Chad A. Clark's Blog, page 38

Remembering Wes Craven

There will be no shortage of voices, more esteemed and far reaching than my own, who will be offering up their respect and tributes to the late Wes Craven. It goes without saying that so many should take note, for an artist that had such a profound impact on the cultural landscape. There is nothing really I can say that won’t have been said already, but as somewhat of an, albeit feeble voice in this industry, I feel like it is at least somewhat incumbent on myself to share some thoughts and to show my appreciation for the incredible body of work which we all now have to enjoy.

Everyone knows about Nightmare on Elm Street, but his earlier films for me was where he really shone as a director. You won’t find many films that are able to evoke such emotions in the viewer with having, seemingly, so little to work with. In particular, Last House On The Left to this day stands as one of the most hard-hitting films I have ever had the pleasure to watch. The feel of the movie is so raw and so intense that at times, you almost forget that you’re watching a movie. I think that one of the most important aspects of the horror genre is in having the fortitude to lift up the covers and shine a bright light on the darker aspects of our humanity, keeping it there and making the viewer live in that space for a brief period of time. This is a movie that takes hold of you, pulls you in closer to watch and doesn’t let you go, even when the movie is over. This isn’t a movie that relies on gimmicks, visual or auditory effects. It puts you into the middle of the worst visceral experience you could likely imagine and then, when the credits roll, at least you get to stand up and walk away, a changed person.

My first experience with Craven was naturally, Nightmare On Elm Street. Of all the major horror franchises that were born during this era, my preference has always leaned towards this one. Go out and ask anyone to name their favorite horror movie villains and Freddy Krueger will likely be one of the most frequent names you will hear. People who have never watched a horror movie in their lives often will have heard of Freddy. For me, the greatest part of these movies was in his ability to combine such great elements of horror and comedy. There was a lot of humor and camp, but more importantly, these films were scary, more so than any of the others for me. Just the concept is frightening, the idea of something being able to hunt you in your dreams. With other horror films, you at least feel like the situation in the film is one that you could avoid but everyone has to sleep. This isn’t to suggest that Friday the 13th wasn’t scary, but there reaches a point where you have thoughts along the lines of, “why don’t you just leave?” or “why do you spend your spring break in the middle of the fucking woods?” Nightmare on Elm Street scared me before I had even seen any of them.

I can confidently say that these movies played a big part in sparking my love of the horror genre. There was a strange relationship where the movies scared the crap out of me but I still felt so compelled to go back and do it, all over again. It was the only kind of movie that had this kind of effect on me. There were few other film types that had me thinking about them for months after seeing it. Horror films embedded themselves into my very being, from top to bottom and rapidly became something that I wanted to do and be a part of. If Wes Craven had never been there, my path would likely have been a lot different. In any artistic or creative endeavor, you have to have a strong background of experience with those who really understand how to do it.

In 1996, Craven reached out and struck gold again with the release of Scream. On the surface, a movie like this might not seem like that big of a deal but there were a number of things about the movie that I loved. At the time, based on where the horror film industry was, Scream felt to me like a great throwback to some of the other great horror movies that I had loved so much but, at the same time, there was the clear fact that the movie had no intention of taking itself too seriously. I saw another essay about Craven after his death that brought up a point relating to Scream that I really agreed with, that Craven was incredibly brave and generous for allowing his genre to be spoofed and made fun of. It’s not often that you will see a horror movie that has the ability to scare you while, at the same time pointing out all of the overused tropes of the genre.

There were plenty of films in Craven’s catalog that I never got the chance to see. Maybe I will someday but, regardless of that, I can still feel the weight of the great movies I did get the chance to see. There are few things in the world anymore that are completely, 100% original. We all came from somewhere and our artistic sensibilities inherently have to be brined in someone else’s work and creativity. Great artists inspire, they lay down the groundwork and pave the road that is now laid out in front of you. We likely would not be here, were it not for those who came before us and if anything was made clear by Wes Craven’s passing, it’s that it is constantly incumbent upon us to show our appreciation for peeling back our eyes and setting off a bomb within the confines of our creative experience.

I know that I owe Wes Craven a lot, and I can only hope that he has found peace.

All I can say is thank you.

Baked Scribe Flashback : Datsue-ba

The last thing Lorenzo remembered was being on the boat. That his own death could have happened so quickly, and that he had taken so little note of it was astounding to him.

He was now standing in a small group of people, none of whom he recognized. They were of various ages and sizes, different ethnicities. They might have been fellow passengers from the boat, but there was no way to know for sure. They all milled around, waiting.

In the clearing ahead, there was a wide, raging river, and standing next to it was one of the oldest women he had ever seen, dressed in rotting rags of clothing and waving a large walking stick around at the crowd. One by one, members of the group would come forward to face her. He had no idea what she was saying, but she shrieked at them and gestured at a small, pathetic looking tree growing along the river’s bank. The people would then disrobe and hang their clothes from the branches. The woman scrutinized the clothing as it hung and the punishment would soon follow.

