beside it. It fled the tavern and turned out onto the street. The wind nearly picked it up but it managed to stay rooted as it scampered around in circles before turning down an alley, and leaving our sight forever.

The streets, stained with the blood of regret and decaying pulchritude now were barely capable of holding on to the dust and grime that didn’t even want to call this desolate place home. Further down were the remains of heavy equipment, long since stripped of any practical use and scattered in as many different directions as seemed possible. Between two buildings, a stray coyote sat and stared, transfixed by the misleading odors of this place, unsure if scavenging was called for, or if it should follow its instincts and run before it was too late.

Across the way, in front of the rotting corpse of a general store, the frail remains of a rocking chair moved back and forth with the wind, still yearning for the physical touch of a body to fulfill its only purpose in life.

It had been years since this town had had what anyone would consider a population, residents holding claim to its borders and using it as the frame to hold all of their disparate lives together as one. All glue eventually must fail and, as such, the people of this town had slowly peeled away, leaving behind nothing but this failed structure of humanity.

Maybe that was why they used the town for their purposes. Where better to put something that you never wanted found than a place where no one ever went to find anything? What better graveyard to dispose of a dead body than amongst the already decomposing memories of what was had been? Where better?

The south side of town, where the church had once been, was now littered with the signs of freshly dug graves. It was hard to say how many people were out here since they rarely designated one hole for one body and to be fair, the dead hardly ever complained about having to share.

They used this place because, like this town, some people needed to disappear as if they had never existed, leaving behind nothing but the barest shades of memory. Whenever they had someone who fit this necessity, they would march him through here in the middle of the night, taking him on his final walk through this boardwalk of spectral dilapidation until they reached the final steps of this last journey.

Dexter had thought that he would tell the police everything that needed to be told. He thought he was doing so well and had been so prepared. He hadn’t expected the people who showed up at his apartment tonight to get him, to escort him to this place.

He heard the smooth sound of a revolver being drawn from a shoulder clutch, the metallic snick of the slide being pulled back. Cold steel pressed to the back of his neck and all he could do was look up into the ocean of stars boiling over in every direction and it occurred to him as he spent his remaining moments in awe of this terrestrial magnificence that even a place as barren and dead as this could still sometimes be blanketed in beauty.

The crow fluttered back towards Earth, sensing the possibility of a fresh meal.

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Baked Scribe Flashback : Baited

The pen was breathtaking, and he had to have it. The barrel was a deep glossy black, with tiny, bright red speckles throughout. The cap, decorative ring and ball point assembly all looked and felt like they were made out of solid gold. The ink delivery system was one of the best he had ever seen, writing with a thick, solid, and uninterrupted line of rich, brilliant color. He was amazed at the action, and despite the weight of the pen, his hand never once cramped when he used it.

There was a rune of some kind burned into the barrel, and while the shop-owner claimed she didn’t know what it meant, she did know that the pen was somehow special.

“The claim is that the owner of the pen will never suffer from writer’s block.”

That part had ended up being true, at least. His output had increased exponentially, getting more words down on paper than he ever had been able to produce before.

His teachers at school and the members of his writing group all said that he had finally found a fresh and innovative voice. Since buying the pen, he had published six short stories, two novellas, and had just been signed on by a prestigious agent. That big advance was so close.

Then the pen had run out of ink.

He went to the office supply store, even tried the factory direct warehouse that the university ordered from, but no one could figure out what kind of ink was in the pen. Nothing seemed to work or flow the way the original ink had, and, to his horror, he found that his mind was actually dulling slightly, the words now out of reach.

So he returned to the shop. When he had originally bought the pen, the owner had been somewhat cagey about its origins, but now she told him right away what the problem was and why none of the inks he had been trying would work. He needed something that would be a little harder to come by.

“You should know that things like this come at a price,” she said. He had actually thought about this before buying it, but had never considered anything beyond the actual price tag.

So it was special ink, so special that it wasn’t available at any store or direct from any supplier. He couldn’t even try raiding hospitals or donation facilities because, for some reason, the blood had to be freshly spilled, the tip of the pen dipped in, as life drained out. The first kill had been nearly impossible for him, but in the end, he had the motivation to do whatever was required in order to harvest his ink.

