Catching You Up

As I sit here and edit the first of two books I will have out this Spring I ponder that there are scads of people that are not really sure who I am or what I do.

KNAVES!

Now is a perfect time to catch up before the zombie novel and the last of the Meep Sheep books hit the scene. And daggumit you can catch up or only a dollar an e-book. Or you can chip away with the physical copies, none of which are terribly taxing on that old pocketbook of yours.

Don’t you want to be in on what all them hep cats at the soad-shop have been talking about? Don’t you want in on the ground floor before I sell out and write my magic-vampire-teen version of 50 Shades of Stuff? Sure ya do. Everyone wants to be first, and if not first then best, and if not best then loudest.

Now’s your chance.

So get on it, chump, I mean, pal of mine.

Links to the RIGHT or you can hit up www.meepsheep.com.

KAPOW! Get some of that awesome right in the KISSER!

(proper blogs will re-appear once I get these darn books edited)

Crap, I Did It Again…

  For a guy that never intended or wanted to write a novel I don’t really listen to myself very well. I just finished writing the last story for another long in the works book. 

The zombie novel began a lot of years ago as a short story called The Delicate Sound of Rain. I wrote it and really became attached to the story and the idea of that world. I started to tinker with the idea of a book about zombies but, well, I never wanted to write a novel. Never. Never-ever. So I thought, well, I can cheat it, I can write a novel of short stories. Ha-HA! Genius! I slowly began writing stories for this world and started mapping it out in my mind. I had a protagonist that I immediately connected to and was excited to work on it. 

Then I hit a wall. 

The zombie boom began about then and I realized that there was no way I was going to finish this thing before the boom was over and this was still a time when self publishing was the worst thing in the literary world to ever do. I loved the concept just the same but I needed to let it go. At least for a while. I figured some day, when the boom is long over and I am ready I can get back to work on the book and see what I see. I put together the stories I had as a chapbook and sold those with some other chapbooks to serve as a stopgap between my first book, BACK FROM NOTHING, and any future book. 

I was an optimist, even if I didn’t want to admit it. 

The chapbook was fun but had horribly small print and while it intrigued people it never really wowed them. For some reason I’d tell people at comic shows that I wrote books and they’d be surprised to not see pictures in the books. Weird. 

So 2012 comes and I realize that it’s time to start putting some projects to bed. I had let a couple long standing projects sit and wait for a time when the world cried out for these works and well, that day never came. But they deserved to be finished and released. 

The big one was the novel, A SHADOW OVER EVER, which I had begun work on in 1994. I had written, edited, changed, edited, changed, and worked on and submitted it to publishers for years. Now that I could get things published on my own it was the right time to do it so I set about the task of getting the thing edited then fixing those edits and working to get it put together and out. It was a huge project and a huge book. And I love it. 

I am not sure how well anyone else loves it but I love it. It represents a lot of time, a lot of effort, and a lot of friends that have come and gone in my life during those many years. 

With the novel done it was time to move my gaze to two other projects, one being the zombie novel. That book had sat around for years and years as I waited for the bubble to burst and it never did. Which isn’t to say people are not darn sick of the undead but, well, I don’t care. 

So I got back to work on crafting a world of the living dead. 

The ideas have changed, the world has changed, my main character has changed some, but at its heart I love what it is. I won’t say it’s groundbreaking or any nonsense like that but it’s different. It’s very different. And I like it. 

I have a LOT of work to do. There’s still editing to work on and layout and story order and all that fun but man does it feel good to be done. To have it done. 

The journey, so far as that story, is complete.

Will people like it? Like what it says and where it goes?

Not sure. 

But I like it. 

I like it a lot. 

And that’s a heck of a start. 

…c…

http://www.meepsheep.com

Thanksgiving–a story

This is a story I wrote for the 2012 Thanksgiving. My tribute, of sorts. This is also notable as it will be part of a book I am working on for 2013. The book has been long in the works and will finally be finished and see the dark light of day.

Enjoy. (By the by, it’s unedited, so forgive me any errors you may find)

Happy Thanksgiving.

 

Thanksgiving

The town was silent as the night fell. A thick mist slipped from the woodlands, from the fields, and through the streets covering everything in a thick shroud. Far of in the distance, a world away from the town there was an explosion and a firecloud that rose like a Phoenix into the sky but nothing in the town stirred or moved. As dawn came over the land and the first rays of sunlight touched the edges of the town the sound of muffled sobs whispered across the town and an hour later there came three gun shots, two in quick succession then a third several minutes later and then the silence returned.