One man had held out his hands, as if in offering. She had taken hold of them and twisted as she crushed, snapping both of the wrists as well as his fingers. He screamed out in agony, clutching his hands to his chest as the woman jerked her head back, gesturing for him to cross the river. Another person was burned until their eyes were nothing but charred flesh. Still another was beaten cruelly by her walking stick until he was left huddled and quivering on the ground.

“She sits in judgment over all of us.” The man on his right had spoken, sensing Lorenzo’s confusion at the scene. “In order to cross over the Sanzu river, you must first be judged for your sins in life. She uses your clothes, examines how much the branches bend under the weight of your sin and punishes you accordingly.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at the revelation, now recalling the fiery explosion on the boat that had burned his clothes away. She would have nothing to use for him. When the woman gestured for him, he stepped forward quickly, ready to be permitted to pass over the river.

His confidence quickly slackened at the caricatured expression of joy he saw on her face as she began to cackle and leap around the riverbank, as if in celebration. He looked back at his source of information in the crowd, the man who was now avoiding eye contact and shifting uncomfortably.

“Datsue-ba says that, since you are lacking clothing, she will be happy to use your skin as a substitute.”

Tracing The Trails Of The King : Salem’s Lot

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

It’s interesting to watch the progression of the vampire as a character throughout my life. I can still remember when I was younger, when vampires were still edgy and frightening to behold. Vampire films had an air of danger to them, an excitement as well. Flash forward to today, and the landscape of vampires in pop fiction has changed quite a bit. And I don’t want this to turn into a rant about the Twilight movies are or a discussion into the value of True Blood / Sookie Stackhouse books. Everyone has their own tastes and I don’t think I have the right to tell people that they don’t have the right to like what they like.

Speaking for myself, however, I know exactly what I want from a vampire movie and it has been a long time since I have gotten that. There seems to be a fairly severe overpopulation of vampires in popular entertainment, to the point where the impact has become fairly diluted. It is an unfortunate side effect of something becoming very popular, the notion that so many people catch on and jump on board that eventually, the spark that you loved in something in the first place dies out.

The eighties seemed like a great time for the horror genre. I love the practical special effects and the heart that I saw in those creations. And that isn’t to say that there’s no value to the genre anymore, but as this decade was when I showed up at the party, it’s definitely where my preference lies. There were some really great vampire movies specifically to come out of that time period, high-visibility films like The Lost Boys and Fright Night. But the greatness of vampires on the screen was accompanied by one particular novel that lent its take on the popular myth and culture.

The book was Salem’s Lot.

According to King, this book was essentially his exploration of what might happen if Count Dracula were to show up in small town, America. And while, when you say that out loud, it might be easy to imagine something cheesy or overdone, King manages to present it in a way that still feels completely his. One thing I really love about this book is that often it becomes an exercise of what isn’t seen and what isn’t on the page.

When I re-read this as book for this series of essays, one thing that struck me was the differences in how day to day life in America may have existed in the time period of the book, when King published it, and what things have become in 2015. We live in a culture of the “now”. We can pick up a laptop or a tablet or a phone and instantly communicate with almost anyone on the planet. It is a testament to this time that now, even email has fallen by the wayside as an outdated means of communicating with someone.

How did people communicate with each other in 1975, when this was published?

It was pretty simple. You could try calling, which involved picking up a phone (that was attached to the wall via a cord) and the only way it worked was if the other person happened to be standing within ear-shot of their phone as it was ringing. There probably wasn’t any way to leave a message if they weren’t there either, as I think even answering machines weren’t quite as widespread yet. The other method, albeit somewhat slower, was to write a letter. Not a tweet, not an instant message or a text. You placed a written document into an envelope and handed it over to someone who began the process of physically transporting your letter to its destination.

You could also go to that person’s house and actually, you know, talk to them.

What’s the point?

It’s easy for me to imagine the slow and gradual take-over of a town at the hands of an ancient and powerful vampire, made all the more possible by how much more isolated people could be from each other. Nowadays, if I hear a strange noise in my house, I can Google it and come up with any number of explanations or YouTube videos offering me solutions. In 1975, you had to rely on word of mouth, people sharing news with each other. You counted on the word getting out about something dangerous going on. As a result, disinformation became a reality that needed to be taken into account at all times. People might start to disappear and you may or may not notice. So it seemed for the people of Salem’s Lot. As the reader, we are privy to more information and a more global perspective on things, but I still found myself guessing what could be going on, what could be happening to these people who seemed to be disappearing. King provides just enough narrative description to make you feel concerned, but not so much that it stifles your imagination. As the story goes on and you figure out more of what is happening, the hooks are firmly planted, and you have nowhere to go but forward.

