Chad A. Clark's Blog, page 40

The Convergance (an excerpt) by Elizabeth Carroll

Chapter 6

The scent of sandalwood filled the storeroom where Wil busily stacked the basketballs on the cart. He grimaced and closed his eyes as an overly warm hand ran across his shoulder and down his arm.

        “Hello, Wil,” purred a voice that sounded much too much like Cassia’s. “I have missed you for all these moons.”

Wil fought the urge to turn around; even at her best, Giselle could not match the sincerity that would have come from Cassia. His Guardian was not here.

        “Go away,” he said as he put the last two balls on the cart and rolled it into the corner.

        “Why? I am here for you. Surely you cannot deny that you are happy to see me—”

“Stop it!” The cart thumped against the wall. “You’re not Cassia!”

“Oh, all right.” There was a flash behind Wil, and then Giselle said,

“You’re not being a very good sport about this, you know.”

“Sorry to ruin your fun. Why don’t you go find a flame thrower to hook up with?”

“Oh, humor, I get it. You know, we could have such good times together,

Wil.” She took a few steps until she was in his peripheral sight. “You would be such a…well, a breath of fresh air for me.”

“Not interested.” But he was. His soul vibrated at her nearness, and he had to forcibly turn himself from her. Her sickly sweet scent swirled around him in a haze, exacerbating the headache behind his temples. He had thought coming to the center for a few hours would help mellow him out; it had taken a little over two hours to find out he’d been wrong.

“But you haven’t heard what I’m offering in return.”

“I don’t care. Now go away.” Wil started towards the door.

“So you enjoy suffering?”

His essence cramped suddenly, a knot of desire pitted against a knot of repulsion. He stumbled against the wall.

Giselle walked casually over to him and traced one perfectly manicured finger down his arm to his hand. “I didn’t think so and why would you? It’s pointless, this agony. It won’t bring her to you—she’s condensed water, for hell’s sake.” She shuddered, then turned her dark eyes on him coyly. “But I understand, Wil, and I’m willing to help you.”

He saw the succubus then, and wondered again how a demon could be so beautiful, so tempting.

The darkness inside him flared up and reached for her, and Wil struggled to push it back. “You’re lying. You made the same promises to Andrew and look what you did to him.”

“But you’re not Andrew,” she purred. “Andrew’s weak whereas you have

this incredible strength of spirt, Wil. You’ve resisted me all these months, although I think you’re finally ready to start giving in.” She flashed into Cassia and laid her hand against his chest. Wil’s soul reached for her again.

Careful, the angel warned.

“No. You’re not Cassia.” Cassia was on the Gateway. She wasn’t here. So why, then, did he want to believe her?

Maybe because this is as close to her as you’ll ever get, the devil taunted.

“True, I’m not your precious Guardian.” Cassia flashed back into Giselle, and she pressed closer to him. “But I could be…if you wanted me to. Come on, Wil. Let me take away your pain, let me give you what you long to have.”

Wil couldn’t look away this time. He saw the blue in her ebony eyes, the gold in her black curls, the fairness in her bronze skin. His mind warned him not to trust his eyes, but his soul reached for her anyway. The real Cassia would never be his, not really, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still be with her, even if it was just a counterfeit Cassia.

“Kiss me, Wil. That’s all you have to do.” Her red mouth whispered near his ear, her smooth cheek brushed against his. “I’m here for you, Wil.”

Wil’s heart leaped with leaden joy, and a tear raced down his cheek.

“Cassia—” He brushed her hair back from her face and gazed at her. She

looked so much like his Guardian. His mind battled itself: should he see past the illusion or embrace it?

Her mouth was very near to his. “Don’t fight it, Wil. Give in to me and Cassia will be yours for all eternity.”

“Yes—” Leaning in to kiss her, he felt the searing heat on his soul; he was being branded a second time, but this time he didn’t care. He could stand any torture as long as it brought him to Cassia.

“Okay, Wil, I’ve given you long enough. Now we need to tal—”

Scott’s voice penetrated the fog that had enshrouded Wil’s brain, and he pulled himself away from Giselle’s embrace before his lips touched hers. She shrieked suddenly and arched her back as though someone had stabbed her from behind.

Startled, Wil blinked and struggled to clear the remnants of magic from his eyes. Giselle spun around, hissing, her tail lashing dangerously on the ground. Scott stood in the doorway, frozen in fear and wonder.

“What the—?”

The demon spit and snarled, her pupil-less eyes flashing fire. Pointing her finger, Giselle shot a bolt of white hot lava straight at Scott.

“No!” Wil lunged for Giselle as Scott threw his arms up defensively.

Grabbing at the demon’s flame red arms, Wil felt as though he had touched fire itself. The flesh on his hands was raw within seconds, but he never got the chance to scream.

The fire bolt disintegrated with a watery sizzle, and a forceful blast

knocked him to the floor. Giselle shrieked in fury and vanished in a cloak of black smoke.

Pushing himself to a sitting position, Wil stared at his hands. They had been seared from the contact with Giselle’s skin. Long red streaks stung his

fingers and palms, and black ash dotted the creases of his flesh.

What the hell just happened? One minute, she had been human and the next she was writhing and spitting fire in all her succubus glory. She’d attacked…someone, not him, but—

Scott.

Wil looked up, his momentary panic giving way to bewilderment. Scott stood in the doorway, watching him with a face full of confusion and horror. He was completely unscathed.

“You’re okay,” Wil said in relief at the same time as Scott demanded, “What the hell was that?”

Wil stared at him. “You saw her?”

“Her? That wasn’t a ‘her’, Wil, that was a…what? A lizard? A six-foot tall lizard? And you were about to kiss it? What the hell is going on?”

“Kiss—?” Wil swallowed. He’d almost given in. Giselle meant to gather him, and he had played right into her demonic hands. His soul quivered under the weight of the dark magic; it didn’t help that the mark of Cassia now remained quiet.

“I suppose you’re going to say this still doesn’t have anything to do with Cassia,” Scott said as though he could read Wil’s mind. “But it does. She’s

Cassia’s opposite, isn’t she?”

Wil looked at him and said nothing. What could he say? A denial would have been pointless, but he was bound by the rules of a Secret Keeper, and an explanation would be, well, difficult at best.

Besides, he was still puzzling over how Scott was not hurt by Giselle’s attack, and his hands were throbbing with rawness. He looked down and exhaled. The skin on his palm was now crimson and swollen with black blisters that were already oozing ebony pus. A memory flashed across his mind: Cassia lying on the patio, nearly unconscious, while the green poison of the scorpion’s sting oozed into her broken flesh.

Scott whistled. “Are you all right?”

Wil grimaced. “I don’t know.” Cassia’s wound had partially transformed her into a banshee; there was no telling what, if anything, the poison would do to him. “We need to get home.”

Scott hesitated a moment, then nodded. They crossed the empty gym and left through the side door. Wil couldn’t help looking over his shoulder as they walked across the parking lot to the car; the last time he’d used that door, Giselle had caught him in her magical whip and nearly choked him to death. If it hadn’t been for Cassia, the demon would have succeeded.

The pain in his hands shot up his arms suddenly like a bolt of fire, and he gasped. Using the tip of his pinky to push his sleeve out of the way, he saw snaky black marks on his wrist and forearm. His fingers curled with pain. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his heartbeat accelerated. An agony like he’d never known drove him to his knees, and the panic welled up inside of him as he realized what was happening: he was burning up from the inside out.

Scott knelt beside him. “Wil, what is it? What’s wrong?”

The fiery heat climbed up his arms to his shoulders and down into his chest. Wil managed to gasp out the word “F-fire” before falling to the frozen ground and screaming in anguish. He could not feel the snow beneath him, nor the icy air around him; all he knew was the sensation of his blood literally boiling as he was burned alive.

