Chad A. Clark's Blog, page 33

Baked Scribe Flashback : Follow

“Just call the fucking number!”

“I don’t know what the fucking number is. Are you sure it even exists?”

“You call it to find out if the person trying to pull you over is actually a cop. It’s like 911. Just Google it and call them, because there’s no way that’s a cop.”

It couldn’t be. Not unless the cops had started using ‘79 Dodge Darts for undercover vehicles. The light of the fading day had dropped to make seeing the driver hard enough, but the glare caused by the flashing light made it impossible. All Samantha could see was the rough outline of the man, hulking behind the wheel as he gestured wildly towards the shoulder.

“Why don’t you just pull over?” Sara asked again. “What’s the worst that could possibly happen? It isn’t like we’re in the middle of nowhere. We’re just a mile outside of the city limits.”

Samantha ignored the question and accelerated, speeding up as she saw the Dodge behind them creeping up to their bumper, now honking and weaving from side to side in an apparent attempt to get their attention.

“I don’t even know what I should search for.” Sara was staring at the phone blankly, her tone implying that she was expecting Samantha to spoon-feed the search parameters to her.

“For fuck’s sake, just call 911. Tell them someone is following us pretending to be a cop and ask what we should do.”

Sara dialed and put the phone to her ear. Samantha couldn’t hear what she was saying, the sound of the wind swallowing up her hushed voice, but what she could make out from her tone did not suggest concern or danger. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Sara shrugged and ended the call.

“Well?”

“He said we should just pull over.”

“What?”

“He said that we should just—”

“What did you say to them, exactly?”

Sara rolled her eyes and looked out her window. “You heard.”

“No, actually I couldn’t hear a word you were saying.”

“Just pull over!”

Samantha let out a breath of frustration before giving in and pulling off onto the shoulder. The other car pulled in close behind, lights still flashing, bright red and white colors spearing into the darkness. Samantha watched as the figure stepped out of the car and began walking towards them. A flashlight flipped on, and behind the orb of light, she could hear rocks scraping underneath the man’s work boots.

“You ladies having trouble with your hearing?”

“Officer?” Samantha asked as she put a hand up to try and see past the glare of the flashlight.

“Put your fucking hand down.”

She complied before it even occurred to her how absurd the order had been.

“Officer—”

“Do you have trouble with your hearing?”

“No.”

“What about your vision?”

“I don’t—”

The man kicked the car door, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Do you have any problems with your vision?”

“No.”

“How about your brakes? They working all right?”

Samantha stared up into the light and shifted in her seat, not understanding where this was going.

“Yes, officer.”

“Brakes are working?”

“Yes.”

“Then can you explain to me why it it took two miles for you to pull the fuck over, since you saw and heard my siren and your car is capable of stopping on command?”

“Officer—”

“Just too busy putting on your fucking makeup while you’re driving? Why don’t you step out of the vehicle?”

She still only saw the light from the flashlight waving back and forth. The man behind it was lost in darkness.

“Officer, maybe if you could just give me the ticket—”

“I’m sure you would like that wouldn’t you? Drive wherever you want, as fast as you want. Shit all over this fine county of mine? Why don’t you step out of the car like I fucking told you?”

“Don’t get out,” Sara hissed at her. Apparently she had just clued in to the severity of their situation.

“What am I supposed to do?” Samantha asked.

“Just drive off. You can outrun that shit-heap he’s driving. Get us to a real police station and we can deal with everything then.”

Samantha looked up at the flashlight, and now saw a hand with clubbed fingers snaking out for the door handle.

“Little missy, whatever you’re chewing on there, up in your head, I’d advise you to put it out of your mind.”

Something inside of her snapped, and her hand scrambled for the keys. The man was through the window in an instant, grabbing at her as she put the car into gear and accelerated away. His hands wrapped around her throat, even as the speedometer crept up towards fifty miles an hour. Sara screamed as she beat at the hands, having no affect.

Samantha jerked the wheel, first to the right, and then after a few moments to the left, and back to the right again. The arms wrapped around her did not loosen. She could feel his breath on her cheek, boiling hot and smelling of something rotten. For the briefest moment, she started to feel herself being lifted up out of her seat and pulled towards the window.

The car hit a rut in the road and bounced into the air, causing the cop to lose his grip. They drove off, leaving him behind on the road in a cloud of dust. They were approaching the bend in the road when she saw the flashes reflected in the mirror along with the popping sounds of—

Gun. He’s firing his—oh my God—

The windows exploded around them in perfect sequence. Samantha swerved, as the storm of shattered glass was suddenly joined by a burst of fine, red mist. Sara slumped against her window, a large part of the back of her head now missing. Samantha swerved again, and this time, the tires caught the edge of the shoulder and pulled the car with it, first sliding and then rolling down into the ditch.

She had no idea how long it was before she came to. The car was upside down, engine revving uselessly. Samantha hung limply from the seat belt, arms swaying from side to side.

She heard footsteps approaching the car.

She screamed, and grabbed at the belt, trying to get the mechanism to release. She finally succeeded, falling to the ground and crawling backwards, out through the window. As she sat up and the flashlight came to bear on her, it took her a moment to place the sound of a round being chambered. The man’s voice, somehow harmonic in its rage, called out to her with false sincerity.

“You folks need some help?”

Baked Scribe Flashback : Splashdown

He powered up the motor and throttled away from the dock, under cover of darkness. It was a new moon that night and the only source of illumination was the occasional solar lights of the privately owned piers that he passed. As he steered clear of the no-wake zone, he opened up the engine, cutting through water and speeding out towards the middle of the lake. There was no other traffic out this late as he cut between the twin lighthouses, no sign of midnight fishing, no running lights from shipping traffic. Even the ferry that took cars back and forth across the lake was shut down for the day.