Salem’s Lot would also feature two character types that would become staples for King. The first, which he actually employed in Carrie as well, was that of a secondary villain in the form of a parental figure. In Carrie, we had the infamous Margaret White. In Salem’s Lot, we get the mother of Susan Norton, Ann Norton. Ann is an example of something that Stephen King does so well, namely create a character so infuriatingly irritating, you find yourself forgetting that you are dealing with a fictional character. Ann is the epitome of the overbearing parent, she thinks she knows best and expresses that knowledge by first smothering and then driving her daughter away. In a dramatic crescendo between the two characters, you find yourself both despising Ann but at the same time also feeling a little sorry for her.

The second character type that King seems to come back to again and again, even more so than the nagging parent, is that of the writer (big shock). In this case, a popular novelist is coming back home to fight the demons of his past and, in the process, possibly search for fodder for a new book. His feelings and fears surrounding the Marsten House combine with the real threats that now reside in that same house and the results are pure gold. As he tries to find his footing in the town and finds himself falling into the company of Susan Norton, you get the nagging fear that you are seeing a relationship budding that will never work out in the end. It is a feeling I would get again much later, when I read Bag Of Bones and the relationship between Mike Noonan and Mattie Devore – but that’s for a much later date. The unfortunate arc of this relationship with Susan Norton is merely wrapped up inside the larger tragedy of what happens in Salem’s Lot.

So how do I feel about Salem’s Lot, taken along with all the other books of his that I have read? I love it, especially the second half. I liked the slow burn of the earlier parts of the story and how incredibly brutal it became towards the end. I like that this definitely established the rule that truly no one is safe in a Stephen King book.

There were things that I didn’t like as much. While I generally enjoy the sparseness of his description, and how he leaves so much room for the reader, there were a few places that I wish he had gone just a little bit further. I think that he could have offered slightly more descriptions of what was happening at key points, while still keeping it ambiguous and menacing. Also, as the book moves on and the core group of characters come to believe that a vampire has been set loose in their town, I thought that everyone seemed very willing to accept the idea of vampires being real. One character suggests the possibility and pretty much everybody seems to be immediately on board, with hardly any argument offered from anyone, even the lapsing Catholic priest in town who only seems to offer up token resistance. But in the grand scheme of things, these are very minor issues. I don’t feel like the overall greatness of the book can be diminished, even with a few minute issues I might have.

To bring this all back to my original point, I think one thing that I really love about King’s writing, especially in his earlier works is in how brutal he can be at times with his characters. There are any number of characters in the book that would likely live through to the end, were this being made as a big budget summer blockbuster. When the climax of this book starts approaching, our heroes start falling, left and right and it’s almost like the book itself is starting to drip with blood. Often in modern films, I come away with a feeling that vampires are safe or tame, almost too clean for my tastes. In this book, vampires are dangerous, sinister and seductive. You can see their frightening ability to take hold of a person and sweep through an unsuspecting town like wildfire.

And it’s pretty awesome.

So ultimately, the point I think I would want to come home is that Salem’s Lot is an amazing book. It stands as a reminder for me of what vampires in literature used to be and what (hopefully) could be again. And if any of you out there reading this are now honing the edges on your machetes, poised to come after me, please understand that I am not putting down any particular franchise. If you are a fan of Twilight, take pleasure in your passion. It’s not for me, but everyone connects with things differently, and for differing reasons. If you are reading anything, you’re winning in my book. For me, if I feel the urge to experience vampires, I will always go back to what inspired me in the first place, the likes of Salem’s Lot, among others.

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

Issue #116

Sara listened to the gravel crunching under the tires as the car groaned to a halt and the engine coughed one last time before dying. The warehouse entrance was only about a hundred feet away, but it might as well have been a hundred miles. Maybe if they had jumped out right at that moment, one or both of them could have made it, but as they sat there in a stupor, that thin opportunity vanished. She reached down and twisted the key, knowing that there was no point, but needing to try anyway. The engine turned, but did not catch. She considered leaning on the horn but it was unlikely that anyone would hear it and, even if they did, it wasn’t like they could do anything about it.

Arman looked over at her, his face blankly reflecting the lack on understanding. There had to be something she could do to save them, something to get the car started again. She returned his gaze, shaking her head slowly to indicate that they had run out of ideas to try.

Outside, the swarm was already starting to form, tiny insects buzzing around the side mirrors and the windshield. They were slightly larger than gnats, tiny little jet-black specks floating lazily around the car. If she didn’t know any better, she might have taken them as harmless, but she did know better. One bite from any of those things would be enough to kill them. They wouldn’t be able to get into the car but, in the end, that wouldn’t really matter since, they also couldn’t get out.

“What do we do?” Arman asked. She shook her head again. A hundred feet. It was nothing. The darkest reaches of her mind was contemplating pushing him out of the car and hoping that those things out there would focus on him, giving her the opportunity to get away.