After all, the words were beautiful.

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Behind Our Walls : Deleted Scenes

 

It was the last day.

That was how she would come to think of it, but in the moment, it felt like every one that had come before it. She woke up, just minutes before hearing the beeping from the coffee maker downstairs and shrugged into some comfortable clothes as she headed down for the pre-shower dose of caffeine. Things began to veer towards less-than-normal at the sight of her father, sitting at the table, head down and staring at the television while he tapped a charred piece of toast on his mostly empty plate.

“What gives?”

He jumped in his chair as if he hadn’t even been aware of her presence, tried to play it off and then resigned himself to acting like he didn’t understand how the toast had appeared in his hand. “What do you mean?” he finally asked.

“Don’t you have classes this morning? Why are you still home?”

He shrugged the question off. “I wasn’t feeling the greatest so I canceled classes. Trust me, the kind of kids I have this semester aren’t likely lamenting the loss of a day of learning.”

She peered at him closely. Years after the heart attack that had nearly ended his life, they had all learned to pick up on the early warning signs that he was about to launch himself into a full blown rant.

“But you’re watching the news. You never watch the news. I mean…unless you’re trying to spike your blood pressure.”

“Have you seen this story yet?” He spun his tablet around on the table and slid it across to her. Sophie waved off the device and shook her head.

“Too early for that. Can you just tell me about it? You know, with words? From your mouth?”

James smirked and pulled the tablet back. “I found this link to a story about the social security administration last night.”

Sophie raised her eyebrows. “Oooh, social security administration. Sexy.”

“Shut up. According to the article, benefit checks haven’t been getting sent out over the past week and no one seems to be picking up the phones to explain.”

“So…”

“So, I was watching the news to see if anyone else was covering it.”

“Covering what? A bureaucratic fuck up? The fact that some pencil pusher is probably going to be losing their job? I would think that a broken water main would get more column inches than that.”

James looked up at her, squinting like he always seemed to do when he wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. “You never paid much attention in civics class did you?”

Sophie shook her head and turned to the counter to pick up a mug. She poured the coffee and listened to the silence as he undoubtedly waited for an answer to his condescending question.

“Maybe not,” she said, “I also don’t hang out with my friends at the diner, having malteds before we cruise the strip and drag race.”

“What the hell are you babbling about?”

She turned back to face him, leaning back against the counter. “Daddy, I’m pretty sure they don’t call it ‘civics class’ anymore.”

“Thank you, wise ass. My point is that it’s a big deal if those checks don’t get sent out. It couldn’t have been caused because some guy in an office fucked up and confused his outbox with someone else’s inbox. Checks always get sent out. Always. No exception. Even if the government completely shuts down, they still make provisions to see that the benefit checks go out.”

Sophie still wasn’t making the connection between all of this and the emergency he was hinting at.

He didn’t seem to notice her confusion and instead rambled on. “And if there is some kind of an explanation, then why the hell aren’t they telling people about it? Why aren’t the phones being answered?”

She sat down at the table, trying to keep her voice level and at a low volume to try and encourage him to calm down. “Where did you find the article?” He started to slide the tablet across the table again but she stopped it with one hand. “Just tell me, I don’t need visual aids.”

“Another teacher sent me the link.”

“Okay, but what site is the article on, is it a major news outlet?”

“No it’s…” He looked down at the screen before shaking his head. “It’s some kind of governmental watch group, I think.”

“Daddy, you know that the Internet is teeming with the crazy right? If this was as big a deal as you’re suggesting, than at least one of the credible news sites would be saying something. Hell, they’d be cutting into the morning soaps and game shows. Have you found the story anywhere else?”

He looked almost crestfallen, shifting his gaze from side to side. “No,” he finally admitted.

“So you only found it on this one web site? Let me guess, sandwiched between a photo of Bigfoot and the baby that was born with six heads, but only one brain?”

And just like that, her sarcasm gave him his second wind. “You know, even if it is a hoax, just the chance that something like this could be true is enough to warrant looking into it. Who do you think is affected by this? You’ve got retirees out there potentially with no money now to pay the bills, buy food or medicine—”

“Dad, take a breath.”

