When Bad Guys Win

My wife plays kickball on a highly-competitive summer league here in Lawrence. You read that right: kickball.

Her team made it to the final four this year (out of like 30 teams). They lost last night to the eventual champions. I'm okay with losing. Losing is part of life. So is winning, sometimes. On rare occasions, you even tie.

I'm not okay with #4. #4, a player for the winning squad, is an ass. Aimee's team, The Eastsiders (don't ask...we live on the west side of town), played the champs twice this season. In the first meeting, #4 whined about numerous calls and even knocked the ball out of play after being thrown out, allowing one of his teammates to take first base. "That's how I run," he claimed. I don't see a lot of grown men, especially those involved in competitive sports, running with one hand wagging over their buttocks like a tail, but maybe that's just me.

The point is, #4 was a jerk last night, too. Whining about calls. Faking kicks. (this league needs a strike rule...seriously) Dropping a fly ball to catch two base runners in a dirty double play. (this league needs to reinstate the infield fly rule...nobody drops a fly ball in the infield except on purpose...right #4)

But his team won. Not only the semi-final against The Eastsiders, but the whole enchilada later that night. Congratulations, of course, especially to the gracious, sporting members of your team. But you're still a dick, #4, and you'll have to live with that.

__________

Today is the deadline to submit Hint Fiction for Robert Swartwood's Hint Fiction Anthology. I have two bits that I'm riding the fence about, but I might as well sub them, right? Losing is part of life. Sometimes winning is, too. But I can't do either if I don't try.

Painkillers

Billy looked up, blood leaking from the cut at the corner of his mouth, and smiled at the big man.

"What'er you smiling at now, ya freak?"

Chants of "Get 'em Tony" and "Kick his ass" and "Kill 'em" rose from the grim-faced chorus.

A steel-toed riding boot caught Billy's chin and rattled his molars together. His hands slipped on sweat and blood and urine, and his bare chest collided with the roadhouse floor. It was more pain that he imagined, really, even after the bottle of Vicodin he swallowed fifteen minutes ago, before striping to his underwear, strolling into the bar, and spitting in Big Tony's beer.

__________

Yeah, I know. I know. WTF? Friday is time to exercise my writing muscle in a no-rules kind of way. Sometimes it works...sometimes it might be a little painful...

WIP Wednesday: District 9 was Awesome Edition

District 9. Amazing. That's about as much as I can say without spoilers. I've waited for a movie like this for a long time. Smart, action-packed, equal parts empathy and revulsion for the main character...a film that doesn't talk down to the audience or assume I'm a simpering, popcorn-brained adolescent.

Amazing.

Anyway, back to my mediocre WIP. Le Sigh.

What happens when you are 48K into a book and think you need to change the POV? Do I continue with the new POV (3rd person limited) or finish in the 1st person? Le Sigh²

Regardless, I added a nice chunk of words last week, more than I did during the summer. How does this happen when I'm back working full time? Ask the magic 8 ball 'cause I don't know. Maybe I work better under pressure/with limited time and resources.

Either way, I'm gearing up for the action-packed, blood and guts finale. My main character is about to go a little ga-ga too, hence the need for a POV change. Maybe it still works. Maybe I just need to finish the damn thing.

My mistake was too evident now, too obvious. Men like us—we possessed no reason to be in that darkest part of the woods, trapped at the whim of a madman, waiting to learn our fate. Curt spoke like a logical man, but an uneasiness grew in the darkness of my heart like a fungus—knowledge that neither Curt or Dr. Scheller lived under the same laws as the rest of humanity.

Sometimes, the Words Come Out Wrong

A student made a rather humorous mistake on a persuasive project today. His assignment was to convince people to move to his hometown (boost the tax base and all that). One line from his pamphlet:

"We open you with welcome arms!"

Where did my mind go...well, let's just say one of these was involved:

100 (Big) Words

If anyone at school ever asks me what "Duotrope's Digest" is, I'm simply going to say a research tool. Not that I spend too much of my plan time or lunch surfing the web, but it's been known to happen.

Sometimes, the writing world collides favorably with what I am paid to do (at least more than writing).

See, my students are lazy about revision and rewriting. I even had one student tell me, rather matter-of-factly, that professional writers don't revise. So, after I'd replaced my dangling jaw and secured it with copious duct tape, I started thinking. Dangerous thing, thinking.