Scott’s voice called to him above the roar of the flames, but Wil could not answer. In his eyes he saw black smoke billowing up from his skin, and he could taste ash on his tongue. The part of Cassia on his essence writhed in distress as it tried to pull itself free of his grip. He couldn’t call out to her; the flames were eating away at his mouth and his brain.

Suddenly, cool hands touched him. Something washed over him and extinguished the fire inside him. The smoke vanished, the taste of ash changed into something sweet and minty, and a soothing balm coated his soul and his limbs.

“Hear me, Secret Keeper,” a gentle voice said from somewhere far above him. “The venom is dissipating. You will mend, but you must meditate.”

Wil blinked and saw through the shock-induced drowsiness a familiar figure. A cloud person hovered near him, one with olive skin and dark brown hair lit with golden starlight. Nearby Scott stood, open-mouthed.

Chessa glanced at him and then looked back at Wil. “You are in safe hands, Secret Keeper.”

Wil thought she glowed a little brighter than before. She moved away from him and stood before Scott.

“When he awakens from his meditation, give him this. It will help with any lingering effects of the demon’s magic.”

She held out a small package. Scott took it without comment.

“See that he returns to his shelter immediately. Sentinels will guide you there.” Glancing at Wil, she nodded. “Farewell, Secret Keeper.” At Scott, she only smiled and faded into cloud as she drifted away.

Wil saw Scott look from her to the package in his hand; he longed to say something but his tongue was heavy with healing, and the effects of Chessa’s magic forced his eyes closed as he drifted away into the safety of sleep.

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Cassia’s party moved across the Plane of Dreams. Astin had finally rejuvenated enough to assume human form, but it had been a collective decision to remain in their natural state. They were better able to handle the magical properties of the Gateway that way. Going around the Cadmium Plane was costing them time, but they could ill afford another confrontation with Fire. No one knew what had happened to Jace, but even with Stormclaw and Dilly as their companions, Astin would have little effect on the Elementals. They needed Water or the Sylphs but lacked the time to find either one, and Earth had chosen neutrality, so they compensated by taking the long way

around.

Cassia was lost in meditation. Her connection to Andrew had been severed when Fire had grabbed her. She reached out with her mind and her essence over and over again, but he had retreated into his torment and refused

to know her.

Suddenly she was aware of her other charge far below on the Earthly plane. Wil was in trouble. On his essence was a myriad of emotions: sorrow, annoyance, longing. She felt the searing heat as the demon Hostage tried to steal him a second time and the jolt when he rejected her.

The sensation knocked her out of her natural state, and she landed heavily on her human feet. Dilly materialized in front of her and cocked his grinning head in puzzlement.

Astin also transformed. “Cassia, are you well?”

She held up her hand as she reached out to her charge. Wil was all right, but she had been mistaken. It was not Wil who pushed Giselle away; this time it was a magical force which severed her grip on him. Something strong and pure interceded, something at which Giselle’s power could not strike.

Scott, she realized suddenly, and the thought of him filled her with energy that was both wholesome and potent. She looked at the Sentinel, her mouth opened to speak when sudden, violent pain thrummed across her very being. She staggered against the wall of the Gateway, caught in the all-consuming agony that belonged to Wil. Voices drifted above her head, but she knew only the poison that tortured him with scorching flames, that threatened to take his life. Try as she might, she could not sever her connection with him; her essence remained entwined with his, and she was aware of nothing but the stabs of fire that wracked his body.

Clawing at her human midriff as though she could pull the connection

out of her, Cassia dropped to her knees, unable to stand under the onslaught of physical pain. Astin knelt in front of her and said something, but she could only hear the cries of her charge far below her on Earth.

Astin spoke again, but his words made no sense. A scream bubbled up inside her and was ripped from her trembling lips before she fell into Astin’s arms.

Wil. His name pushed through the murkiness of her mind, and she saw his face clearly. Save him…please.

Just then, a soothing balm washed over her and coated the poisonous burn. Wil’s being pulled back from hers, weary and injured but alive. Cassia lay where she was, her human form lacking the strength to move.

“Guardian, can you hear me?” Astin asked as he pushed her to a sitting position. “Have you recovered?”

Wil. He would be all right. Chessa had reached him in time, and the demon’s poison would leave no lasting mark. Why, then, could she derive no comfort from that?

“Cassia, what happened?” Astin’s face was a blur to her.

“Wil…Giselle hurt him.” Her voice sounded shaky to her own ears, but then she felt shaky. Her hands trembled slightly as she attempted to steady

herself.

“To what end? To gather him?” Astin looked at her funny, as though he did not believe she was really herself.

“No. It was—it was not deliberate.” She leaned against the wall of the

Gateway. “The Sterling One is beginning to come into his powers. She knows now of his existence.”

Dilly landed on her shoulder and wrapped his prehensile tail around her neck. The tip of the tail came up to wipe at her cheek, and she saw water glistening on the point.

“Tears we weep are tears we keep, Guardian,” the dragon chattered in her ear.

Cassia stared at it in bewilderment and lifted her hand to her face. Her cheeks were wet; so were her eyes.

“Tears,” she said in awe. Wil’s mother had once had a wet face like this; so had Wil and Scott after the death of their friend Stacey Jo.

It was a very human thing to do.

Astin gave her a stern look. “The poison within you grows stronger. The time has come for Samson’s mixture.”

“The tears are not mine. They belong to Wil. It is only because of the convergence that I…weep.” Cassia took a deep breath. “Still, it might be wise to suppress these emotions. I cannot fail Andrew again.”

Astin handed her the tonic, which she swallowed. It took almost no time at all for the emotions to dissipate. She nodded, and Astin helped her to her

feet. Dilly flew off her shoulder and turned invisible almost at once.

“Are you able to transform?” Astin asked.

Cassia nodded. It would be a great comfort to be a cloud after that violence.

“Then we continue on.” He transformed, and so did Cassia. Then she took the lead again, moving towards Andrew but thinking only of Wil. He would be all right, she knew that. Still, she had a sudden longing to see him with her own eyes.

Another effect of the convergence, she thought to herself. Such thoughts were distracting. She forced it down, and disappearing through the rip in the Gateway fabric, moved into the Realm of Neutrality, her party right behind her.

Elizabeth Carroll was born and raised in Henderson, North Carolina. After graduating from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington with a Master’s degree in creative writing, she began a career teaching and writing novels. Her first two novels, The Secret Keeper and The Convergence, are part of a young adult fantasy fiction series and were self-published by Wheatmark, Inc. The third novel, The Gateway, will be available this summer. She currently lives in North Carolina with her husband and son.

Baked Scribe Flashback : A Gift In The End

Sondra pulled through the intersection and glanced to her left at the man on the corner, taking money from the woman in the white Lexus. He looked homeless, but she could have sworn she had seen him just last week at Cooper’s, ordering a fifty five dollar steak dinner. No difference. Most of these guys were con artists anyway, and they all came crawling out of the woodwork for Christmas. Nothing better than taking advantage of as many people as possible during the holiday season.She couldn’t say for sure how long it had been since cynicism and spite had jumped on board, but the two of them had long since committed an emotional mutiny and were now steering the ship. Every night she went to bed, wincing at the taste of her own discontent, which continued to fester and poison her soul.

Snow was starting to fall gently, and it was one of the rare moments that she actually enjoyed taking in what was happening around her. The sight of snow falling, and crisp afternoon air always made her nostalgic. She opened her window and let the cold air flow in and over her, perking her up to an extent that no coffee or drug ever could.

Her mind drifted back to so many winters ago. Running up the slopes with Tobias, Red Runner sled clutched in her left hand. She remembered school nights, staring out into the blizzard, checking by the illumination of the street light to see if it was still snowing, wondering if it would be enough for them to cancel school the next day.