The latest weather report had been the final sign that he had been waiting for, for over twenty years. The time was now. Triple digit highs for two straight days, followed by twenty four hours of uninterrupted rain which ended in an early morning frost.

His people were returning to Earth. And they were doing so in exactly the manner foretold in all the texts, books and writings that were almost older than time itself. He would be there for their arrival and offer himself up for the taking. Once gone, he would reclaim his rightful place among his true brethren.

The beacon was rolled up inside an old tarp that was stowed under the port side bench seat. He pulled it out and unrolled it across the deck, glancing up at the sky to make sure the signal was aligned properly. All he could hear over the light breeze was the kiss of the water against the hull. He attached a long wire with a bell at the end, to the railing. When the ships drew closer to Earth, the massive gravity drives powering up for orbital descent would cause the water level of the lake to actually rise. The sound of the bell would indicate that the time was at hand.

He had contemplated bringing along a few keepsakes, reminders of his time spent on Earth, but what would be the point? Once he transcended this physical shell, what need would there be for the objects of a life wasted?

The water grew louder as the boat began to rock back and forth in the increasing wind. He saw sporadic pulses of light off on the horizon and felt the ominous growling of distant thunder, or maybe explosions, possibly even the pulsing of stardrives.

Off in the far distance, he spotted a bright, white sphere skimming the water as it rapidly approached his boat. The light moved from side to side, illuminating the water below, before settling into a straight line, heading straight for him. His elation was short lived as, moments later, he heard the pulsing sound of rotors.

These weren’t the ships.

Helicopter.

These people were going to disrupt his signal, ruin everything. There were no more choices left for him to make, nothing else he could think to do. These were the ones who had come uninvited. They were the ones threatening his very being. He would defend his birthright.

This was a test.

Scrambling to act before it was too late, he ripped the tarp from the other bin and pulled out the AR-15. He slapped a fresh magazine home and flipped off the safety.

He would earn his return home.

Issue #132

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note : while this is a stand-alone story, it is part of a four part series so if you haven’t already, I would encourage you to start from the beginning. Click here to go back to the first installment. Thanks for your interest and support!

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Tristan opened up his browser and immediately began searching for products to ambush. Nothing reverberated, down to a person’s core more than a one star review and watching all the other users scrambling around like ants to come to the defense of a product they had never used was the highest form of entertainment he had ever found. And it cost nothing.

The key was finding products without very many reviews. It was harder to get anyone to pay attention to a one-star-atom-bomb, when it was just one of many bad reviews, hidden among the four, and five star sheep. Products put out by small companies that were relying on their good reviews, that was where the magic happened.

It took several minutes but he finally found it. One product, released just a month ago. Four reviews, all five stars, probably all their friends. One three star review. This was perfect. Tristan clicked on the link, chose his rating and began to type.

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He cracked open the soda and sat back, already watching the responses that were filing in from the ether. Sometimes he would engage with the idiots, responding to their offended sensibilities, but tonight he was in more of a hit-and-run kind of a mood, so he clicked away, going off in search of new victims.

The explosion of new authors out there, promoting their work, had turned the Internet into Christmas, every day of the week. He had to be careful not indulge in this too often, and risk being exposed, but every now and again, he couldn’t resist the urge to lean in and take a huge bite. The parameters were pretty much the same. Look for authors he had never heard of, covers that looked like they had slapped it together on some freeware art program, without very many reviews.

There were so many easy targets out there, but he had to pick just the right one. After all, it wasn’t like he could do this whenever he wanted, he had to make what shots he took count for as much as possible. He scanned the author pages, until the perfect candidate scrolled past. That had to be one of the most pathetic looking pictures he had ever seen. One desperate author, looking like he couldn’t even afford nice clothes for the picture. He had probably done the best he could, getting his mother to clean those rags up, but there was only so much you could do to polish shit.

Sometimes, it was too easy.

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That was going to be hard to top. He minimized the browser and turned back to his room, starting to think about dinner when he heard the sound coming from his closet. It sounded mechanical, but there was nothing in there that could have caused it. The sound raised in pitch, almost like a motor, increasing in speed or power.

“What the fuck?” he whispered as he approached the closet, reaching out to take hold of the cool doorknob. He started to turn it but paused, not sure if he actually wanted to see what was behind there. The door bumped out towards him, as if something had pushed at it from the other side, and he jumped, inadvertently pulling the door open in one panicked move and stumbled back, yelling out as he saw what emerged.

An electric drill hovered in the doorway, the motor on, and the drill bit spinning wildly in search of something to bite in to. It bobbed up and down, hovering as if at the end of a fishing line, but there was nothing that he could see holding it aloft. He took another step back, sure that he had fallen asleep in front of the computer. The drill had a digitized look to it, as if it was an image from a website that had jumped out of the computer and come to life in front of him.

In a flash, he suddenly realized where he had seen the drill before. It was one of the one-stars he had handed out just a week earlier. But there was no way the company could have found him here. Besides, how could they even do something like this? He looked at the power cord, dangling from the drill, not plugged in anywhere. Still, the drill roared, with life it clearly shouldn’t have had in the first place, jabbing at him through the air as if in accusation.

He went to take another step back, when the drill shot forward. In his panic, he tripped and fell back, grabbing around to save himself, so much that he barely felt the drill enter into his forehead. He wasn’t even aware of the sensation of hitting the floor.