The best teaching methods, especially for high school, are those I call guerrilla tactics. If the students don't know they're learning, wow, you can really make progress.

Enter the 100 word essay, a new assignment that I've modified from various fiction markets that publish stories of exactly 100 words (my personal favorite being Necrotic Tissue). You can't write a 100 word anything without revision. No one lands at exactly 100 words on the first try. No one uses just the right words on draft one.

Revision? You bet...serious writers, professional or amateur, fiction or non-fiction--they all revise. I can't wait to see what my little angels have for me when they turn in the first batch later today.

(insert evil laughter here)

Smiling? Who, Me?

Cate Gardner's wonderful school election story, "Nobody Smiling", is up at Fifty-Two Stitches today.

I saved this one for the start of school. Wear your gloves and aprons when you read, please.

The Date & One Lovely Blog Award

Anne turned to Ryan and studied his face in the grim light from the car's dash.

"In the glovebox?"

He nodded. "Yeah...do you mind?"

Anne pressed her thumb against the catch, and the glovebox door fell open with a click. She expected clutter, the usually fare: owner's manual, maybe some gum, old ketchup packets, napkins, even a condom. What she really expected was the condom.

"Latex gloves?" she asked as she handed them across the console.

Ryan smiled and pulled on the gloves. "I don't leave fingerprints this way."

__________

The first week of school is always a ride. One of those scary, carnival rides that unfolds from the back of a truck. A couple of loose bolts and...


Alan W. Davidson was kind enough to bestow the "One Lovely Blog Award" on The Other Aaron, and I thank him for his kind words.

So it is my charge to forward this honor to bestow this award on another unsuspecting party. I visit many blogs on a regular basis (daily, although this week has met with some "what do you mean I am working full time again" hiccups), so the choice is a difficult one.

When I harken back to the early days of my "career" as a blogger, I remember one of my first visitors. Her blog is funny, spontaneous, and honest. I've called Catherine J. Gardner the "glue" that holds my blogging circle together, and I haunt The Poisoned Apple with good company. It is my pleasure to pass the One Lovely Blog Award to Ms. Gardner in the hope that she will accept and follow the rules:

1. Accept the award, and don't forget to post a link back to the awarding person.

2. Pass the award on.

3. Notify the award winner(s).


Have a lovely weekend, everyone. I know I will.

WIP Wednesday...so tired

The first "official" day of school went down yesterday.

I talk too much on day one. Blah, blah, blah, expectations...blah, blah, blah, syllabus...so tired. I will eventually catch the swing of things again, but until I do the project (aka Loathsome) will have to move into the slow lane.

I did surpass 40K...actually I'm at 41K (huzzah!). So here's today's snippet:

I hurried a few steps to catch up with [Curt]. “I met a man before leaving—actually before I even came to St. Helens. A man named Pete Archer.” My eyes scrutinized every wrinkle on Curt’s face for the slightest hint of recognition, the slightest twitch or vibration in his placid features.

Nothing.

“Never heard of him.” Curt’s voice chilled my marrow.

“He…well, he said he knew you.” I rubbed perspiration from my forehead with the palm of one hand. “I thought he might have been one—”

“No.” Curt smiled, and his lips stretched between the thick sideburns on his cheeks. “No one by the name of Archer ever worked in my camp.”

His smile sent discomfort scurrying across my skin, but I pressed the question. “He had scars at the back of his neck.” I touched the back of my own neck, just at the base of the skull. “Scars that looked like puncture marks.”

I also managed to write a "dark" flash piece that needs a little editing.

Happy writing.

In Praise of the Gatekeepers

Ah, the Gatekeepers, those individuals that by talent, luck, money, or some other mystical power are the arbiters of what the public reads, sees, or listens to. They keep the standards high enough, and artists (writers, dramatists, actors, musicians) must hone their craft to a fine edge. The Gatekeepers cut through slush like, well, slush. They find the jewels glittering amongst the garbage.

I know editors have sent some of my garbage hurtling back my way. Thanks.

After hundreds (really hundreds...am I approaching 1,000?) rejections, I'm not so bitter anymore. Really. Rejections don't sting so much. Of course, the "tail side" of that coin means acceptances don't come with as much of a rush. Not until The New Yorker calls, anyway. Acceptance and rejection is part of the business, right?