The squealing sound of her radio in this memory had suddenly begun to sound like locking brakes. Her eyes snapped open as she looked up into the flashing headlights of the car ahead of her, and realized and that she was in the wrong lane. She pumped the brakes and turned the wheel, causing the car to rotate before spinning back on course and drifting back to the correct side of the road.

It was just by luck that a cop hadn’t been there to see her stunt driving. She turned right, off of the street and into the small parking lot in front of the communications studies building. The package didn’t look like it had been damaged but there was no way to know that for sure. Of course she would hear about it if, at the hospital, they opened the box and found anything wrong. She would hear the wails of the patient, likely in pre-op, waiting for the delivery of the liver that they needed so badly, and after taking so long to find a compatible donor. All she could do was get it to the hospital, and pray that nothing had happened to it from being tossed around in her car.

She had no way of knowing who the liver was for. All she knew was that it was going to end up going to someone else, while her father just sat at home and waited to die. Regardless, it had to get to the hospital within the next few hours or the organ would be useless to anyone. It did feel nice to be able to make these dreams come true, but at the same time, it would be nice to get something for herself as well. Didn’t she deserve anything? It was Christmas after all.

Was she being greedy? Missing the point of the season, unreasonable to want things for herself? She pondered all of this as she turned into the hospital lot. As she walked into the lobby, it occurred to her that the Styrofoam container that she was transporting this organ in looked like the exact same cooler that they used for bait when they were kids.

The bitch at reception directed her upstairs as if she didn’t know where to go already. She walked up to the elevator, rode to the seventh floor and exited, walking past all the idiotic posters with the fake families gushing about how amazing the hospital was, as if people were really coming here because they were tired of summering in the Hamptons.

She walked past the pre-op area so quickly that she almost didn’t recognize her father sitting in the room, looking with the wide eyes of expectation. Their gazes met as she passed and a moment later, she registered who she had just seen. She stopped and walked back to the doorway, letting her mind go quiet as the string of revelations began hitting her.

Pre-op meant that he was here waiting for surgery. Waiting for transplant surgery. He had been waiting for months for the liver that would allow him to survive, and stay a part of her life, at least a little longer. How many nights had she fallen asleep, crying at the thought of losing him? All he needed was the liver that seemingly was never going to come.

The liver that she was holding right now under her arm like a piece of firewood. She lifted it up, now seeing it as the valuable relic it was, and looked back up at her father. He saw the understanding in her eyes and nodded, lips turning up at the corners, into a smile.

Black Star Black Sun (an excerpt) by Rich Hawkins

He woke stretched upon a crumpled sofa in a room revealed by insipid light and the flickering glow of a black and white portable television. He rubbed his eyes, swallowed down a dry and swollen throat, and groaned at a leaden beat of dull pain spreading through his brow. His limbs were heavy and his stomach felt like it had been emptied and then refilled with straw and burlap. He wet his dry lips, and his mouth tasted of salt. He sat up and cradled his head until the pain throbbing against the walls of his skull lessened to something tolerable. The room smelled of dust and reminded him of his granddad’s shed he used to sneak into and gawp at the spiders’ nests and webs that covered the ceiling. A single window through which he glimpsed a patch of ashen sky. A lone door with flaking red paint and a rusted brass handle. One side of the room was heaped with stacks of old books, yellowed sheets of paper and leather-bound photo albums. Next to the sofa, a glass of water and a plate of sandwiches had been left upon a small pine table. Despite his thirst he didn’t touch the water. The sandwiches were thin slices of white bread cut into two halves, and when he peeled back the top slice to inspect the filling, his stomach lurched at the pale green lettuce and limp cuts of grey meat.

On the wall opposite was a large canvas painting of arboreal primates with doll faces, cavorting in spiked black trees set against red mountains. His flesh crawled at those sullen, black-eyed masks. The creatures’ limbs were too gangly and thin to be useful for scaling branches, and the flickering of the television gave the primates the illusion of movement. For a moment he thought several of them turned to look at him, and he couldn’t study it for more than a few seconds before he had to avert his eyes and look at something more mundane like the wooden floorboards or the bare walls of cracked plaster.

He checked his pockets, relieved to find his wallet, keys and mobile, his cigarettes and lighter. He checked the mobile: no messages or missed calls. He had been unconscious for almost two hours. When he stood slowly, holding out his arms to his sides, the room swayed. He went to the window and looked out at a wide garden of tangled brush, weeds and an ancient pond choked with thick algae. Beyond that was an empty swimming pool, its insides stained with streaks of brown-red rust.

From deeper in the house behind him, he heard music muffled by the closed door. Industrial ambient-metal. Slow percussion of metal drums. Droning electronics like a cosmic transmission. Rising, distorted notes from a synthesizer. The sounds of hammers upon granite and pickaxes gouging at a mine face. Sounds of iron and mechanical limbs. Choking furnaces.

Ben opened the door and slowly stepped into a hallway with a stairway to his left leading up to a darkened landing where shadows crawled over the walls. The music was louder. Bare floorboards. Dust ingrained into the wood. The smell of old things. He chose not to climb the steps. Along the corridor was a door set into the wall on his right. He put his ear to the door and listened. Hard to tell if anyone was in there, due to the music drifting down the corridor. He tried the handle, but it only twisted so far and the door wouldn’t give.

He swallowed a lump in his throat and followed the music into a large room at the end of the corridor, where the walls were covered in watercolour paintings that depicted unsettling things with bulging eyes and a myriad of limbs.

`Ben stood in the middle of the windowless room and spun slowly. The music was pulsing and pounding, filling his head. Horrors on the walls: a wide red mouth where a nest of tongues writhed; the fossilized remains of a leviathan-like creature embedded in the dust basin of a dried up lake; a bulbous mass of white flesh, a sagging sow, with newborns sucking eagerly from its pink teats.

There were also charcoal illustrations of hooked appendages, alien ligaments and nervous systems. A tall figure with a pallid yellow mask. Things with thrashing tendrils and black wings. A horned titan rising from a boiling lake. Insectile facades and crab-like monsters pawing pale meat into their craws. Anatomical sketches of animals from a lost age: flightless giant birds, tusked predators and serpentine beasts. The last painting he viewed, before he lowered his face towards the floor and fought the urge to scratch at his eyes, showed him giant tubular worms with snapping lamprey mouths erupting from oceanic trenches.

There was a door at the far end of the room, and the music was behind it.

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* * *

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Ben opened the door into a wall of noise. Sharp pain flashed across his skull, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He shut his eyes until the pain passed, then entered the room. Tucked away in a shadowed corner, away from the watery light slipping through the bay window, a tall man was hunched over a mounted canvas and swigging from a can of Red Bull. The smell of paint and turpentine filled the dense air. Ben took a step towards him before noticed the Irish wolfhound by the man’s feet and halted. The dog unfolded from the floor and stared at him. Its dark eyes centred upon Ben and its mouth opened just enough to reveal mottled pink-black gums and large teeth the colour of ivory.

Alerted by the dog’s movement, the man turned to face Ben. There was a dark doorway behind him. He was gaunt and shaven-headed, a reddish beard down to his chest where it had been woven into two long plaits. Reddened blemishes under his eyes. He wore a white apron stained with all colours of paint, but dominated by red, and it gave him the appearance of a butcher fresh from gutting farm animals. His arms were bare and heavily tattooed with runic patterns, pagan symbols and coiled serpents. He wore combat trousers and heavy boots.

Ben stepped back.

The man reached over to the table next to him and turned off the stereo. In the silence Ben tried to speak but his breath caught in his throat. The tattooed man placed his paintbrush in a jar. The colours ran like blood in water.

“Finally,” the man said. “I was worried you wouldn’t wake up.” His voice was low and cheerless. “I made you some sandwiches.” He finished his drink, crushed the can in his hand, and tossed it into a metal bin with other empty cans that filled it to the top.