Hundreds of miles away, Brett Campor took in a deep breath as the digitized version of himself reformed in his apartment. He looked at the image of Tristan’s room on his computer screen, and reached down to sever the connection. One more troll, taken out of commission. It was going to get harder to continue getting away with this, but the work was essential. He would have to continue this as long as possible, doing what needed to be done for the betterment of society.

The Internet was broken.

He had to fix it.

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Baked Scribe Flashback : Routine Reports

“I’m telling you, it was dead bodies.”

Larry looked up from the coffee, now halfway between the desktop and his mouth and decided to set it down.

“You’re going to have to run that one past me again, Gervais.”

“Dead bodies.”

“You mean like road kill? I guess you need permits to transport stuff like that, but I can tell you that stretch of road has been due for a cleanup since—”

“Not animals, you idiot. Human bodies. Flatbed trailer piled high with human bones.”

Larry dropped the pen onto the desk and took his glasses off. He looked around the mostly empty station, wondering why he had passed on the opportunity to go home early when it had been offered. No, he had to stick around for the shit-bird shift, because a few extra hours of crap pay would surely make it all worthwhile. He had taken some crazy complaints over the years, including one person who insisted that aliens had sucked his eyeballs out through his nose, to replace them with new ones that they had made out of melted jello. This was already shaping up to be one of the top five.

“Gervais, just…just go over it again for me, all right?”

Gervais rolled his eyes and shook his head, clearly never having been so put out as this. “I was driving south, down the I-ten. I’m workin’ that graveyard again, so I’m used to pretty much having the road to myself.”

“Okay, with you so far.”

“I had just passed that big, old oak tree, the one out Cider Lane? Anyway, I’m driving along when all of a sudden, this big ass truck is right next to me, weaving in and out of my lane. I almost pulled off onto the shoulder just to get away from the idiot.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Big son of a bitch. The truck I mean. I couldn’t believe it could even go that fast.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Larry paused in the middle of the tiny sketch on his notepad long enough to write, “Big son of a bitch,” saying it out loud to satisfy Gervais.

“It was just a flatbed, no covered trailer and when it passed, I figured he was just hauling firewood or something. But I looked again, and I shit you not, that thing was covered in human bones.”

“Gervais—”

“Just shut up one damn minute. I’ve been hunting these woods my whole life. I know the God damned difference between animal and human bones.”

“Gervais, what are you expecting me to do here, really? I know for a fact that you were at Rusty’s Tap tonight.”

He put out a shaky finger as he spoke, “Hold those horses there, that got nothing to do with—”

“Now you’re telling me you were driving home, probably shit-faced, and that you saw a flatbed truck covered in human bones.”

“It’s what happened.”

Larry let out a sigh. “Gervais, I’m sure you actually believe that. But what do you think is going to happen if I were to put all of that in an official report? I end up eating government cheese and you end up sucking your meals through a straw.”

“I saw what I saw.”

“Can you at least tell me anything about the truck? Make and model? Any markings? Did you get a clear look at the driver? Any logos on the mud-flaps? Flag in the window? Did you catch the plate number?”

“No, but—”

Larry put his hand out again to stop him. “No, to which question?”

“Any of ‘em, I guess. I didn’t see anything else, otherwise I’d tell you about it.”

Larry closed the notepad and clicked the pen shut. He straightened his tie as he pushed back from the desk.

“Gervais, I’m going to do you a favor. I’m not taking this report. No one would believe whatever it is you have to say and to be honest, I don’t want my name attached to it. Go home, sleep it off. Trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning, if you even remember any of this.”

“If I’m even here in the morning,” he muttered.

“What?”

Gervais shook his head, gaze still dropped to the floor. “Don’t matter none.”

“Come on, it’s one thing to come in here, spouting off about seeing dead bodies on a truck, but now you’re saying someone is actually after you?”

“You don’t see something like that—”

“Gervais, you didn’t—”

“You don’t SEE something like that without getting yourself into some bad trouble in the long run, see? They won’t let me stick around, not after what I saw.”

“Who are you talking about?”

Gervais leaned in so close that Larry reflexively winced at the chariot of scotch fumes driven out of his mouth, with the stench of tobacco at the reins.

“Don’t matter who ‘they’ is, you dummy. It’s all the same in the end. As it stands, I’ll do what I can, head for home and grab whatever I need. Then I’m smackin’ pavement.”

“Gervais, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Stupid would be staying here. So, unless you’re planning on arresting me…” Larry shook his head and nodded towards the door. He frowned at the sight of Gervais struggling to stand up.

“Are you hurt?”

“Naw. God damned, son of a bitching prosthetic in my knee. Titanium, my ass. Might as well be made out of paper clips.”

Larry watched him stumble out of the station, fairly sure that it was the booze making him wobble, more than the prosthetic.

The rest of the night was boring, by comparison. More drunks, a few domestics, a dog attack. No trucks. No bodies. Not that he was expecting any.

It was late before he got onto the road, choosing to take the I-ten south to avoid the stoplights. For a change, there was no traffic for him to contend with as he made his way up to cruising speed. His autopilot had kicked in so strongly that he almost didn’t see the truck. He heard it before he saw it, the heavy sound of springs protesting, the flatbed jerking forward and clanking against the cab. He glanced to his left as the truck passed, rust glaring in the moonlight. Somehow, the truck was managing to accelerate past him and in a moment, he felt his jaw start to go slack and he immediately wished that he had taken the report more seriously.

The flatbed was covered in human remains.