My wife and I went to a play on Saturday. It was a free performance, sure...a local thing with no checks and balances. No Gatekeepers. We didn't pay (donations only). We left at intermission.

The play was awful.

Horrid.

Dreadful.

From the acting to the script to the direction and even the lighting. Awful.

I used to direct our school plays. Yeah, school plays can be pretty bad, but at least the script is usually written by a professional...(thank you Gatekeepers). This thing we attended on Saturday was drivel. Muck. Slush of the worst kind. I'm not being nice. I know, but look: I rarely have a night out with my wife sans kids, and I feel like the play stole my precious time.

Gatekeepers...despite their human foibles (nepotism being my least favorite), help keep the standards high so poor schumcks like me don't waste their date night on dreck.

So, to all those editors and agents that have been wise enough to reject my work when it wasn't good enough, thanks. Rejections aren't fun for you or me, but I want to improve, to become a better writer. I don't want to waste anyone's time.

Olive Lemon, Revealed!

Have you ever put together a jigsaw puzzle without knowing the picture? If so, you'll have a pretty good approximation of the surreal trip through Olive Lemon's world. Catherine J. Gardner's imagery manages to be strange and impossible and at the same time very, very real. This is Gardner's quirky, dark fantasy in high form, and spoilers be damned, the ending will grab you by the metaphoric throat.

Order your own copy, now.

Night School

He starts his work with an ax, smashing the safety glass until all that hangs from the black filaments are fragments that sparkle red beneath the lighted exit sign. He enters the room and pushes the desks together. With a little effort, the bookcase falls with a heavy thump and scattering of paperbacks, echoing in the hall. He pauses and listens, but surely no one else could be in the building.

He pries the name tag from the door, feels the rough, raised letters, and laughs silently at the sound of the name: Feldspar. He casts the plastic strip onto the pile of furniture.

Next, the gasoline from the hallway. It’s an old can, a metal can, a hand-me-down from his father. He douses the desks, the fallen shelves, and the wounded books. He shakes the can to chase free the last drops.

The can drops to the tiled hallway floor with an empty thunk. He fishes through his pockets, sure he had a lighter, but it’s gone missing.

A hand taps him on the shoulder, and the man turns in the darkness, surprised to see a fifteen-year-old face washed in the pale red of the exit sign. The other boys wear masks and carry plastic canisters.

The boy holds out a hand. “Need a light, Mr. Feldspar?”

__________

Yeah. I'm at school again...today is the first day of "meetings". I'm sure you can guess the inspiration for that little tale.

WIP Wednesday: The Poetry Edition

Why the poetry edition? Well, Vicious Verses and Reanimated Rhymes: Zany Zombie Poetry for the Undead Head edited by A.P. Fuchs has just been released by Coscom Entertainment, and yes, I wrote a little ode to the undead for the collection. Buy a copy and read "Former Vocations" along with other fine examples of Z-poetry.

As far as Loathsome goes...well, I had big plans. I was going to beat 40K this week. I came close, teetering just on the full side of 38K. Not bad considering Owen's injury and birthday party. We won't mention school again.

Crap. I just did.

My goal is to top the 40K mark, then spend some less intensive time adding some bits in the first half. With the start of, um, you-know-what, I plan on taking writing a little slower for the next few weeks. The rest of the book is outlined, but I'm going to wait until things settle to finish. If the 1st draft is done by the end of September, I'll be very happy. In the meantime, I might write a few short stories that have been tugging at my shirttails.

“I’m sick of your badgering…you’re a low-life, a gun-for-hire…no different than—”

Olson never finished his statement because Silas brought a clenched fist in contact with his chin. Olson staggered backwards, his glasses sitting cockeyed on his nose. His arms flailed behind him, but he caught his balance before falling. Meanwhile, Silas bent his knees and brought his fists in front of his face, assuming a boxer’s stance.

“C’mon, damnit. Fight!”

Jim thumped me on the shoulder. “You gonna stop this?”

I shook my head. John’s eyes burned the back of my neck. I heard the bunk creak as Jim scooted away.

Olson dabbed his mouth with the back of his left hand, catching a bit of blood on his upper lip. “You’ve lost your mind…I’m not f-fighting you.”

Silas came at him again, swinging a left hook into the smaller man’s chest. Olson doubled over with an audible “oof”. Silas spat on the dirt floor.

“Gonna let me embarrass you like this, ya pansy?”