“Where am I?” Ben said. “What happened?”

The man tucked his hands into the front pockets of his apron. One foot tapped.

“How are you feeling, Ben?” the man said.

“How do you know my name?”

“I checked your wallet and driving license. Do you want to sit down?”

“I want to know what happened.” The muscles in Ben’s back tensed. His heart pounded too hard. He put one hand to his face and rubbed between his eyes as a needling pain appeared behind them.

“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” the man said and gestured towards two dusty armchairs to Ben’s right. “Take a seat. Best to take the weight off your feet; you’ve had a nasty episode. I’ll see if there’s any cake.”

Ben said nothing as the man disappeared through the doorway at the end of the room. The dog remained in place, watching him.

He took a seat.

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Rich Hawkins lives in Salisbury, England. His debut novel ‘The Last Plague’ was released in August 2014, and his novella ‘Black Star, Black Sun’ was released in February 2015. He likes to write mostly about cosmic horror and terrifying mutations. He can be found at his blog.

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Purchase Rich Hawkins books at the following links!
The Last Plague
Black Star Black Sun

Ramblings On The Craft : Regret

INTRODUCTION : Please accept my humble thanks for your interest and for checking out my blog. This essay is the debut of a new series that I will be hosting here, with a new addition made each month, in which I will share some general thoughts and ideas I have about the craft of writing as well as my own experiences in honing my art. I hope you enjoy this and if you have any feedback or ideas for future topics, please feel free to pass them along. I am now, as always, humbled and honored that you would take time out of your crowded lives to read my pathetic excuse for prose.

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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Over the course of a life full of writing, there have been any number of important factors and influences along the way, seeds that germinated in the creative garden and factors that led to me being the person I am now. As I think back however, I can also identify one thing that, over the years I have come to regret as something which ultimately posed the greatest threat to my abilities as an artist.

I stopped writing.

Let’s go back a little and come at this from the other side. I started writing at a very early age but, I was reading even earlier. It was the love of words on the printed page that came before my love for the creation of those words. The ability to create such things seemed alien, almost mythical. So when the day came that I realized that I could do it myself, I was immediately hooked.

For the most part, when writers get their start, it is generally in emulating whatever forms of fiction that they are excited and passionate about. For me this meant a few key areas of source material: Star Trek, horror movies, comic books and Star Wars, probably in that order. As such, my earliest ventures into the narrative form leaned in these directions. It’s unfortunate there is a certain amount of shaming that comes along with writing fan fiction, as if it demonstrates an inability to flex your own creative muscle without using other people’s work like a prosthetic. I’ve always found this stigma perplexing as it is common practice in other art forms to start with the classics of those who came before you. My love for writing could not be disentangled with my love for popular culture and it is a perfect way to learn the process of story telling. You might as well start with something you love, and use that as the bricks and mortar to build your own creative house upon.

It’s a natural part of growing up that as you progress towards adulthood, the excitement and thrill of the “childish things” wanes and you start to get more serious about whatever your professional ambitions happen to be. The toys are left behind. As my academic studies grew more serious, I started to apply the expectation that my writing should be “intelligent” and “thought provoking” and “insightful”. I needed my writing to be as big as all of those buzz-words. Essentially, I needed to put away the “childish” genre fiction and write “serious” fiction.

Which is to say that I was as idiot.

I had the misguided idea in my head that if I wasn’t Faulkner or Joyce or Hemingway, I was wasting my time. Adults should write “adult” things. What I needed was for someone to sneak up on me and whack me upside the same head that I wasn’t putting to any worthwhile use.

Every once in a while, I tried to write. I tried to sit down and write strong, serious works. It felt good for the first few pages but eventually I would lose steam and put it down. Later, I would come back to what I had thought was brilliant prose and discovered instead, pretentious shit. As I got older, my passion for writing waned a little more each year until it was a thing of my past. I settled myself with the thought that I just didn’t have it in me anymore. Life is about moving on and that’s what I did.

Years went past me without giving even a thought to writing, other than the occasional bout of “what if?” The creative urges were clearly still deeply seated within me however, as I took up music during this time period and played bass in several blues/rock compositions. I think I was a decent, functional bass player but I never thought of myself as a musician. I always felt like I was reacting to the force of the music instead of being that creative spark myself.

Eventually, the dormant words on the inside started to want to show themselves again. I think it’s appropriate that ultimately, when I made my return to writing, my love for the craft was preceded again by a revitalization of my love for reading. As my distance from college and academia grew, I had to re-learn what it felt like to read for pleasure, to read for amusement. I started to remember what it felt like to be excited about going back to a book and for the pride of being able to close the cover on another book finished. More specifically, I re-discovered Stephen King, a writer who I had loved at a younger age but had turned away from, and it wasn’t long before I felt the compulsion to resume writing myself. I think that an important switch was toggled in my brain where, instead of trying to exert some kind of external pressures on my writing and to artificially make it into what I thought it should be, I became more willing to let the writing just be what it was. I think that there are certain writers, like the names I listed earlier, the Hemingways of the world, where if you don’t already have that level of talent naturally, it just isn’t going to happen. I realized that the key is to be satisfied with the kind of writer you are, instead of trying to make yourself something that you aren’t.

I started with a Justice League Of America novel, nothing amazing in scope or structure, but it was the most fun writing had been for me in years. And more importantly, I was able to do something that I hadn’t been able to accomplish in a long time.

I finished a story.

This might seem like a mundane issue but it’s not. The fact is that pretty much anyone can start a book. It takes a special kind of resolve and tenacity to be able to work that project through all the seas of doubt and uncertainty and land at the finish line. The fact that I was able to finish this was huge for me. I had no intention of trying to sell the piece, it was just for me. But from there, I went on to write an original horror novella which would ultimately end up being the title story of my first book. I devoted myself to my craft and things really started to take off. For the first time, I found that I could consistently sit down to work and produce a reasonable amount of words where as before, I might sit down to write and end up just staring at the walls, trying to find a narrative footing. I was having original ideas and I became increasingly able and efficient at executing those ideas. It was a road that would eventually lead me into 2014, when I reached one of my most treasured, life-long dreams, that of seeing my name on the spine of a book.

Everyone’s life is going to take a certain amount of twists and turns as it is in progress. I don’t know if I would have achieved my dream of publication earlier if I had stayed true to my craft instead of walking away for so long. It’s entirely possible that it would have taken the same amount of time for my narrative voice and confidence to develop. The sad part is that I never will know. That time is gone. So I suppose this long, rambling story has been to get to this point. If you have an artistic passion, whatever it may be, stick with it. Don’t let your enthusiasm for what you do be deterred or swayed by what you might perceive as the expectations of others. When it comes to art, the only thing that matters at the end of the day is if you are happy with what you just did. If those are your words on the page, or if those are your notes or your melody or your brush strokes and you can look upon them with pride, that is all that matters. If only someone had said that to me much earlier than this. I can only wish now that I had allowed myself the freedom to explore my narrative voice and hadn’t been so quick to give up on it. It’s hard to not feel like I let myself down somehow.

Love your art. It’s the best thing you can do for yourself. It was the mental hurdle that for myself, made all the difference in the world. It was the key piece to the puzzle that gave me the confidence today to be able to say what I never had the courage to say as someone who played music in a band.

I am a writer.

Baked Scribe Flashback : Guilting The Masses

Katie turned the car onto the main drag, cursing again as the wheels slipped on the ice. Why the city couldn’t get the roads cleared faster than this was a mystery to her. What the hell were her taxes paying for anyway? And of course the asshole behind her in the puke-green Honda wouldn’t give her any room, tailgating so close, she could read the digits on the fuzzy dice hanging from the guy’s mirror.Her paycheck was too small again. How was she supposed to keep her head above water with these shitty wages? It was the holidays, things were supposed to be easier. All she felt was more annoyed at what she saw as cheer and joy on display from people who were as fake as her knock-off handbag.