“And of course, God forbid the insurance companies step up and just provide their customers with the medication they need. God, they couldn’t do that, that would be a fucking tragedy if they actually—”

“Daddy!”

The tone of her voice finally cut through his mania and he stopped, taking in a long slow breath as beads of sweat started to form on his forehead. She made a conscious effort to soften the tone of her voice, to try and bring him back down. “Look. I’m sure that everything is fine. I get why you’re upset but the reality is that you’ve got one article, written by God knows who, and you’re working yourself up into a frenzy over it. Just give it some time and breathe.”

He didn’t answer her but seemed somewhat calmer. His eyes locked in on hers and he nodded slightly before shifting his gaze out the window. Sophie shook her head and sipped the coffee again. This is how arguments with him would go. He would get something else in his head that he decided took precedent, and the drama would be over. Sometimes he would wander out of the room in mid-sentence, making her feel like she libed with someone suffering from Dementia. In this case, he frowned and walked to the window, peering out into the street.

“What?” She couldn’t stop herself from asking.

“I just figured out what’s been bothering me all morning. No construction.”

“I don’t understand, is that code for something?”

“They’ve been out there on the corner at Figero, tearing up the sidewalk all week. Where are they?”

She walked up next to him and peeked out herself. The equipment was all there, but no workers.

“So they aren’t there today, so what?”

“They’re working on the city’s dime, that’s so what. It was something at the end of the article, in the comments section. Apparently a lot of road projects have been put on hold, workers just haven’t shown up.”

“What does that have to do with Social Security checks?”

“Nothing. The point was that it was another symptom of a larger problem. That maybe money isn’t getting funneled to the places where it needs to be.” He stopped and turned to glance at the table as the tablet chimed softly.

“What?” Sophie asked.

James bent over to look at the screen, wagging a finger at it as he did so. “Another comment. Listen to this. Across the country, park rangers were called at home and told to not come to work today, even in the capital. No explanation. Also…” He scrolled down the screen. “… prisons.”

“What? Prisoners not getting their paychecks either?”

He ignored the sarcasm. “It says that they’ve been having a hard time getting prisoners transferred.”

“Ominous. What does that have to do with anything?”

“There has been a shortage of US Marshals available to escort prisoners during transport.”

For the first time, Sophie reached out and took the tablet from him, looking over the browser and scanning through the article. “You don’t find it strange that this site is the only one who has heard of it?”

“Maybe.”

“I really think you’re getting yourself worked up over nothing. If you’re looking for something to do, the basement needs to get cleaned up. Maybe you could do some laundry or grocery shopping.”

He looked up at her and laughed for the first time. “And what do you think happens to your old man when he runs the wrong cycle program on the washer? Or if I use the wrong kind of fabric softener or buy the wrong kind of crackers?”

“All right, all right, I get it. Then go to a movie. Go bowling. Go to a bar and get drunk. Anything other than sitting around the house, festering all day.”

“I am not festering, I’m just concerned about—”

“You’re jumping at shadows and conspiracy theories. What happens if you work yourself up into another heart attack and then we find out after the funeral that none of it was even true?”

James let out a long breath and finally touched the button on the tablet, returning it to the home screen.

“Happy?”

“Joyful. Thank you.” She set the mug down, walked over to him and bent over to hug him in his chair, kissing him on the cheek as she did so. “You know I’m only giving you this much shit because I care, right?”

“Sure. With friends like these…”

“You’ve got to take care of yourself, all right? Just take it easy. If there is something going on, there has to be someone out there dealing with it, all right?”

He nodded. “I know. I just—”

“The Internet is one giant Venus fly trap for people like you. Just back away. Now if I go take a shower, can I trust you to restrict yourself to your Soduku app or the football highlights?”

He smiled again. “When exactly did you become the parental figure in this relationship?”

“Just promise me Dad, I need you to—”

“Holy Hell, you have gotten pushy since you got that personal trainer job. Yes, I promise that I will stay off the website and that I will cease all pursuing of any information relating to previously indicated topics or articles, and that subject matters deemed bad for my health will be avoided at all costs. Satisfied?”