“What are we going to do?” His voice was rising, going into clear panic mode now. She turned to look at him, disgusted at his unwillingness to acknowledge the obvious.

“What can we do?” she asked, turning back to the window and placing a hand up against it. The things out there clustered on the other side of the glass, trying to burrow through to her.

She turned back and saw the entire spectrum of emotions cross his face in a matter of moments. The fear in his eyes quickly gave way to anger as he struck the dashboard several times with an open palm. He screamed until his voice started to go hoarse, until his energy started to wane. His chest heaved, trying to catch breath as he slowly calmed back down, leaning against his door. Sara saw his hand fiddling around with the door handle and thought for the briefest second that he was just going to throw it open.

The hand returned to its starting position though, and she breathed a little easier, even though the real situation hadn’t been resolved, just delayed.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but the bugs were now swarming the car so heavily, they could no longer see out the windows. The outside light came through in fractured cracks within the writhing blanket of insects as they crawled across this metal tomb.

“Does the battery still work?” Arman asked.

“There’s no way we could do anything to them with it, even if—” Sara started to say.

“I just thought we could listen to the radio.” His voice sounded like a child who was about to start crying. Sara turned the key in the ignition and pressed the power button on the dashboard. Music started to filter through the speakers and returned her attention to the death that awaited them on the other side of that glass. Anger flared up in her again, along with the hundredth iteration of how unfair this entire situation was. She remembered being intrigued about the new form of insect life that had been discovered in the Congo. All the way over there, it was other people’s problems. It wasn’t so intriguing now.

Arman took in a breath and she could hear it shaking as he let it out. She wasn’t sure if it was resignation, or if he was steeling himself to do something. She returned her gaze to his hand which was still resting near the door handle.

“A hundred feet. One more minute,” Arman said, coming close to repeating her internal dialog to the word.

It was pointless. Either they were going to die in here, or they were going to die out there. At least, out there, they would know when to expect it. At least out there, it would be quick. She didn’t want to just sit in here and starve to death.

One of her favorite songs was playing and she closed her eyes, letting herself be washed away in the tide of memories. High School prom, losing her virginity in college, a flood of faces and names flowing past her, and all attached to that one song, as it slowly dwindled into the silence of sputtering static and the battery also gave out.

She didn’t want to second guess herself. Sara put her shoulder into the door and shoved it open, falling out onto the ground as she did so. As soon as she hit pavement, she rolled to the side, only vaguely aware of Arman screaming her name. There was no time. She sprang to her feet and began to sprint away from the car. Somehow, she had managed to get past all of them without being bitten. The door was fifty feet away now. Twenty feet. Ten feet. The sound of the swarm moved up from the car and started in her direction.

Sara felt the burning in her chest but ignored it as the elation swelled up in her heart that the door was just within reach. Just another second or two and she would be inside. She was going to make it.

The last thing she felt before her fingers brushed against the metal of the door handle was the stinging bite on the back of her ankle. Darkness bled in and enfolded her.

Baked Scribe Flashback : Ciguapa

Hidalgo tossed the empty wine glass to the side and took the walking path, down from the plantation, along the winding bend, and up the slope that led to the mountains looming above. It was when he passed the thick grove of trees that he heard the sound of the woman singing. The rich tones floated out to him like sweet perfume and he felt like he had been tethered, drawn forward for a closer look. The woman had her back to him and at first he couldn’t even what she was doing in there, but it looked like some kind of exotic, sensual yoga. He admired her body as she twisted and contorted herself into various positions, evidently oblivious to his presence.

He took another step forward and stepped on a branch, the sound filling the grove and shattering the moment, or so he thought. She turned to look back at him and in an instant, his entire universe could have been contained within those two giant, glistening eyes. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and even as he tried to speak, he knew that his vocal cords wouldn’t be up to the test.

While she was clearly naked, she had somehow wrapped her long strands of hair around her body to give the illusion of clothing. He felt himself stepping closer, drawn in by his need, his desire for her. Her lips seemed to turn up into a smile of invitation and possibility, while the swell of her breasts made his breath start to run short. She held her arms out to him and there had never been any place that he wanted to be as badly as this. He wanted to pull her to him, sweeping aside the voluminous hair as he pressed his body against hers.

His fingers were just about to brush against that smooth skin when, in an instant, the whites of her eyes blazed and were replaced with the bright blow of unearthly rage and vengeance. The lips that had looked so soft and seductive now peeled back to reveal a row of razor sharp teeth, already stained in what looked like crusted blood.

The thing was on him in an instant, shrieking so loudly that it looked like the trees themselves trembled from the sound. The hands that had once seemed so soft, were now claws, ripping into his arms, taking flesh and tissue with them as they pulled. He screamed, knowing full well that there was no way anyone at the plantation could hear him over the din of the party.