The brakes skidded as she slammed on the pedal for the fourth straight red light. Apparently the city couldn’t time the stop lights worth a damn either. Moments like this made her think more seriously about taking the bus, but why suffer the indignity?

At the fifth straight barely-missed green light, she stopped and the sight of the man on the corner halted her, mid-thought.

He stood there in a threadbare dinner jacket that looked like it had been out of style for about 20 years. His pants were torn in several places and the snow looked like it had completely saturated his thin Converse sneakers.

Well, she wasn’t standing out there, at least. She was in a warm car, coming from a warm house going to a job that at least paid her a little. It was Christmas. She rolled the window down and handed over a twenty, just before the light turned green and she drove on with her life, the frustrations at least temporarily quieted by her freshly bolstered self-worth.

* * *

Randall watched the lady’s car pull away and he stuck the twenty into his pocket. That brought his total for the day to just over five hundred dollars, which would be more than enough for a hotel room and a massage. Maybe even a nice steak dinner too.

He made more money scamming these suckers than he ever had at his job. And he didn’t have to pay taxes. He loved the holidays.

Seven more days until Christmas. He might even bring in a couple more grand before St. Nick came down on his sleigh. He looked up in time to see the crowd of carolers crowded in front of the drugstore. No way he wanted to get too close to that group so he quickly turned down the alley.

He was lost inside of his own cleverness, so far gone, that it was too late when he heard the crunch of snow under someone’s feet. Before he could even step out of the way, the box cutter was pressed to his throat and the gnarled, tobacco stained fingers shook excitedly as they dipped in for his wallet.

The Sight On Seventeen, by Jessica McHugh

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. I know it’s difficult now, but take my word for it—you’re perfect. I understand how you must feel, though. Day after day, criticized for your appearance, your passions, the emotion behind your songs. People scrutinize even the smallest of your daily decisions, and the worst part is, your worshippers can still think of you as just another pretty girl who got lucky.

But that’s not what I see. You’re a confident woman, someone who chooses to live meagerly, in a one-bedroom apartment on the seventeenth floor, someone who gives more love than she receives—real love, anyway. Maybe your childhood was like mine. Always in the shadows. Always longing to be known.”

She whimpers, and he caresses her cheek.

“You are known, Taylor. You’re known by me—more than anyone else on the seventeenth floor, more than any man or woman, family, friends, or fans. I’ve seen your mistakes and forgiven your sins. I know it makes me a nosy neighbor, but I’ve been your shoulder to cry on, even when you didn’t know I was crying with you. And now, you won’t have to cry alone ever again.”

He fingers a newly coppered tendril and inhales the smell of ammonia still clinging to her roots.

“You were lovely as a blond—I’ll admit that—but red suits you better. It’s not just the color, you know. There’s something magical about redheads. They’re stronger, smarter. Like my mother. Redheads care about people in a way the others don’t. They’re more nurturing, more forgiving of people’s quirks. Now,” he says, combing his fingers through the copper silk, “maybe you can forgive yourself—for the sin of aiming too high? For wanting stardom? Maybe now you can allow yourself to be the woman you should be. No more sad songs, Taylor. No more anger. Not when you look this beautiful.”

He sighs as he steps backward, watching her hair cascade between his fingers. He passes from the meager lamplight and into the shadows, which stand like walls of ink around them.

“You don’t look exactly like her, of course.” His voice resonates more in the shadows, as if he stands in an impossible cavern. “The red helps, but it’s not the same. Boxed color fades. It grows out. Even the permanent kind isn’t permanent. But you’re as sweet as her, and I think you understand me. I think you know what I need.” He leans out of the darkness, his face grotesquely illuminated by the dim lamp on the floor.

It is, as far as Taylor can tell, the only object in the room. The lamp and the cord, the lamp and the cord. How can she get her hands on the lamp and the cord?

She smiles and exhales shakily. “You really love me, don’t you? I can tell by your voice you’re not lying.”

His head emerges further into the light, and his lips pinch to an indignant pout. “Of course I’m not lying. My mother raised an honest man.”

The rope slices her wrist, but she lifts her hand as much as she can. This gesture coaxes him from the shadows, his eyebrows lifted, lips parting, and heart exposed.

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, Devin. A man who looks past the pop star image, someone who loves me for who I am.”

He scurries to her, skidding on his knees before flopping his head onto her lap.

She pets his thin, wiry hair, and hums. “I believe you, Devin, I believe you. At least, I want to believe you.”

He lifts his head, and doubt creases his face.

“Taylor… All this time, with all we’ve been through, and you think I’d lie to you?” He narrows his eyes at her and sits back, propped on his heels. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

She shakes her head. “Never. People are really starting to pay attention to my music now, but I’ve never felt so alone. Except you were there, weren’t you? Watching me, loving me, giving me whatever I needed. Now that I know it, I can be everything you need,” she says. “Just…untie me.”

Devin’s eyes widen. “Untie you?”

She fights the ropes, and the chair rocks slightly. “It’s the only way I can leap into your arms and never let go.”

His lungs empty. “My mother used to say that. She lied, though, about a lot of things. I can’t be with a woman who lies or tries to leave me.”

“I would never do that you. I would never hurt you like she did.”

He buries his face in the space between her shins.

Pain cracks through Taylor’s wrist as she stretches her arm to caress his cheek.

“Let me take care of you, Devin. I can fill that hole in your heart. I can be both mother and lover to you.”

He wipes tears from his cheeks as he stands and backs away from her. The shadows swallow his body again, and Taylor whines.

“Devin? Don’t you believe me? If you untie me, I can make it feel like your mother never left.”

The last square of his illuminated skin vanishes, and he says,” She didn’t.”

There’s a click, and an overhead lamp floods the room. Taylor’s eyes sting in the glaring light. She instinctively attempts to cover them, but the ropes rip new ravines into her forearms. Her scream is dry, strained, but finds power once her pupils adjust. Vomit propels the shriek with deluging force from her throat, but the noise echoes in entrapment. No one can hear her in this soundproofed room. No one will find her. Devin’s first victim is proof enough of that.

In a chair opposite Taylor, a woman’s corpse sits petrified in a dying wilt. The desiccated face is pointed to the floor, and the ropes have sunken into her wrists. The skin and muscle are so withered and powdery, the restraints would tear through the body like fresh-fallen snow with a judder.

Devin stands behind his dead mother, his head tilted in mimicry as he pets the meager ribbons of red hair in her ashy scalp. It pleases him. His eyes sparkle with joyful tears.

Taylor whips her body from side to side, battling for escape. The rope on her right wrist snaps, but when she flings her hand free, the chair rocks onto its rightmost legs, tips, and topples. Taylor’s cheek smacks the floor hard. She moans, tastes iron and bone, and squeezes her eyes closed to steady her whirling brain.

Devin snickers as he crouches beside her. “You know, it’s wrong what they say. Nice guys don’t finish last. Cowards finish last. You can be nice and brave. You can be polite and still say, ‘No, you won’t leave me. No, you won’t ignore me. No, you won’t tease me.’ I thought, of all people, my mother would understand, but I still had to teach her that lesson in the end. You don’t just leave someone you love. But you get that, Taylor. I believe you. You can be everything she was and more.” A stiff, amused breath flares his nostrils and pelts her damp face. “This would make one hell of a love song, don’t you think?”

Her tongue is punctured, swelling by the second. She tries to respond, and blood spills over her lips. It’s a good enough answer for her “nosy neighbor.”