Bones and skulls with bits of flesh and blood, clinging to what was left of the their former bodies. He had written off the whole thing as a joke, a drunken delusion and now he found himself having to focus well enough to keep his car on the road. Then, as the back end of the truck passed he saw, perched on the very top of a pile, wobbling as if it was about to fall off, what looked like a leg bone. It lay there, mocking him, polished to a near sheen. The lights from his high beams reflected back at him, off of the titanium prosthetic where the knee had once been.

Baked Scribe Flashback : Zuijin

“It says that they’re supposed to represent the guardians of the temple,” Justin said as he looked up at the plaque. The twin statues were seated on opposite sides of the archway leading them up to the exhibit. “They were ancient warriors who—”

He was interrupted by a rumbling from deep within the statues. The ground started to shake as if from an earthquake, and even though it was impossible, the statues started to move. First, one enormous foot was lifted, yanked free from the ground. This was followed by the other foot and soon both statues were standing and walking around the courtyard, drawing giant stone swords from their sheaths.

Justin and Doug took one look at each other and made a dash for what they hoped would be the protection of the original guardhouse that had been cut into the base of the cliff. A loud crash followed close behind them as one of the giants hurled what looked like a car engine at them as they had made their retreat. The walls and ceiling began to shake and rain stones down on them as they knelt into fetal positions, screaming the whole time.

After a few minutes, Justin realized that there was a new sound, hidden within their own screams. It was the sound of something else shrieking, animal-like and it was coming from out there. They crawled to the entrance and peeked around the corner.

There was a reptile of sorts, the size of a small house, hovering over the statues with wings beating the air as it craned its neck forward and belched out a column of flame at the two giants. The statues were taking the blasts of heat with no effect, waving their swords wildly in the air, missing with each stroke as the dragon lifted up, easily dodging their parries. It unleashed another blast of liquid fire, which flowed over the giants like water.

“We need to get the fuck out of—” Doug started to say as he turned towards the far side of the courtyard, where the exit was, and stopped. Justin watched him staring at the tree-line, past the parking lot, wondering what it was he was seeing. “Never mind, nope. Not going out that way.”

Justin crawled to the entrance and looked for himself.

Charging from the darkness of the trees were at least a dozen animate skeletons, glowing an eerily phosphorescent green in the early evening light. They charged up the hill towards the parking lot, swords, axes, and spears held high in a unified cry of rage. The giants seemed unaware of their attack, or simply didn’t care as they continued to focus on the dragon, still hovering just out of reach and engulfing everything in flame. Justin thought that the giants were actually showing signs of weakening, with scorch marks up and down their stone bodies.

In another moment, the army of skeletons were on the giants, hacking and slashing at the massive legs, ducking and weaving as the stone swords swung at them in wide arcs. The dragon swooped, and again bathed the giants in flames. As they turned their attention up to meet this attack, the skeletons renewed theirs, swarming like insects. Once or twice, a stone sword did manage to catch a few of the skeletons and knock them across the yard, but they got right back up, and sprinted back into the battle.

One of the giants dropped to a knee, causing the whole yard to shake. The dragon swooped down low over the other, causing it to spin around in its attempted counter-attack and in the process, tripped over its partner in arms. Both of them were now lying on the ground as the skeletons clambered up onto them, hacking and stabbing as they did so. The giants writhed under the force of the attack and managed to sweep most of them off of their bodies. They lumbered to their feet, standing, and looking like barrel chested wrestlers, heaving from the effort.

The attack on the giants somehow grew even more in intensity, and it seemed like this was going to be an eternal stalemate, when Justin heard a sweet tune on the air, a melodic singing coming from above. A bird appeared, even larger than the dragon and glowing the most beautiful red and yellow colors he had ever seen. The giants turned to look up at the new participant, and even with their blank stone visage, seemed to be weighing their options. Meanwhile, the bird continued its lazy descent until, as it neared the giants, it reached out with its talons and took hold of one of the stone heads.

Upon contact, the claws began to squeeze, and with a cracking sound that made Justin’s ears pop, the head exploded outward in a shower of rock and fine dust. The dragon swooped in and lifted the now headless giant and flew straight up into the air with it, spinning around several times before releasing the body and launching it off into the horizon.

The remaining giant immediately went on the attack, swinging at the bird, but not even coming close as it flew up and out of the range of its sword. The skeletons, now seeming to have tripled in size rushed in, and climbed up the body until all Justin could see was a pile of skeletons, writhing and struggling with what lay beneath them. A loud cry came out from above. As if on command, the skeletons slid off the body of the giant, leaving it exposed for the dragon and the bird to swoop in, each taking hold of an arm and pulling, ripping it, down the center. The two halves of the body dropped to the ground, and did not move again.

The bird lifted up into the air and spread its wings, nearly fifty feet across, and began beating the air. An intense, hot wind buffeted them and howled into the cave as they tried to stay on their feet. An explosion filled the empty space and knocked them both to the ground.

When Justin came to, he staggered out from the guardhouse, into the courtyard and looked around. All that was left from the battle was a pile of rubble and stone debris. He sensed Doug stumbling out, moments later. Neither spoke as they looked around, trying to decide if what they had just seen had actually happened. Doug shook his head and finally managed to find his voice.

“Next year, we’re going to God damned Mardi Gras.”

Ramblings On The Craft : The Spoken Word

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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.

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Dialogue.

It’s a central part of the narrative formula, as the voices of your characters often drive the book as much as the voice of the narrator. One aspect of its importance to the story is that if a book is over-wrought with dialogue that isn’t working, it can turn someone off from your book at a very early stage. We want the voices to sound vivid and real, honest and authentic. How do we accomplish that? Like anything else, there are any number of theories and ways of going about things, but here are some thoughts of my own on the subject.