He screamed again, regardless, as the pain pushed away all rational thought, and the darkness in the shadows around him started to swell. Taking one long, distorted look at the woman as she crouched over him, tearing into the meaty part of his thigh, all he could hope was that he would pass out before she got much farther into her meal.

Issue #115

Jeff gripped the golf club and walked into the darkness of the factory. He crept along the hallway, surrounded by the sound of heavy equipment masticating the raw materials as it was moved down the intricate network of conveyor belts, to their resting place within the bowels of the building. The lights were all off, save for a few emergency bulbs, and the scant illumination provided by the emergency exit signs.

Still, he knew that someone was in here.

He had watched from the street, as the shadow disengaged from the dense row of trees, and expertly disabled the heavy locks on the door before slipping inside. Reaching over to to grab the phone to call the police, the image flashed before him in his mind of leaving the house that morning in a rush, grabbing the keys from the table and seeing the phone sitting there as he closed and locked the door behind him. He hadn’t gone back for it.

It made no difference. He could call the cops from any number of the land lines inside. All he had to do was find an unlocked office. Part of him cursed himself silently for being too cheap to install a reception desk in the lobby, with a phone. Or maybe even the security detail that had been offered to him at the discounted rate by the local company.

No sense in crying over what wasn’t there, he had to make the best of what he had available to him. And that just happened to be a slightly rusted pitching wedge from the trunk of his car.

Jeff peeked around the corner, down towards the main production line and tightened his grip. The problem was not that he couldn’t hear anything. The problem was that he heard something everywhere, couldn’t distinguish the normal loud noises this factory made from those made by someone who might be a threat to him. His mind raced past as many names of employees as he could think of, anyone who he might have pissed of with his quick temper, and his loud mouth. Even if it was possible to name every person in the short time he had, it likely wouldn’t have done him any good anyway.

He heard a new sound this time and spun to look up at the balcony that overlooked the factory floor. That had been the door to the employee lounge, slamming shut. He was sure of it, there was no mistaking it. Either the person up there had made a mistake, or was intentionally trying to draw Jeff into a trap. There was a phone just a hundred feet from him, against the far wall, but something compelled him to start moving up the stairs, told him that this was where he needed to be.

The walkway groaned as he made his way towards the lounge, golf club raised for the threat that he didn’t even know how to prepare for. For all he knew, his assistant manager had just come in to pick up some paperwork after hours. It wouldn’t be the first time. Still, something about all of this felt wrong, although he couldn’t explain why. He stepped through the door and into the lounge, bringing the club up, in case he needed to strike immediately.

He felt his skin and fingers going numb, before he could even fully evaluate what was happening in front of him. From the top of the lockers, the shadows seemed to stretch out, bulge up into the air like a bubble being inflated. A dark and hulking shape started to form and glared at him from behind a pair of blazing eyes.

Jeff backed into the wall, vaguely aware of his bowels releasing as the thing crawled down from above, the legs unfolding and lowering down to the floor in order to support the insect-like frame. He couldn’t fathom how something that big had been crammed into such a small space. He tried to scream, tried to turn and run away from this monstrosity that was now advancing towards him from across the room. He knew he needed to run, needed to get as far away from this thing as he could manage, but his legs would not cooperate.

The thing continued towards him, moving across the floor slowly, almost sashaying as it did so. Jeff’s knees buckled out from underneath him and he slid down towards the floor. As if this was what it had been waiting for, the thing surged forward, saliva and other matter flying out of it as it rushed towards him. Jeff screamed as the thing’s mouth clamped down on his arm, biting and dragging him forward, towards the middle of the room.

Outside, in the parking lot, just as the sound of the screams started to dissipate, a sliver of bright light formed in the middle of the darkness, like a zipper coming undone. It grew wider and wider until several men stepped through, wielding large assault type rifles and looked around the parking lot. One of the men stepped forward and knelt, peering over the ground and picking up several pieces of debris. He examined it all, lifting one piece to his nose before dropping it and turning back to the others.

“It definitely stopped off here,” he said. “Got to be inside.”

The man in the center of the group nodded and stepped forward. He pressed a button on his weapon, causing the power to surge and the weapon to crackle with the sound of unbridled electricity.

“Right,” he said. “We’ve got one more good shot at this, make it count. No telling when we’ll have the juice to make another jump like this.”

The men filed in behind, weapons at the ready. The leader stepped forward, looking up at the building that the thing had to be in.

“Let’s track the bitch down.”

The line of men moved silently and quickly into the building. Moments after the last had gone in, the door opened, and the thing, now wearing Jeff’s body, stepped out into the crisp night air. It glanced over its shoulder to make sure none of the soldiers were following it before grinning, and reached up to straighten Jeff’s tie as it walked away from the factory.