“We’ll get around to that soon,” he says. “First things first…” He withdraws a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and unfolds the largest blade. He shuffles back to his mother’s corpse and rests the knife under her chin. The shrunken neck crackles as he tilts up her head, and the fissures exhale wisps of dead flesh.

“She’s still beautiful, isn’t she? Still magical. But she did have one major flaw.”

Taylor right arm is crushed beneath her, and by the time she’s able to push herself up from the floor, Devin looms over her with the ashy knife.

“As a lover, you’re perfect, Taylor. Not a single blemish. But you can’t be my mother like this. Red hair or not, you’re too perfect too be her.” He grabs her chin and rests the blade against her cheek. “You see, my little songbird, my mother was blind.”

There’s no way to tell if she screams from the pain or the darkness.

###

It is a ghastly, gut-spinning thing to wake up in eternal night—to smell a new spring day, to hear birds chirping, to blink and squeeze and prod and pray, and to know that the sun will never rise for you again.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. I know it’s difficult now, but take my word for it—you’re finally perfect.”

The End

Jessica McHugh is an author of speculative fiction spanning the genre from horror and alternate history to young adult. She has had seventeen books published in six years, including her bestselling thriller, “Rabbits in the Garden,” and the first two books in her edgy YA series “The Darla Decker Diaries.” More info on her speculations and publications can be found at JessicaMcHughBooks.com.
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Baked Scribe Flashback : Networked

All of this over a simple argument. Over George Romero of all things. One argument in a chat room that had brought this nightmare down on him. He couldn’t even guess how the guy had found him, but one thing was for sure, from now on he would have to be taking a lot more care in selecting his user names.The guy was lumbering after him through the parking lot. He didn’t even know what his name was and it wasn’t like he could call him FoxBro79.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just want you to apologize.”

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

“All right fine, I’m—”

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

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

Problem Solving, by D. Savannah George

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Baked Scribe Flashback : With A View

Jordan stepped up onto the ledge and looked out into the golden expanse of the glittering morning sunlight. The birds were now fully awake, filling the air with their songs, as the cool breeze made his skin stand up. He held his arms straight out to each side, balancing as he teetered along the edge, glancing down at the miniaturized cars driving past on the street below.From the edge of the roof, he heard a beeping as the intercom squawked with an indistinct voice, probably the front desk calling up because one of the occupants from the offices across the way had called out of concern. New tenants, more than likely. The ones who had been there longer were used to seeing Jordan out here for his morning excursions.

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

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

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

Time to get back to work.

The Studio, by Dawn R. Taylor

August 5, 2014 12:15pm
Mia

“Girl, I tell you. I love the new studio but when it gets dark some strange shit happens. I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s like one minute I am in there jamming, painting and writing, when I get this weird feeling like I should pack up my stuff and get the hell outta dodge. I am not that easy to scare, but it gets creepy. Something happened down there. I don’t know what but whatever it was, it was serious.” Mia looked around to see if anyone else in the food court heard what she said.

Vicky laughed and said “You and that imagination of yours, you writers are a different breed. So, what, you think the studio is haunted? Tell Casper to move it along and call it a day.”

Mia whispered “Okay, laugh if you want to. But I tell you, that door is blocking something. I haven’t figured it out what yet, but there is something in there.” Mia poked at her cheeseburger. “I dunno…I’m just saying.”

“If it bothers you that much, then give up the studio. Orrr,” Vicky smiled “you can ask it what it wants.”

Mia thought about it for a few minutes and said “Ummm, not.” She swiveled in her chair. “I am not asking it anything. Besides there isn’t a damn thing I can do for a ghost, so why ask?”

Vicky laughed loud enough to make several customers look in their direction.

“Then how are you going to handle it.?”

“I don’t have a clue, but for now I am just going to leave when I am told to.”

Vicky shook her head at Mia. “You are straight out of Brooklyn and are afraid of what’s behind door number 1.”

“Ok Billy badass, you come down there with me after dark and let’s see how brave you are.”

“I am a Geechee girl from the swamps of South Carolina. We don’t play with ghost. I’m just saying, you’re supposed to be the brave one.”

Mia picked up her trash and walked over to the bin and tossed it in.

“Whatever,” escaped her lips as she rolled her eyes. “I will see you Tuesday. Where do you want to meet for lunch?”

“Timeless Treat Café?”

“Sounds good.”

The two women embraced and said their goodbyes. Mia hurried to the parking lot and hopped into her car. She headed downtown to the studio. It was 1pm and she had plenty of time before the creeps came out.

She pulled into the parking lot and was annoyed. The building next to the Studio was renovating and the trucks took up many of the parking spaces. She was sick of having to fight for a spot and God forbid she had to leave for supplies, it would take her all damn day to get another space. She parked and struggled with the large canvases bags. A shadow came over her. She looked over and there was a construction guy.

“I am Ralph. Can I help you with those?”

“Hi Ralph, I am Mia. Yes thank you.” She allowed him to take some of her bags.

When they got to the door she unlocked it and they stepped in.

“Some place you got. Do you live in here?”

“No.” Mia chuckled “it’s an Art space.”

Ralph sat the bags on the floor as he looked around and said. “You painted all of these? They are good. Are you famous or something?”

“From your lips to God’s ear, but no. I am not famous.”

3:30 pm
Willie

“See what I’m saying.” Ralph nudged Willie

“Yeah, but a woman? We’re gonna rob a woman?”

“She’s an easy mark and besides, I know those paintings are worth at least two bills each.”

Willie and Ralph walked back to the construction site after they finished their lunch under the tree in front of the Art Studio. Willie was unsure about this next job Ralph wanted to do. He didn’t think it was nice to rob a lady who was all by herself. No honor in that. He needed the money. The construction job was paying minimum wage and Sharla was constantly on him about the cost of baby food and diapers. Ralph said there was at least twenty paintings and at two hundred apiece he could buy a couple of month’s supply of diapers with his take. He needed to get Sharla off his back. When she was mad he didn’t get any sex, and his balls were heavy and they hurt.

But still, robbing a lady didn’t sit well with him. He imagined what would happen if someone broke into his house and robbed Sharla at gun point, how would he feel about that? Ralph’s problem was that he was alone in this world and he had no feelings about stuff like this. He shook his head. No honor in it at all.

“Catch.” Ralph yelled as he tossed a block of plastered wood to him.

“Damn it Ralph! Be careful.” He yelled as the block fell to the ground.

The boss looked over at them and said “This ain’t a union site fellas, don’t make me get rid of your asses. I ain’t paying for any injuries because you two fools want to play. You got me?”

Ralph gave Willie a why you wanna get us fired look and laughed.

He and Ralph had been friends since grade school. He was the youngest of eight children and had to learn how to fend for himself. When he was twelve he got hit by a car and according to folks in town he ain’t been right since. Willie guessed that’s why people were always messing with him, that and the large dent on his head.

He met Ralph by the railroad tracks a year after the accident, while he was skipping school. He didn’t like school and after the accident he didn’t go much because of the teasing. Willie spent a lot of time at the tracks or the lake. When he was alone at either place he was normal.

He was rail jumping when a voice said.

“Step on the wrong one and you will be a crispy treat for the vultures.”

“Which one is the wrong one?”

“The next one.”

“You lying.”

“One way to find out.”

He hesitated and decided not to take a chance. He walked up to Ralph and held out his hand like his father taught him and said.

“Hi, I am Willie, and you are?”

“You sound like one of those country salesman from T.V.” He laughed “I’m Ralph.” He put his arm around Willies neck and said “Let’s get outta here before you kill yourself.”

They had been friends ever since.

August 10, 2014
5:00pm
Mia

Mia looked up at the clock. She didn’t want the ghost hour to catch her unprepared. She hated the uneasiness that came with the hour. The front door to the studio opened and David yelled as he entered.

“Hey, it’s me, David. Everything okay in here?”