First of, let me address an issue that you may or may not already be taking note of, namely that I am intentionally choosing the British spelling of the word. In case this is throwing you, or you find the spelling troublesome, sorry. But I find that whenever I look at the American spelling of this word, “dialog” to me just looks like a word that dashed out of the house in the morning and forgot to put pants on. If it makes you feel any better, as I type this, my spell check is insisting that I’m misspelling the word.

For me, I think that the most important thing to remember with dialogue is that there needs to be at least some distinction between the sound of your characters speaking, and that of the narrator. If you just have a mono-tone voice running through the entire book, you can run the risk of wearing on the patience of your reader, the writing and the story becomes less compelling and to be honest, kind of boring. One aspect of story telling that books struggle with, in comparison to movies is that we don’t get the weight of the actor’s performance. All of that is happening inside the imagination of the reader, so we need to do whatever we can to encourage that process. I also think that you need to strive for some distinctions somewhat between your characters themselves, as well. That doesn’t mean that you have to come up with some strange quirk of language for each character, as that often ends up coming off as cheesy or overdone. I listened to the Song of Ice and Fire series on audiobook and I often suspected the reader was giving himself near-hernias, finding some new caricaturized voice for each character. I think that is enough if you have a few characters who have something unique to the way they speak to improve the feel to your story.

I think that a common pitfall with dialogue is that often writers try to do too much, try to pack too much impact and mechanisms into the speech of the characters. It’s important to remember the modes of speech and the sound of real people talking. Pay attention to your conversations and watch people, see not just what they are saying but how they are saying it. You can achieve so much with small moves, there isn’t a need to go over the top and risk losing your reader.

One technique I have found to be extremely helpful in my quest to improve the quality of my dialogue is to read it to yourself out loud. The reason for this is that if you can actually hear the sound of the words and, as you are going through the process of forming it into speech yourself, you are much more likely to spot something that doesn’t sound right. If you find yourself realizing that you would never say something like that in real life, chances are that you might be molding something that is unrealistic and again, knocks the reader right out of the story. If the dialogue is wrong on the page, you’ll be able to tell pretty quickly as you start to read it out loud. For an even better variation on this, if you have someone you know who you can trust to be careful with your feelings, you can have a friend read the dialogue to you. The advantage of this is that your friend doesn’t have any knowledge of the story, and will read it with no prior influence. You can hear how the dialogue might sound to someone, reading the book for the first time. You won’t have to perpetually do this for every piece of dialogue in your manuscript. I think that as you work to refine your abilities, you develop a stronger ear for the speech and are better at spotting problems.

Another good trick you can use with your dialogue is to let the normal rules of grammar fall by the wayside to some extent. Obviously, the reader isn’t going to want to struggle their way through poorly constructed sentence structure, but the fact is that people make grammatical mistakes in their speech all the time. Often, people aren’t even aware that what they are saying isn’t technically, grammatically correct. Allow your story to reflect that. Have your characters use sentence fragments, get their word order jumbled a little bit. It humanizes your characters and makes them easier for the reader to relate to. You want your readers to believe in the characters, so giving them permission to make mistakes, gives them flaws which in turn, makes them more attractive to the reader.

One other arena in terms of simple fixes for your dialogue is that of profanity. Now, this is a sticky issue for some, more so than others, and it isn’t required, by any means. However, one of the easiest ways to make a particular character stand out is to let him or her curse every now and then. Don’t be gratuitous about it, you don’t have to go over the top with it but again, having a character who curses every now and then humanizes them and makes them more sympathetic, or possibly more despised by the reader. Either way, you are creating an emotional reaction. Also, while it may seem like a trick, or cheesy, it does provide one more way of distinguishing your characters’ voices from that of the narrator.

There’s a great quote from Vonnegut that in any given scene, every character present should want something, even if it’s just a glass of water. The point of this is that you shouldn’t treat your characters like they are interchangeable props that exist and operate solely to provide assistance or roadblocks to your protagonist. Treat them like they are three dimensional people, who have just as an important role to play in the story as anyone else. One way to accomplish this is to work to give them a more defined and unique voices.

A technique you can use to better get inside the head of a character is to re-write sections of the story, from their perspective. This doesn’t even have to end up in the story, the point is to just shift your perspective and force yourself to see the universe of your story through someone else’s eyes. Try re-writing chunks of the story from the villains perspective. It gives you a huge amount of insight into the minds of your characters. And for those of you who are sweating at the idea of having to re-write your 2000 page fantasy epic, relax. Once you do this a little, your understanding of the story as a whole is significantly improved. You don’t have to rewrite the entire book, just key sections.

Ultimately, these are all obviously just my opinions, and I’m sure there are plenty out there who would disagree. But if you’re taking some time right now to think about your dialogue and how much attention you are paying to it, I’ll consider that win, even if you don’t think I know what the hell I’m talking about. It wouldn’t be the first time. I still stand by my overreaching premise, however, Namely, that knowing your characters, and their motivations, is the first step to making them sound like actors in your play, not just slightly different versions of yourself. It’s the difference between an actual, three-dimensional and vivid universe that actually exists out there and which you are just describing, and just a string of random thoughts that you are making up as you go along. It’s about giving your story sound and voice, not just words.

It’s why I wanted to be a writer.

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Tracing The Trails Of The King – Night Shift

FAIR WARNING – if you have not read this book, there will likely be spoilers contained within this essay. This is the fifth essay in my ongoing series on Stephen King, and is intended to be a free discussion of the book. I cannot be held responsible if I inadvertently ruin the ending for you, so if you think this might apply to you, I would encourage you to turn back now.