Baked Scribe Flashback : Baykok

Shaw looked up from the fire and the smells of his cooking dinner towards the sound coming from the tree line. It could have been a deer stepping on dead branches, but from the echo, it had sounded like bones popping. He shook his head and went back to tending the fire. The shitty job back in Detroit was supposed to be the source of his stress, not this place. His hunting and camping trips up here to the upper peninsula were supposed to be the remedy. Still, he had been uneasy these last few nights, some instinct in the back of his mind feeling restless, telling him that somehow he was becoming the hunted.

His head shot up at the new sound that erupted, this time that of footsteps marching out from the trees and he jumped up at the sight.

“What the Christ?” he yelled as he stood, nearly tripping over the log he had been sitting on and began looking around for his rifle.

From the light of the fire, he could see the thing striding towards him. It looked like one of the model skeletons from high school science rooms, but with ragged strips of sinewy flesh hanging off of it, eyes blazing with a red light that hurt to look at.

Shaw had his hands around the stock of the gun, but the thing had already produced a bow and drew it back. He could see no arrow notched, but when the bowstring snapped, he felt the burning impact in his shoulder and was thrown to the ground. Burning that started in his shoulder, spread to the rest of his body, and in a blink of a moment, he was lying on his back, completely immobilized. He tried to move, to struggle and get away, but no part of his body responded to the commands.

He was being thrown down next to the fire, on his back. He could see everything around him and feel what was happening, but was lost inside himself, unable to articulate anything, even in his mind. He saw the animate corpse produce a long, silver dagger, and in a moment of unadulterated pain, the thing stabbed and sliced down his midsection. As his consciousness dwindled, he was ushered off by the moist sounds of something off in the dark chewing, food being sloppily and greedily consumed.

* * *

It had been campers who brought the man in. He had come stumbling out of the woods, delirious and raving about a skeleton attacking him, and while he was clearly sick, barely able to stand under his own power, the doctors could not figure out what was wrong. John Doe lingered under intensive care for several hours while they conducted tests and ran out their best guesses but, in the end, they were unable to save him.

It wasn’t until during the autopsy that they finally found the large rock that had been placed inside of him, precisely where his liver should have been.

Issue #114

Felicity looked at the signal fires in the valley below, and marveled at the naivete of these people. They were probably convincing each other that their fire would be seen by anyone who would want to help them. It seemed incomprehensible that it didn’t even occur to them to worry about the person who shot their craft down in the first place. She had watched the ship after she hit it with the focused EMP pulse, watched it lazily float down out of the sky, but apparently for the inhabitants of the craft, that experience had already vanished from their memory. Maybe they had thought themselves victims to a mundane failure of mechanics. It was doubtful that anyone could be that idiotic, but anything was possible.

Regardless of how much she resented how easy they were making this, she had a job, and that couldn’t be ignored. She moved out from behind the bushes, crouched down, and began snaking her way down the steep hillside, towards the campsite of the survivors. At some point, she would have to move on, and do something else with her life that didn’t make her feel like this, but for now, this was all there was. She was good at it, and her employer had sought her out.

The reasons were irrelevant. She couldn’t allow her head to become cluttered up with whatever justifications or rationalizations her employers might have had for sending her to conduct this final action. It wasn’t important.

Better to not ask questions.

Any person or persons who had the ability and willingness to carry out the execution of so many people would likely not respond well to repeated inquiries. And to make things worse, the neural chip planted just under the skin, behind her ear, would give them the ability to to eliminate her from thousands of miles away if they were unsatisfied. She was putting all of her faith in their willingness to hold up their end, and remove the chip upon completion of the assignment, as was agreed upon in the contract. It was the biggest of risks, but the higher price tag for her services if she agreed to use the chip was worth it.

It had rained most of the day so she had an easier time making her way silently towards the camp. Not that she needed to employ much in terms of stealth. The group around the fire had started to churn out drunken renditions of pretty much every campfire song she had ever heard. She imagined that if a bomb were to go off over their heads, they might not be aware of it if it weren’t for the flash.

She had hoped that everyone would die in the crash and had directed the EMP pulse just as the ship was hitting it’s zenith, passing over the deep gully, but whoever had been piloting the ship had been crafty enough to allow some of the crew to survive. That left her alone to deal with these remaining six people. Not that it would matter. Clearly, none of them had caught on to what had just happened, and were in no way prepared for what was coming. This would have to be a hard education, learned too late to be of any good.

The air around her started to feel more cool, despite the increasing proximity of the fire. The singing was getting louder now, more slurred as if from the effects of alcohol. Why anyone stranded out here in the outer reaches would choose to imbibe in alcohol was beyond her. Her skin was starting to stand on edge, making her uneasy, as if someone was watching her from afar. Could it have been the implant, sending off, or receiving some kind of signal? Had her employers gotten impatient and decided to cut her off, running the poison through her body so quickly, she would barely have enough time to acknowledge the effects?