Sophie nodded. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so pushy.”

“You do it because you love me. Trust me kiddo, I get it. Go take your shower. I’ll still be upright and breathing when you get back down here.”

Sophie walked down the hall and up towards the bathroom. It was hard to not laugh at how worked up he could get over things like this. Still, she did find the tiniest weight in her stomach after the conversation, wondering if anything like this could ever be true. A part of her that she didn’t want to acknowledge couldn’t help but think that maybe there was something to this worth paying attention to. After all, sometimes the smell of smoke in the air really did mean that danger was looming.

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Check out Behind Our Walls, available for purchase on July 19th. Click here to pre-order your copy today for the Kindle.

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Tracing The Trails Of The King : Cycle Of The Werewolf

“Something inhuman has come to Tarker’s Mills, as unseen as the full moon riding the night sky high above. It is the Werewolf, and there is no more reason for its coming now than there would be for the arrival of cancer, or a psychotic with murder on his mind, or a killer tornado”

-Stephen King, Cycle Of The Werewolf

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Cycle Of The Werewolf is a fun,  quick read from Stephen King in a format that was newer for him at the time. The book is split into twelve parts, each representing a month out of the year as a werewolf assaults the population of a small town. Each story in the book is also accompanied by an illustration.

The idea was originally for a calendar, focusing more on the artwork. King would write a short vignette for each month but he ultimately found the length requirements too restrictive so the project became a short book with the artwork included alongside the text.

This book (in my opinion) was somewhat of a throwback to his earlier work in that the main character is a child, forced to be the one to stand firm and battle the monster terrorizing his town. The story flips back and forth between the killings and his investigation to try and find out who in the town could be the werewolf.

I remember seeing people carrying this book around the hallways when I was in junior high. There are a few pictures that stand out, even from that long ago. The memories are so vivid that when I opened to some of the pictures I immediately had a sense of familiarity and recognition, even to the point of remembering the specific classroom I was sitting in as I glimpsed the picture originally. The art has a wonderful feel of the classic B horror movies that I also loved as a kid, hard hitting and impactful. Despite all of this, I never actually read the book until I read it as a part of this project.

Critics seem to call out the book for its short length which I can’t help but find ironic considering how many people have also taken King to task for the exact opposite, suggesting that he must be getting paid by the page or by the word. However, I see this more along the lines of a novella and graphic novel hybrid. Yes, the story itself is on the short side but it’s also incredibly efficient and effective. The artwork is fantastic and in my mind, is what drives the price tag of the book higher than some people would likely want to spend on a fairly short book.

I’m not going to suggest that this was the most amazing, mind altering book I have ever read in my life and as far as werewolves go, I wouldn’t say that he goes anywhere that hasn’t been done before. It’s a fairly middle-of-the-road, safe story but the addition of the artwork makes the whole experience worthwhile in my opinion. If someone were to be looking for an introduction into King’s universe of storytelling, I wouldn’t suggest starting with this book as I don’t really see much in this that lends the “King” voice to the concept. I think that the ones who are most likely to enjoy this are readers who are already fans of King. People of roughly my age bracket who have similar memories of this book from their childhood are the ones who will most likely enjoy this along with a side helping of nostalgia.

Personally, my opinion is that King was experimenting with new storytelling devices. It’s unfortunate that authors who develop a strong following for something often can have the door slammed on them so severely whenever they try and step out of the box and do anything different. King himself has discussed his frustration at feeling like he was held captive by the expectations of the fans.

Personally, I think it would be pretty cool if King were to take pen to paper and write a really gritty, dark werewolf novel. I’d be fascinated to see his take on the franchise and the mythology, along the same lines that Salem’s Lot was sort of his take on Bram Stoker. I doubt it would ever happen but Cycle Of The Werewolf still stands as a nice, enjoyable offering

My name is Chad Clark, and I am proud to be a Constant Reader.

Baked Scribe Flashback : Slotted For Disappointment

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This is bullshit.

I’ve been a part of your life for longer than I even remember. I’ve been there through the worst of it with you and I’ve stayed right here the whole time.