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“You may have an occasion to be traveling in southern Maine yourself one of these days. Pretty part of the countryside. You may even stop by Tookey’s Bar for a drink. Nice place. They kept the name just the same. So have your drink, and then my advice to you is to keep right on moving north. Whatever you do, don’t go up that road to Jerusalem’s Lot. Especially not after dark. There’s a little girl somewhere out there. And I think she’s still waiting for her good-night kiss.”

-Stephen King, Night Shift

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Night Shift stands as Stephen King’s first collection of short stories. I will be completely honest up front and say that, although I was a huge fan of King growing up, I really didn’t care for the short stories. There were some that I really liked, The Raft, The Mist, The Body were a few that I tried and liked but for the most part, I stayed away from them. My theory on to this is that the problem wasn’t as much as I didn’t like them or that I had trouble getting into them, but rather, the exact opposite. One of King’s strengths, in my opinion, is in his ability to craft an extremely potent narrative, one that takes you by the collar and holds your face down to the page. It can be emotionally taxing and draining, each book you read. So the problem with the short story collections is that, you have to experience that same cycle, but a dozen times over, as opposed to the one experience of a novel. You read a story, have your gut wrenched out and then, just as you are getting your bearings, you have to start all over with a new story. I think it was just too much for me to have to be constantly re-investing myself in the next story.

So even now, as an adult, I was still a little hesitant to take on the short story collection. Still, as a matter of point, I couldn’t just skip them. Also, as someone who writes short stories, I realized that I had plenty to learn from the one who clearly had demonstrated many times over, the ability to pull it off.

Spoiler alert – my mind was blown wide open.

In the course of this project, this was the first book where I wasn’t re-reading something I had read before. Reading a Stephen King book for the first time is a uniquely awesome experience as it is but, on top of that, realizing how wrong I had been with my views of his shorter work was awesome to behold. I recently saw King in an interview to promote the release of his newest collection, The Bazaar Of Bad Dreams, and he talked about how much he loves short stories, about how the brief nature of the story forces the narrative to be so potent and powerful. Reading this book, you definitely feel the same way.

I liked pretty much every story in the book, but there were a few standouts.

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I AM THE DOORWAY

This story is behind one of the iconic cover images for this book. The main character of the, Arthur is an astronaut who has just returned from an extraterrestrial mission in which he was exposed to some kind of organic contagion. What starts as discomfort in his hands, soon becomes worse as eyes start to appear, embedded in his skin and he soon figures out that some kind of sentient entity is using his body as a doorway to see into our world, from theirs. Before long, he realizes that, not stopping at observation, the aliens are evidently taking control of his body as well.

I loved this story, not just because the idea behind is is incredibly original, but the way he executes the narrative is fantastic. I normally am not a huge fan of the first person, but it works extremely well for this story and, without giving away too much about the end, King managed to take me completely off guard with the closing lines of the story. I often try to, in my own writing, find that perfect line, the button that will close the story in a way that makes the reader smile and King is definitely a master of this technique.

I also loved the ambiguity of the story in the lack of overt detail. You don’t really know if what he is seeing is actually happening, as the story is stuck in the perceptions of the narrator. Everything has to be taken with a grain of salt as we don’t know how credible he is, and I think the tragedy of the story is augmented by the nagging thought in the back of your head that maybe he is hallucinating all of this.

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NIGHT SURF

King is famous for his tendency to place references and characters from his books all over the place. This story takes place in the America, or what is left of it in the aftermath of Captain Trips, placing it into the universe of The Stand. Most of the country has been wiped out by the disease, but a tiny percentage has been left behind. It is centered around a group of teenagers and the lives that they are now living in the wake of the virus.

I liked that King returned to The Stand, if for no other reason than to see that world through the eyes of a different character, to see how people deal with things differently. You get to see the morality of these kids slowly dissolve into horrible behavior, including the abduction and sacrifice of a drifter, killed to appease the gods and hopefully extend their survival. Also, you get to see the horrors and inherent despair in this world that has fallen to pieces at the hands of this faceless virus.

Again, with this story, King manages to end it in such a way that you somehow find yourself feeling even more hopeless and lost than you did when you started. Even in such little time, I felt the weight and physical presence of these characters. It is narrative potency, at its best.

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BATTLEGROUND

This is a story where, if you were to describe the premise to someone, they would likely look at you as if you had gone around the bend, but I found the absurdity of it to be the most appealing part. The main character of the story receives a package containing a collection of tiny, toy soldiers. The horror quickly unfolds as the soldiers come to life, and he discovers that of course, the little weapons are fully functional as well. It becomes clear that somehow this has been orchestrated by someone who is bent on killing him. A small war is waged with the toy army which is attacking him, gradually escalating with the huge collection of toy weapons that came, included in the set. I guarantee, you will never look at a GI-JOE the same way again.

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THE LAWNMOWER MAN

For those of you who may have seen the movie that came out in the early nineties, don’t be fooled. About the only similarities between the film and this story is that there is a man, and he has a lawn mower. This story is very short and to the point, but I love how bizarre the narrative is, and the flavor of paganism, infused into the main antagonist. I loved how well the story worked, mostly because it probably shouldn’t have. The Lawnmower Man himself is such a wildly inventive character, that it is impossible to not be drawn in. I also loved the hints and glances you get at the malevolent, higher power at work throughout. It reminded me a little of “he who walks behind the rows”, the mysterious, evil entity from Children Of The Corn. What is easily taken as comical and farce, also clearly has a dark and dangerous side.

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QUITTERS, INC.