It took several more seconds of moving forward in her crouched position before she realized that the voices had all abruptly stopped. Felicity looked up, half standing as she did so and saw that the fire had been extinguished, and all of the surviving crew members from the ship had disappeared. She swiveled around, first to her right and then left, but there was no sign of anyone near her. It didn’t make sense. They couldn’t have just vanished, and not a single one of those idiots were quick enough to be able to sneak away without her noticing. But she couldn’t deny what she saw in front of her. It was as if they had never existed.

She felt the slime of the arm snake around her neck before she picked up on the smell. Immediately, she let her body drop in an attempt to break free, but she already knew she wasn’t strong enough. The thing had sneaked up behind her. There must be a colony of the creatures nearby, and one of them had wandered out. Just her luck to stumble across one in the dark at the worst possible time. She had been hunting the survivors and all this time this thing had been hunting her.

Stars danced in front of her eyes when there was a sudden impact from behind. Felicity rocked forward as the thing fell limply off of her and to the ground. She looked down at the thing, it’s lizard skin glistening in the moonlight, and then up at the man, grinning as he was extending a hand down to her.

“Looked like you needed some help. Lucky we happened to be here. Our ship came down not too far from here and we’re just waiting for a pickup.”

Felicity shook her head as she stood up, looking around. The guy kept talking.

“Yeah, we heard the thing slithering around out here and so we doused our fire and got under cover before it got too close. Deb happened to see the thing go after you so…”

“How many of you are there?” Felicity asked, trying to re-assess, to take in this target who had just saved her life, more than likely.

“We’re over here, just beyond the grove.” The man pointed as he walked, passing Felicity as he began moving towards the rest of his group, who were now coming out with relieved grins on their faces.

It was messy, and it wasn’t how she liked to do things, but it wasn’t like she had a choice at this point. Not with that fucking implant.

Felicity stepped forward, placed the barrel of her gun behind the man’s ear and pulled the trigger.

Ramblings On The Craft : Decision Making

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.

Throughout my time as a writer, I have learned the hard way that fear is like the constant possibility of turbulent weather that could come floating over our heads, at any time. Early on, as a writer, one of the biggest problems I found myself dealing with was the ability to finish things, which I think is important to be able to do as a writer. Anyone can start a story, but it takes a special amount of dedication and stubbornness to be able to mold it into a finished product. To that end, I believe that an important part of being a writer is being aware of the roadblocks you drop in front of yourself in your quest to reach that point of completion for your story.

One important lesson I learned along the way was when I started to examine my motivations for being a writer in the first place. I had a moment of clarity when I realized that part of my problem was that I was writing because I needed to hear someone tell me that I was a good writer. The problem is that, as good as it makes you feel, the absolute fear of having someone tell you that you aren’t a very good writer can be paralyzing, almost a call to in-action out of fear of hearing something you don’t want to hear. What I wanted was for people to tell me that I was a good writer but I was terrified to put myself into a position where someone could tell me that I was terrible.

So what does all of this have to do with decision making, you ask?

I think that one large factor in my inability to grow as a writer early on was that I lacked the strength to come out of a particular issue, saying, ‘this is my decision.’ Instead, more often than not, I would be looking around the proverbial room, sheepishly, quietly asking, “is it okay if I do this?” It got to a point with me that I was constantly second guessing myself, perpetually stressed and convinced that the next piece I finished would mark my status as an impostor.

Social media has become a powerful ability to connect with large numbers of writers with very little effort on your part, and there are groups with fantastic people looking to do nothing but help. I think that one unfortunate result of this is that writers can become too attentive to various decisions to be made in their story, and can be guilty of over-engineering the product to some extent. I feel like I should make sure I am clear at this point that I am not talking about having people read your story and give you feedback, once it is finished. This stage of the process is essential, as you need to have eyes on your story that are not your own, but you have to write the story before you get to that point. What I am talking about is the ability to make decisions for yourself while you are still writing the thing in the first place. Having access to other writers around the clock from around the world at any given hour of the day can lead you to logging on and asking questions like, “What street names should I use for my town so that it seems more creepy?” or “Should my main character have a normal last name or hyphonated?” or “Should the two characters in the park be playing chess, or gin rummy?”

I poke fun in jest and I’m exaggerating to make my point but I do believe that the more you rely on other people’s input as essential links in the chain that leads you to a decision, it makes you that much less able to do it on your own. Writing is about expressing yourself and while there is nothing wrong with obtaining advice from others, ultimately you need to make it about yourself and what you want to see on the page. More importantly, you have to realize that its okay to give yourself permission to want the story the way you want it. You may have people who become very invested in convincing you to do something differently, and while it may be difficult to move on without heeding their advice, it’s important to remember that advice is all it is and that the world of the book or story is your creation, and in the end, you have to be the one responsible for that. It’s your name on the cover, after all. You can’t write it by committee.