“Hey David, I’m good. What’s up?”

He appeared puzzled and asked as he pointed at the door in the rear of the studio “I was wondering, did you put that lock on my storage space? I needed to put some stuff in there on Saturday and could not get in.”

Mia burst out laughing. “Oh my, I forgot to text you. I am so sorry. Yes I did that, but I left the combination stuck to the back of the lock.”

David’s confused expression demanded a little more explanation.

“That area behind the door gives me bad feelings. So I locked it.”

David looked bewildered. “Have you been behind the door?”

“No, something is back there and I feel better having a lock on it.”

“Didn’t you spend like 10 years in the army?”

“Yes, I can pick you off at 460 meters with my weapon, but behind that door… I tell you it’s creepy.”

David enjoyed a hardy laugh and said “Well then can we compromise? How about we just hang the lock in the latch unlocked, this way it’s still blocked and nothing can get out and I can get in without fighting with a locked lock.”

“Sure, no problem.”

David walked back to the front door of the studio stopped and said. “I should show you what’s back there so you don’t feel funny about that area.”

Mia stopped in her tracks, the thought of it made her gasp.

“Oh, no. No David that is unnecessary. No tour is needed,” she said as she walked with him to the open front doors. She didn’t want him to turn around with any more bright ideas that involved opening that door while she was present.

Once she got rid of David, she ran back over to the computer to finish the last two pages of the chapter. She typed with an urgency, knowing that the ghost hour was approaching. She typed the last two words in the sentence, and then she packed up her bag and knocked over her soda. She looked at the clock and the puddle. It was still warm out and she didn’t want ants infesting the studio. She put her bag down, ran to get a roll of paper towel and wiped up the soda. Mia tossed the paper towel into the garbage and knew she was too late. She saw movement in her peripheral vision, just passed her right side. Mia refused to look at it. She wondered if it knew that she knew it was there. She inhaled and looked over her right shoulder. There was nothing there. Vicky was right, she was too damn dramatic. She picked up her bag off her desk and headed for the door tripping over a can of paint.

“Shit!” She looked around the studio hopping on one foot. She knew that can was not there before and said “Yeah, whatever,” to whatever was listening.

9:00pm
Willie

“So, do you understand what I am saying?” Ralph said as he sat at the kitchen table.

“Well…” Willie hesitated. “I suppose. I just don’t understand why we can’t go in when she is not there. I ain’t feeling easy about robbing a lady. What if something happens? I mean, what if something goes wrong? What if she gets hurt or something? Then we got real trouble. I can’t afford real trouble. Sharla would kill me.”

Ralph bit into his sandwich and shook his head in disgust.

“Stop over thinking it,” he said. “Fine, we can go in later. But that means you have to find a pair of bolt cutters. How you gonna to get out the house? Your woman has you on a short leash, especially at night.”

Willie thought about it for a minute. “I will think of something. They have some bolt cutters at the Walmart Sharla works at.”

Willie picked up the crying baby. He rocked him as he paced back and forth. Sharla came out of the bedroom just as he was getting ready to speak. He closed his mouth and smiled at Sharla. She stopped, looked at Willie and then over at Ralph.

“I don’t know what the hell you two are up too, but babe, don’t let this one talk you into some shit that will get you put out.” She pointed accusingly at Ralph as she talked at Willie. Sharla rolled her eyes at Willie and kissed the baby on the top of his head.

“Stay outta trouble, I will be off shift round midnight.”

As soon as the door closed Ralph hopped up off the stiff kitchen chair and made himself comfortable on the couch. He looked toward the door he said “Mannn, whatever” and waved Sharla off from behind the locked door.

“She acts like I am always up to something. That ain’t right. I’m just looking out for ya’ll.”

Willie rocked his son on his shoulder. He loved this kid and there were times he could believe it was his. Ralph told him to get a DNA test to be sure, but he didn’t have too, the kid looked just like the picture of his 80 year old grandfather.

“Willie! Willie are you listening?”

“Shhhhh. He’s about to nod off,” he said as he walked the baby toward the back of the house.

He returned after leaving his son in his crib.

Ralph had a pen and pad and wrote down a list of things they needed for the job. Willie had to chuckle, Ralph loved stealing way too much. The only time he saw Ralph get giddy was when he was planning a job. He clipped the baby monitor to his belt and went into the kitchen and made himself a sandwich.

Ralph followed him in and sat at the table. “Can you think of anything else we will need besides the bolt cutter?”

After taking a bite of the sandwich Willie mumbled, “Nope.”

“Alright then. I am gonna borrow Mario’s truck. It should be able to hold all the stuff.”

Willie got up, put the dishes in the sink and looked at Ralph before he said,

“I can’t afford to do another stint in prison, Sharla already told me if I go in again she is done. So let’s get in and out. I wouldn’t even be doing this with you but I’m desperate. My l’il man in there needs things, so I will ride this train with you but after this I am done Ralph. I need to set an example for Jr.”

Ralph nodded. “I gotcha man.” He patted Willie on the back as he walked by. He grabbed the knob of the backdoor in the kitchen and said. “I’’ll be here at six thirty. Please be ready and outside. I hate to honk and have to see Sharla’s pissy face boring a hole through my head from the window.”

August 15, 2014
9:00am
Mia

Mia stood in the center of the large room. Its floor was concrete and its walls made of brick. She took a mental inventory of her space. She scanned all the pictures on the walls and the drafting table to the front left. She looked over at her writing desk. It was messy and that made her confused. It was the one place in the studio that she kept in order. She squinted as she looked at the lock on the front door, it was still locked. Her couch cover was askew and the magazines were in one great big tall pile instead of laid out across the many end tables.

She was uneasy. Had she moved the stuff and forgotten? Had David come in over the weekend and moved things to get to the back storage area? She took six steps and leaned to the right so she could see into the other room. She saw the refrigerator door wide open and the glass from the overhead light was broken.

Someone glided by her left side. She turned so quickly that she lost her breath and her eyes were left staring at the damn door. She hated that door because she knew it was a door to some other place. David could make all the excuses about that damn door all he liked; he could even make fun of how she was the wussiest soldier he ever met. But Mia decided she would rather be a breathing wuss than a dead tough girl.

She stood still and quiet not wanting to bring any attention to herself. She listened for another second before she heard the crash behind the door and that was enough. She walked briskly over to the drafting table, picked up her backpack and purse. She remained as calm as she could knowing fear would bring whatever it was closer. She put her phone in her pocket and turned to her left and walked to the door. She reached for the knob when warm wet air tickled the nape of her neck. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Let me go and I promise I won’t be back.” She didn’t bother to wait for a reply. She pulled the door open and slammed it shut behind her. She locked it and bolted to the parking lot. She tripped and dropped her back pack. A construction guy came over to help but she waved him off saying “I got it, I got it.” She didn’t breathe again until she was safely in her car. She sat there staring at the door of her dream studio then she dialed a local moving company.

August 15, 2014
9:00pm
Willie

“Ralph?” Willie’s voice trembled in confusion. “Oh shit!””

“What?” Ralph said as he squinted.

“RUN!” Willie yelled as he dropped the rusty gadget and ran as fast as he could. The door was less than thirty yards away. The muscle in his right leg burned and stung. He grabbed his right thigh and tried to hold it together, it was falling apart. All he had to do was clear the storage room door and he would be okay.

A light flooded the area in front of him and then darkness, Ralph must have made it into the Studio. Willie knew by the brief illumination he had a clear path to freedom. The burning sensation shot up the bottom of his stomach. He did a weird gallop and imagined he looked like an injured Clydesdale. Oh a Budweiser, a beer right about now would be great and he would get one as soon as he got outta here. He and Ralph would have a laugh about this later and he wouldn’t steal anything else, ever again.