Well. Not much poetic about that scene.

Happy writing, everyone.

Now My Fingernails Can Grow Back

Just as I don't blog about rejection much anymore, I usually don't write about acceptances. But, there are always exceptions.


I received word yesterday from R. Scott McCoy that "The Distillery" was accepted for Necrotic Tissue (#10, April 2010). Whew. I subbed that bad boy on the first day possible (July 1st) and nibbled my poor digits to bloody nubs ever since receiving the "short list" notification. Necrotic Tissue has become a very competitive market--I landed my first sale with them back in April of '08 and failed to replicate that success since. So whew.

And most importantly, thanks to those out there who helped make "The Distillery" as horrid as possible. A big, wet spinal-pop to you all. No one can do this writing thing without huge support from awesome peers. Like I wrote yesterday, some of the nicest folks I know are horror writers.

Cheers, all.

With a Nod to Johnny Cash

Today's post is about writing horror. Not a how to; there are folks out there much more horrific and talented than me to make that happen. This is about writing the dark things and being okay.

I don't usually blog about rejections anymore. A waste of time, really, 'cause we all know they happen. But two I've received in the last month really crawled under my skin and laid eggs. Each was for a different story, but both mentioned bad things happened for "no reason". One rejection came from a very prominent science fiction/fantasy publication...the other from an upstart.

One rejection, for the flash story "Communion", explained (in a very snarky manner) that they wished people didn't think killing children for no reason was entertaining. For the record: I don't think killing children is entertaining. Secondly, if you've read the story (and most of you have--thanks), I think the reason was pretty clear. Lord of the Flies is a helluva good book, and a couple toddlers short of a handful get whacked in that one...but I digress.

The second rejection made me feel dirtier, to the effect of a man stalking a woman and murdering her for no reason isn't my idea of entertainment. Okay, you haven't read this story yet (and I hope you will have the chance), but the protagonist a) isn't stalking anyone; he's experimenting with his new "powers" and b) he doesn't plan on killing the woman--he's just faced with a moral choice at the end: one life for another--and he doesn't choose the woman because she's a stranger. But I still felt dirty.

"Horror writers" get a bad rap. Some of the nicest people I know are horror writers. I'm going to put that on a t-shirt.

I don't write splatterporn. I don't like to read splatterporn. I hate movies that are nothing but splatterporn. (um, Sorority Row* anyone?) Bad things happen in my stories (usually), but my goal is usually to tell a broader story than the bad things.

Look, this is life. Bad shit happens.

...and Johnny Cash makes me feel better.

*check out the trailer...didn't I see this when it was called I Know What You Did Last Summer? Oh wait--it's a remake. I want my money back.

Lemon Olive Oil: Perfect for Catherine J. Gardner's New Chapbook

That's right, Catherine J. Gardner has a sweet little book available from Bucket o' Guts Press for only $6 U.S. I enjoy Cate's work (which has recently appeared in Fantasy Magazine and slated for Space and Time & PostScripts...yeah, that's right), and you should too.

Go to Bucket o' Guts website to order.

While you're waiting for your chapbook to arrive via post, you may want a snack. (Well, I'm usually hungry) I bring you a recipe for Lemon Olive Oil, which goes wonderfully on a crisp salad:

Lemon Olive Oil Recipe

Ingredients:

1 large fresh lemon
1 bay leaf
1/4 tsp. of peppercorns
1 c. of extra-virgin olive oil

Directions :

Scrub the lemon to remove surface impurities; rinse and dry well.
Heat a small, heavy saucepan to medium-low.
In a small bowl, zest the lemon into the olive oil.
Add bay leaf and peppercorns.
Transfer to the saucepan and heat for 10 minutes. Do not allow to scorch.
Cool slightly.
Transfer to a hot, sterilized bottle and seal.

This can be stored at room temperature for up to two months.

Happy Birthday Owen! (with free stuff for everyone)

Owen turns six today, broken parts and all. Happy birthday, buddy.

In the interest of pruning my overloaded bookshelves, I've started a rolling list of books I'll gladly "give" away for the cost of mailing them. Check it out here.

Finally, I have a story at Flashes in the Dark today. "Communion" isn't pleasant. I took one rejection from a paying market that made me feel dirty for writing it (more on this topic Monday) before sending it the FTL Flashes. The idea sparked from the old Time Magazine cover from April '66:

I feel the story is one of those "makes you think" pieces. I don't write splatter-porn, and I'm not ashamed of being a horror writer.