Examples? Fine. I was there with you when that crazy lady you met at the special dancing bar dumped you in the parking lot at Fun World. Not so much fun that night, was there? Especially after you discovered the rash. I didn’t bail on you then, did I?

How about the time when you were on your bike and nearly got run over by that redneck asshole in the pickup truck? I stuck right there with you at your side all the way through all of the treatment and the doubts and the rehab. I was loyal. LOYAL.

Remember the time you got so drunk that the police found you curled up in the middle of the street trying to talk a squirrel into lending you twenty dollars so you could play poker with Jesus Christ? Who stuck right with you and didn’t judge? If you guessed me, you’d be right again.

I’m not just any quarter. I’ve been living in the back pocket of your jeans for over a year now, sometimes sharing space with your wallet or occasionally your keys, eating my fair share of lint and dirt and grit. You probably could have given these pants a few more trips through the washing machine but again, I’m not judging.

So now that you’ve discovered me sitting here in your pocket, your special surprise for the morning, what are you going to do with me? After sticking it out with you, how do you reward me for my loyalty? A god dammed vending machine. I guess all I’m good for is the cure for when you’re feeling a little peckish. And what is it that you buy? What is the amazing product that you can’t live without that you’re trading away my loyalty and my love and shoving me through a slot into a deep dark abyss of nowhere for God knows how long? What are you trading me for?

Corn nuts.

You really are an asshole, you know?

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Baked Scribe Flashback : Ambition

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Morris turned off of Oak Street and ducked through the archway into the cemetery. The intern had been at the movie and clearly was interested in conversation that Morris wanted no part of. As soon as the movie was over, he had ducked out through the rear emergency exit but he kept hearing dragging footsteps coming from somewhere behind.

A certain amount of hero worship was to be expected to be sure when you were a vice president of foreign acquisitions but the unending barrage of questions and requests was almost enough for him to consider early retirement. He had neither the interest nor the time to be some nobody’s renewable resource. Not unless he was getting paid.

Besides, it wasn’t as if there was a career path that he could recommend based on his vast experience. Climbing the corporate ladder had always been easy for him but the reason was that people ahead of him continued to fall out of the picture on their own. How could he phrase that in the form of a mission statement? “Kid, just make sure you’re always in position to step up if and when someone kicks the bucket.”

The VP before him had been his latest step up the ladder. She had been the cast iron bitch to end all other. He usually found women in the corporate world to respond to his charms. The bitch though, she had been foreign territory for him. Right away, their relationship had been hostile. Up until the end, she had been regularly threatening to get Morris fired and replaced with one of her mind-numb yes men.

He found that if he let things lay and played them as they came his way, his luck was almost uncanny. This was no exception as she had died under mysterious circumstances before she could do anything to him. The medical examiner had described it as an “anomalous coronary incident” which had apparently followed closely after she had consumed that vile green tea concoction that she claimed had given her energy. Whether or not something had been put in her tea to induce the “incident”, that wasn’t for him to say.

These thoughts were running through his mind again when he heard the shambling footsteps behind him again. God dammed intern. Morris picked up his pace and turned down a lane of ornate, over-sized tombstones. One of the names made him stop short and he shook his head in irritation. Of all the graves he could have ended up in front of. He had never even known her last name and apparently “cast iron bitch” couldn’t be used for a headstone.

He sensed an approach from behind, turned to tell off the intern and instead found himself face to face with the bitch herself, or itself would probably be more accurate at this point. Her skin hung loosely off the protruding cheekbones and the jaw swung from side to side, apparently no longer able to shut. Morris stumbled back, trying to find the words to say or the way to react. He looked into the dull eyes, ensconced in rotting flesh and saw nothing but undead rage.

The thing lunged forward and took hold of him, hands wrapped tightly around his face and lifted. He felt his feet come up off the ground and he kicked his legs wildly back and forth, trying to re-acquire contact with the ground. It occurred to him in a panic that the thing was going to rip his damn head off.

Luck came Morris’ way again as smothering darkness flooded in and he didn’t live long enough to find out how right he was.

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