It was Ralph’s stupid idea to rob this Studio. The next step brought him to his knees and then down on his left side. He promised God that he would straighten up if he got out. He rolled and was up on his feet in a flash. The door was right there. Two or three more strides and he could reach out his hand to grab the knob, but a hot tearing sensation ripped through his navel.

He stopped and looked down at his stomach. The soft flexible fleshy nub that protruded from his right side confused him. He wanted to call out for Ralph, but there was no wind in his lungs. It was quiet and warm. Willie placed his right hand over the nub and his left hand held the door knob, he relaxed his shoulders and exhaled, he was home free.

Suddenly he was yanked and was flying backwards through some sort of tunnel, this must be what folks meant when they talked about dying. It wasn’t as scary as he thought it would be. He was grateful when his body stopped moving. Somehow it all made sense as he laid there on the damp cool floor. He smelled mildew, a rotten dank mildew. He opened his eyes and there it was, right there, two inches from his face. Its hot breath stinging his pupils, invading his nostrils and pulling the moisture out of his skin.

His lips were dry and the heat made them crack. The hot air breached his lips, traveled down his throat and infested his lungs. He wanted to push it out but he had no air of his own. Something sticky slithered up his left arm, across his shoulder and rhythmically tapped the vein in his neck. He suspected he was dying and was eager to see his mom, dad and gram. Willie waited for the angel to come and take him onto glory, to meet his lord and savior.

He welcomed heaven with all its beauty and imagined it had the aroma of cookies, like the chocolate chip cookies his mom used to make. He hoped he would be welcome there, in the cookie and family filled heaven

The thing on his neck moved back and forth and Willie realized it was tasting him. Oh God, he thought it’s going to eat me. Panic rolled around inside his head like a small rubber band ball bouncing off the sides of his brain. He prayed that it would not hurt when it bit into him or at least not too much. Instantly, he thought about the time when Ralph dared him to eat a shrimp alive and he realized he should not have done that.

16 August 2014
4:00am
Willie

Willie wasn’t sure how long he had been laying there. He knew he had been moved, but the pain was so great that he was sure he had passed out a time or two. He could feel bits and pieces of his lower body. Some parts were so cold that they hurt. Other parts were just numb. He tried to move his left arm, but was unsuccessful. He turned his stiff neck so he could look at his arm hoping he could will it into movement. His neck was thick and heavy and the back of his head was stuck in some muck. It was painful and his scalp ripped some. He was finally able to move it a little bit with the help of a grunt, he was grateful it was enough to allow him to catch a glimpse of his arm. He began to sob. His arm had been mutilated.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to get up and run. He wanted so many things, but mostly he wanted not to be here. He stared at his arm, what was that? Something had burrowed into his skin and branched out like the tree in back of Grams house. His arm was swollen to three times its normal size. Whatever it was had branched all the way up to the side of his neck. Oh God, it was moving. He sobbed more. He watched through tear filled eyes as the thing moved beneath his skin.

“If you are busy being in a panic then you are not busy thinking.” Grandma told him as she washed the blood from his brow after his first childhood fight. “You have to be smarter than your opponent and that requires all of your brain muscle.”

The subtle snake-like movement of the thing at his neck shifted him from his thoughts. He tried not to panic and to keep his wits about him. He wondered if he could move, roll over and somehow tear off his arm like the guy in the movie did with his stuck leg. He was able to wiggle his torso some. He tried to roll his body from side to side. There was something wrong with his clothes, they were stuck, like the back of his head. When he tried to turn his head he heard his hair popping from being pulled out, and his scalp ripped away from his head even more and this time he yelped. The thing twitched and slithered beneath his ribs down to his hip. Good Lord, it’s all over his left side. It pulsated and rotated, moving a little further down his leg. Then, things went from bad to worse. There was a stinging or biting him near his private parts. He realized every time he moved, it moved. How was he going to get out of this? How was he going to think his way out of this fight? He wished his grandmother was here. She would know exactly what to do.

“Pray Willie, which is first and foremost. God will give you whatever you need to wrestle whatever demon you are fighting.” Willie closed his eyes said a little prayer and yanked his right arm up off the sticky shit.

He didn’t know a person could sleep with their arm up. Maybe he didn’t fall asleep but passed out instead. He was glad to see that his right arm was okay. It was okay except for the purple blackness that took over his hand and forearm. He gasped, there was something in his pants. He tried to stay very still not wanting to encourage whatever it was. Shit, there was more than one. The whole situation was more than he could bear, and he began screaming.

5:00am
Police Officer

The police officer opened the door and allowed his eyes to adjust. He was looking for a guy who might be hurt in there. The other loser was caught running from the scene after an officer responded to a silent alarm and took him downtown. It wasn’t until they booked him that he said there was a second guy who might be hurt.

“Hello! Hello?” He looked back at the other officer and shrugged his shoulders. He stepped inside and used his flashlight to sweep the area of the large room. He saw the light switch and turned on the dim light. They cleared that room and opened the door in the back of the studio. He used his flashlight to maneuver the narrow pathway of the cluttered basement area. It reminded him of those people on the hoarder TV shows. The clutter was at least 6 feet high with several narrow pathways. Almost all the way to the back he saw a man lying on the floor.

“Over here!” he waved his slower partner over. And they went over to the poor fool.

He knelt down to check the man, unsure if he was alive. The guy was staring up at the celling, mouth twisted, eyes open with the pupils quickly shifting from side to side.

“Get the paramedics in here!” the cop shouted.

He walked the cramped space trying to see what could have put this guy in such dire straits. He was obviously beat up, but there wasn’t anything around him that could account for such a beating.

The paramedics rushed in, one quickly assessed the guy on the floor and said, “Give me the collar.” to his partner.

The paramedic was very careful when he placed the C-spine collar on his neck and attached EKG leads on the guy’s battered dirty chest. After securing his neck they rolled him and were surprised to see a glue rat trap stuck to the back of his head. When he tried to remove it the EKG machine went insane. He decided to let the doctor’s deal with it, this guy was in bad shape. His left arm was cut and infected. The gash was raised, red and warm to touch. A second gash was located on his left inner thigh. There was obvious bug and rodent activity around the wound.

They rolled him again to put him safely on the gurney and some of his clothes were sticky and wet. The paramedic noted the smell of sweat and urine. He tugged lightly and the clothes were freed.

They walked the man out of the cluttered sub-basement in the studio and a picture swung back and forth about to fall. The cop who was right behind the paramedics stopped it from swinging and hung it back in its place. He took a closer look at old time picture. There was a man and a woman standing in front of a funeral home. The address was where they were called to. Shit, he thought, this place used to be a funeral home. He looked back once again and the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He shut the door and followed the paramedics out of the basement and to the ambulance. They loaded the Willie into the ambulance. The paramedic that sat in the back with Willie said.

“You’re okay, we have you now.”

8:00am
Willie

Willie opened his mouth and screamed. He screamed in hopes whatever it was would be scared away when he realized he was no longer in that hell hole. He tried to get a grip on reality and figure out where he was. He was in the hospital. He took a deep breath, tried to sit up but he was stopped by a pair of handcuffs. He yanked at them. He looked around and saw the cop at his door.

“Shit!” he said under his breath.

It was over. He was going back to jail and Sharla was gonna leave him. He shook his head. Where the hell was Ralph? Did it really matter? What the hell was in that storage area? He knew deep down what in there. He saw it and he was glad it had given him a second chance at doing the right thing. He was angry at himself for following Ralph and probably losing his family. He was done. No more stealing for him. All he wanted to do was do whatever time he was given and hopefully go home to his family.

My name is Dawn R. Taylor. I am a writer. I write fiction, erotica and horror. When I am not writing I paint. I am an abstract painter and have a studio downtown Durham called Artistically Speaking. I am married and have a son.

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