And please understand that I am writing this while fully admitting that if the Internet as it exists today had been available earlier on in my development as a writer, I would likely be logged in at all times of the day, asking these same kinds of questions. I guess this is what makes me feel qualified somewhat to address the issue, because I recognize behavior and mindsets that are deep-seated in myself as well. Sometimes I have caught myself thinking that if I get as much input as I can, maybe it will be easier for me to put my finished product into the world for others to see. The reality is that there is nothing that will make that final step any easier.

For me, the key became understanding that while it is important to take as much time as you need to mold your final product, there is never going to be a time when you are going to feel like your story is really ready to be unleashed onto the world. There will always be something that can be fleshed out a little better, something that you could put a little more time in making authentic. You can’t create a story, trying to anticipate what other people’s objections might be. At some point, you just need to accept that the story, regardless of the reaction it might garner in others, is exactly the way you wanted. Don’t be afraid of people you think might pop out of the woodwork, telling you that you approached something incorrectly. It isn’t easy, it certainly isn’t for me, but I think that the more often you can get yourself into that mindset, the easier it gets in the long run.

One question that I see come up frequently is when newer writers ask how to get the confidence to share their work with other people. I think that this fear often lies at the heart of people’s difficulty in making decisions. It’s easy to say that you are in the process of writing something, but it’s something else entirely to stake your reputation on a finished product. The best I can say is that I don’t think you can attach the success or failure of your art on whether or not you get positive feedback. There will always be people out there who don’t like your writing and that number will only grow as you expand the amount of people you show it to. Think of all your favorite authors and remind yourself that every single one of them gets one-star reviews.

Remember that negative feedback exists as a separate entity that lies on the outside of the walls of your artistic endeavor. You have the right to agree or disagree with everything that is said to you regarding your work. Nobody has the right to strong-arm you into doing anything one particular way. Of course, all of this is running the risk that you will produce a story that is what you want as the creator, and everyone will hate it. However, and this is just me personally but, I would rather put forward a story that is completely my own and fail, than publish something that is well received, but for which I feel no creative responsibility. At some point, you start to feel like you’re just making a frozen pizza, assembling the ingredients that someone else gave you and preparing it for them.

You’ve already decided that you want to be a writer. The next step is to convince yourself that your words are the ones that you want to see.

Baked Scribe Flashback : Ala

The ship was bathed in blood.

At least, that was what it looked like, from across the twenty feet that separated the two vessels as they passed each other. Gavin leaned over the side rail and tried to get the attention of the one person on the other ship that he could see. The man was crouched down on his knees on the deck, rocking back and forth, screaming incomprehensibly.

“Eli, what the hell is he saying?”

Eli was staring at the man, mouthing the words silently as if he was trying to figure that out himself. He shook his head as he answered. “Something about a snake. A snake with wings in…in the clouds?”

Gavin looked back at the plume of cloud cover that swooped down across the water towards them. The sight of the sudden, impenetrable clouds was unsettling enough, but add to that the image of the vessel coming forth from those clouds transporting such human carnage.

“Maybe we should turn—”

“Too late.”

Gavin looked back at Eli and saw the man now standing completely erect, his arms hanging limply at his sides, staring up at the sky with his mouth hanging open.

“Eli? What’s wrong?”

His friend dropped his head back down to look at Gavin, who took an immediate step back. Eli’s eyes had glazed over and all he could see was the whites, with bright lines of veins cutting across the surface.

“I shall have you now.” Eli’s voice had taken on a modulated tone, sounding almost female to him. Gavin turned back towards the bow and saw the clouds rushing in to overtake them. In an instant, they were engulfed in swirling, gray smoke. A black shape passed overhead, so close that a hot breeze trailing behind knocked them all to their feet.

The boat floated through smoke, endlessly, until finally it broke through into what must have been the center of the cloud, a patch of raging sea underneath a bubble of otherwise clear sky. Thunder crashed from the cloud and flashes of static electricity rippled from within as well. Gavin heard a sound and looked up, slack jawed as the dark shape flew out from the cloud cover and could be seen clearly for the first time.

“Snake? That’s a God dammed dragon.”

The inconceivable sight of the winged beast bearing down on them caused some of the men to jump overboard, screaming frantically. One by one, the demon plucked them out of the water, showering the boat with blood as it bit down on its victims.

“Too late for you to turn back now.” The voice of whatever was possessing Eli spoke one more time before his head was twisted violently, by the unseen force that had taken hold. Gavin could hear the bones cracking from where he was standing, and watched as the body of his best friend fell limply to the deck.

He looked around him as his crew started to be taken from the ship and the blood began to rain down in heavier torrents. He heard the shrieking cries and looked up into the visage of hunger and desire on the face of the thing as it swooped down on him, flesh torn, and pain, followed not quickly enough by eternal night.