This is one of my favorite King shorts, and is the basis for one third of the film, Cats Eye. The concept here is simple. The main character bumps into an old friend who, in the course of catching up, reveals that he has quit smoking and refers the protagonist to the company that helped him do it. Once there, he quickly discovers just how extreme the practices of this company are but by then, it’s too late.

I find myself almost incredulous throughout, that it could be possible for a customer to essentially be taken hostage by a company, and by one person’s fairly insane crusade against a product that he sees as so evil and damaging. Again, however, King’s character building is brought, full force onto this story as well. I can’t help but wonder, to what extent should it be taken to help shake people out of their addictions. If it simply doesn’t work to apply willpower in the effort to quit something, do the stakes need to be raised by causing others to be harmed by your bad decisions, just as much as you are? Clearly the owner of Quitters, Inc has made that decision

I love this story. If you don’t like smokers, see how the treatment of the main character in this story makes you feel.

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ONE FOR THE ROAD

King dips into the universe of another of his previously published novels. In it, a man comes stumbling into a bar in the middle of a snowstorm. The two locals in the bar try to help the man but soon realize that he wandered to the bar from his car, where it had broken down, near the rubble of whatever is left of Salem’s Lot. This is set quite some time after the events of the book, after the fire that Mark Petree and Ben Meers set which destroys nearly everything. They agree to drive the stranger back to his car to try and find his wife and daughter who he had left behind, and upon arriving in the Lot, they are soon set upon.

One thing that I thought was effective about this was that the narrative style of the story felt so similar to that of Salem’s Lot. One distinctive technique from the book was to employ what I thought was fairly minimalistic descriptions in a way to create foreboding and fear. King uses imagery and the isolation of the dead town to create a great narrative experience and I loved the warning at the end of the book, for those who may be traveling through, to steer clear of the town of Jeruselam’s Lot.

I think that one of the most effective teaching tools for how to be a better writer is to simply read as much and as often as you can. King himself certainly endorses the importance of reading for writers. Otherwise it would be like someone who wants to be a chef, but who doesn’t take pleasure in eating the food they are supposedly passionate about cooking. Reading this book, I had my first experience of re-sparking that old childhood love for this writer. It reminded me that although this project is going to take me several years to finish, I am in for a lot of really entertaining reading.

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

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Issue #131

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note : while this is a stand-alone story, it is part of a four part series so if you haven’t already, I would encourage you to start from the beginning. Click here to go back to the first installment. Thanks for your interest and support!

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Ronnie sat forward in his chair, jumping at the notification on his screen. This kid just wasn’t giving up, and Ronnie was loving every minute of it. This was the why he stayed home at night, listening to his parents parade around upstairs, fussing around the house for no particular reason. This was why he didn’t waste his time or money on the likes of a girlfriend. All he needed to fulfill himself was the hours spent on these comment threads, ripping a new one into the backsides of the culturally illiterate, and all the mono-syllabic idiots of the world. He leaned forward and began reading the reply.

I don’t understand why you care so much what other people like, why don’t you get over it? Is your life affected so much by it that you have to be so completely rude and disrespectful? Just move on.

Ronnie laughed, the laugh of a predator that is being granted a new food source. He grinned with what he imagined was a cruel glint in his eyes, as he leaned forward to tear into this mild-mannered moron.

Sorry, I guess you don’t hold yourself to any kind of standards. I guess I just expect too much from people, and should just discuss cartoons and children’s books so that you could follow along with the stories. Maybe we can find someone to hire to pre-chew your food for you as well.

He clicked send, and sat back, laughing at the thought of this kid was at the other end, sputtering and waving his arms at computer screen, at the ridiculous statement that he had just been subjected to. Sometimes, he liked to imagine that he could hear chattering all around the Internet, as spectators served witness to the atrocity that was being handed down. He didn’t even really care that much about what this moron thought about the movie, it was about the fight for him. This was about his amusement. This was about setting off a bomb in a room of high strung nerds, and watching them scramble around like ants. This was about one place where he could push people around instead of being the one pushed.

While he waited for the next absurd reply, he reached to his left and took several more Jalapeno Poppers from the bowl, and crammed them into his mouth, chasing it with a fistful of potato chips and a mouthful of soda. The night was young, and he had already picked out some fresh bait. If the rest would end up like this dolt, he was going to be in for an epic evening, bought at the slim expense of other people’s dignity and self-respect.

Ronnie clicked on another thread he had been lurking around in, and rolled his eyes at yet another idiot going on about how the movie was actually good, if you accepted it for what it was. Right, because God forbid we hold the people who make these films to a higher standard. He cracked his knuckles and went to typing his reply.

This movie serves no value. All it is is explosions, and more explosions. The movie is a piece of shit and the only people it appeals to are mentally challenged knuckle draggers, who can’t be bothered to do more than pick peanuts out of the little dirty wooden bowl at their local drinking trough.

He was already laughing, before he even got to the end of the sentence. He looked at the other posts and comments and imagined an explosion, radiating outward and taking the little people off of their pathetic feet as his rage spread like fire.

The minutes ticked past on the tiny readout at the bottom of the screen. The message boards seemed to be hitting a natural low, as people wandered off to do other things. He didn’t want to be the sole person, hanging around and looking for anyone who might be paying attention to him. He was the one who deserved their respect and attention so, he closed down the window in his browser and switched over to the DVD he had sitting in the tray, starting it playing as he did so. Sitting back, he picked up the plate of food and commenced his campaign to transfer all of those calories and fat from the plate and into his stomach. He had seen this movie so many times, that he could recite it from start to finish. He knew it so well that he could deliver all the lines himself and his timing would be so good that you could turn the movie back on, at any point, and he would be perfectly synced. It was the one sci-fi franchise from his childhood that he still kept coming back to.