War is...

September, 1944. Somewhere in France. A lone M4A1 Sherman clanks into a clearing, the turret and pushed above a heavy morning mist. On the side of the tank, painted in awkward white letters, “Beezle’s Boys” stands out against the olive drab hull.

“We’re lost, I tell ya,” grumbles the gunner.

“Go stuff yourself,” the driver mutters. “The rest of the platoon was just here.”

The commander chances a peek out of the top hatch, and he doesn’t like what he finds. The ground is red, as red as clean sheets soaked in blood. The mist dissipates and reforms in small skyward tendrils like smoke pouring from the cracks in the ground.

“Slow up,” he calls to the driver.

The tank slows to a putter. With another glance skyward, the commander pulls back into the turret, his last vision consisting of two log-like fingers descending to catch the tank in a pincer grip. Men tumble inside as the war-machine lurches into the air. The commander catches himself against the inner wall of the turret, his damp hands pressed against molded steel. He grasps the periscope and peers out.

Two enormous, smoldering eyes meet his. He cranks the periscope, finds chiseled cheeks in burnished red the size of Buicks, a goatee hanging like a mansion chandelier from a pointed tee-pee chin, and a mouth full of sharp teeth as big as toddlers. The metal walls of the Sherman vibrate with deep laughter as the teeth part. The commander opens his own mouth.

“Shit.”

The men tumble again, the tank tossed inside that nightmare mouth, lost inside the black gullet of the thing.

I Broke My Kid

That's how it feels, anyway. Owen has a "buckle fracture" of his ulna in his right forearm resulting from a rather daredevil episode on his bike. Yes, the bike he just learned to ride without training wheels earlier this summer. Yes, I was supervising when said breakage occurred.

I should be fired as a parent.

I had all sorts of fancy blogging planned for today about the "chilling effect" and "free speech" and "self-censorship", but I'm playing Candyland and Chutes and Ladders instead, trying to patch a hole in my wounded self-concept of parenthood.

I'll get to that post, I always do, but for now...in the interest of public safety, I give you:



Be safe people.

WIP Wenesday: The Back to School Edition

Yes...school. For those of you that grumble about teachers having 2 1/2 months off every year (at least here in the U.S.), I'll just tell you what the PE teachers say to me when I complain about them wearing sweats every day: you picked your major (or career, in this case).

I'd still like to wear sweats every day and teach English. That would be comfy.

Anyway, I'm at 32.5K with Loathsome. I think there's at least another 20-25K of story, plus at least 5K worth of additions to the first half. I'm not a "write too much and cut" scribbler. I'm an "underwrite and fill in" scribbler. Plenty of reversals, betrayals, and horrors have yet to be written. (Bwahaha...ala Katey)

I snatched the lantern from Olson’s hand. The flame guttered through the broken glass as I swept the light in front of me. Pushing away from the other men, I worked along the side of the bunkhouse until I found the entrance. The door gave with little push, and the air behind me filled with the mutters from the others.

Inside, my light swept across the room, chasing the inky shadows into corners like frightened rodents. I stepped onto the rough floor—dirt, of course, but less packed than either of the stations we’d met on the way. The rest of the building was empty.

“No sign of a soul, living or dead,” Olson said.

Jim knelt with his lantern and studied the scuff marks of others’ boots on the ground. “Been gone for a while. Not a sign of anyone.” He let a small quantity of dirt tumble through his open fingers. “I’d say no one had been here for months.”

Yeah, that's right. They made it upriver (five of the original seven, anyway), only to discover that nobody's home. (cue thunder)

Cover Art is Your Friend

I just posted the "draft" cover art for the Fifty-Two Stitches antho on the Strange Wire, so I thought I could let it fly here, too.

We'll make a few changes closer to publication (maybe some blurbage on the cover, etc.), but yes, he is looking at you.

Hey There Cthulhu

I watch this video and tell myself:

"Everything is going to be OK."

Returning to the Scene of the Crime

My first short fiction sale (like, ever) was to Big Pulp ("A Fresh Coat of Paint" a tongue-in-cheek YA fantasy). It seems I've returned to my "roots" with "Tunnel Vision", now available to read for free online.

It's brief...so the pain won't last long.