He had just stuffed more food into his mouth, when he realized that his monitor had started to rock, back and forth on the desk. Ronnie frowned, reaching out to grab hold of it, but it only seemed to vibrate more violently, now sliding back and forth, in addition to the rocking. The picture of the movie was starting to glow more brightly and he thought he heard a kind of buzz in the air. Then, with a sudden explosion of sound and movement, something popped out of the screen, a heavy object of some kind. It hovered up in the air for a second before crashing to the ground. Ronnie jumped , first at the sight of a large ball of limbs hitting the floor, before arms and legs popped out of the thing as it started to get to its feet.

Whatever it was, it had just jumped out of his computer.

But even that wasn’t enough, as the little monster began walking towards him. It raised what looked like a tiny metal cylinder of some kind and as Ronnie heard a popping sound, a bright beam of energy emerged from it and the thing held it aloft like a sword.

Ronnie took in a breath, and several steps back when he realized what he was looking at. The short stature, the pointed ears. It scowled an expression of anger at hate at him, before raising the weapon and charging.

“Jesus!” Ronnie yelled, but there was nowhere to go. He backed up a few more steps into the desk and was trapped as the blade of energy came down to bear on him. He screamed as he felt the searing heat pass through both wrists, cutting, and cauterizing at the same time. His awareness slipped at that point, and the only thing he could be sure of, before the end, was that there was more heat, more cutting and above it all, the maniacal, hich-pitched laughter.

Seven states away, Brett Campor withdrew from his computer, and took in a deep breath to compose himself, watching as his body converted back from the digital matter, back into solid form. This one had taken a lot out of him. He didn’t do it this way very often, as it was so much more work to manifest himself as an actual character. Still, it was definitely worth it. He shut down his browser and severed the connection with Ronnie’s computer, leaving nothing else of himself behind.

There was a lot more work to do.

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Baked Scribe Flashback : Yokai

Reginald walked around the perimeter of the site one last time to make sure everything was in order for the board’s inspection. They would want an explanation for the delays, why they had ended up breaking ground over a month past schedule.

The farmer who had owned this centralized property within the zone had been the last holdout, the one who had refused every offer, regardless of how high. Finally, in the end he had slammed his door, flatly stating that no sum of money would ever convince him to turn his back on what was rightfully his. The land had been in his family for generations and he would never give it up, especially not for something like “commercial development.” Had it not been for the man’s untimely death, negotiations would have been lost forever in a perpetual limbo, never to be resolved.

As he walked, Reginald heard a heavy clanking sound coming from somewhere among the long row of tractors and equipment. He approached slowly, hoping to find an animal scrounging for food, but bracing himself for a homeless person to come shambling out from cover, smelling of booze.

What he found was neither of those things. The being was human in shape, but radiated a bright yellow light as it stood up from a crouched position to meet him. Reginald gaped and took several staggering steps back as the figure began moving forward, one arm lifting up to point, as if accusing Reginald. There was a flicker, like the picture coming back to a static filled television screen and, for just a moment, he had seen a face. Familiar. The face of the man who had owned this land. The one who had held out against selling and died under mysterious circumstances.

Circumstances which Reginald had helped bring about.

His legs went out from underneath him as if they had ceased to exist. He was on his knees, immobile, as the thing rushed forward with arms stretched out. There was another blinding flash as the light entered him, a searing pain as he was heated from the inside out, temperature spiking, until the pressure in his head caused his eyes to rupture. He collapsed, only aware for a few moments longer as he heard the scraping of footsteps receding into nothingness.

The blazing, corporeal figure stepped out from behind the shed, now having become a perfect carbon copy of the body it had just occupied. The new and improved Reginald checked his watch and began preparations for his meeting. The investors would be expecting results.

Baked Scribe Flashback : Xana

Sarah and Darrell looked up as the woman came walking out from under the waterfall and waded out, towards them. Sarah thought that the river was much deeper, but this woman was strolling towards them, the water only coming up to mid-thigh.

The only reason they had stopped had been to count up the money and other belongings they had stolen from the campers up river. Darrell was staring, slack jawed, the jewelry in his hand momentarily forgotten at the sight of the woman. Sarah wanted to tell him off for it, but even she had to admit the stunning beauty standing in front of them. Her clothes clung to her like a second skin as she walked, the water dripping down and causing the light to reflect in a glorious spectrum of color.

As she approached the shore, she reached out to them and immediately, Sarah began to feel lightheaded, and put her arms out for balance as everything around them began to spin. She struggled to draw in a breath, as if fighting against some massive, unseen counterweight. She started to hear voices, whispered in her ear so close, she could actually feel the puff of breath against her skin. They spoke in a tongue she could not understand, the sound rising in each ear at a different volume and pitch.

To her left, she could hear Darrell coughing violently. He was doubled over on his knees, clutching his hands to his ears as if trying to block out unwanted sound, or perhaps his own voices.

The woman was suddenly standing over her, now towering several feet above, with glorious, red curls of hair tumbling all the way to the ground. In that instant, Sarah knew what the voices were trying to warn her about. The very air she was breathing was poison. That was the reason she was having such difficulty. It was the corrosive air that she had been drawing into her lungs. The toxins had to be purged from her body and only the water of the river would save her. She dropped to her knees and crawled to the river’s edge. As spots of darkness were starting to blossom in front of her, she bent forward and completely submerged her head in the water.

Sarah opened her mouth wide and began taking in long, deep doses of life saving medicine.