It was noon when the flies arrived, their thick black cloud moving slowly over the land, beginning as a small cloud that joined with another cloud and that vast mass moved slowly towards the small town and with it came the sound of movement through the fields. The first of the dead emerged from the corn fields at noon and by the time the last of the scavengers that shambled slowly after their brethren. There were so many of the things flooding into the town that the cloud of flies that formed above dimmed the sun and brought an early night. The air was filled with the sound of the flies and the low growl of the things as they moved along the streets and through the open doors of the homes. Home after home after home the dead entered and stumbled through, the scent of the living so strong that it confused them, made them believe that the living were still there. A group of scavengers found a pen with three dead pigs that were fat with maggots and rot. Their slow gait quickened as they descended upon the pigs and the weight of them broke through the fencing, the bodies of several of them getting impaled and stuck on the remnants as the others went to the animals. Their gnarled hands dug and clawed and tore until the meat was pulled free and the things shoved fistfuls of flesh that crawled with maggots into their mouths and chewed slowly. For many the food simply dribbled out of their torn throats and rotted bellies. As the last of the pigs was devoured the new arrivals to the pen began tearing at the bellies of the freshly fed, tearing the stomachs open and dipping their own hands inside to eat whatever they found within. While the scavengers fought over dead animals and rotten meat the hunters made their way to the center of the town and sniffed the air.

Meat.

They smelled meat.

At the edge of town there was a great commotion as several scouts happened upon the house where the shots had come from and immediately the home was full of the dead as they sought out the bodies and made quick work of them. The hunters remained though, smelling something else. After several moments the thirty hunters turned as one and began moving quickly towards the church. And as they went so followed the scouts, and finally the scavengers, what was left of them, made their way slowly to the church as well. The great congregation of the dead descended on the church and shoved, shoved, shoved at the doors until finally they bowed inward, the hinges cracked and the great wooden doors gave and the things forced themselves within. The church was silent and full, each pew holding a parishioner and even more filling the second floor and its many seats. The townsfolk were all bowed as if in prayer and made no move as the things bit and tore at them, made no move at all as their stomachs and throats were torn open for the dead to feed. The church filled with hundreds of the dead and none remained outside of the building that could get inside, even those that couldn’t, the crawlers that trailed behind the pack, quickened their pace to try to get into the building before the meal was done.

And the dead feasted on the bodies of the towns people, pulling them apart and boring holes within them as they picked the bodies clean. Their dead were a writhing mass and as they ate the flies that followed and lead them came as well so they could get their own meals, though none settled on the people of the town, choosing the healthier meal of the dead. The dead all stopped suddenly and lifted their heads and turned them towards the front and the altar when the great barrel that had been placed on a long white plastic table fell over and spilled its dark contents all over the floor. Those among the dead that could smell what was inside hissed and moved away from the fluid and the rest buried their faces in their meals again and returned to their noisy work.

As the last of the dead made their way within the church two small forms climbed down a long ladder that had been leaned against the back of the building where there was a small entrance to a loft that looked down on the congregation. The boy was the first down and he helped the girl, a thin thing with long red hair, down and made sure she had her footing before he marched over to a hissing crawler and put his boot through its head. This done he quickly returned to the girl and she handed him a chair leg with some wet fabric and he traded her that for a lighter. The girl, taller than the small boy with the fierce eyes by a foot, took her own chair leg and flicked the lighter again and again and again until it lit and she set it to the fabric and her torch erupted to match the boy’s. She looked at him, her face drawn and pale, and she smiled weakly and he nodded and they split up and she walked around the back of the church. In a minute he heard her whistle and he whistled back and both set their torches to the sides of the church where they had poured kerosene and the sides sprang to life with fire. The boy ran to the next point and did the same, then to a third point along the sides and when that was alight he ran to the front where he found her waiting. Each went to a barrel and they pushed their barrels over and gasoline poured out in two rivers that joined into a sea that ran down the gulleys the boy had dug and to the doors of the church. As soon as the barrels were overturned and emptying the boy took the girl’s torch and nodded and she moved away. Within the church the things went about their meal, too busy gorging to notice the scent of kerosene, or gasoline, or fire, or fresh meat. The boy watched the things a moment and as he watched a grin began to form, something he would never let her see, never let anyone see, no, this smile was just for them. And as he smiled he threw the torches into the gasoline and ran. The church erupted with flames and still the dead ate as the fire washed over them, devouring them as they devoured the poisoned dead of the town of Inston. The boy and girl had happened upon the town looking for supplies and had found the place empty, everyone dead within the church, their hope finally lost, and it had been she that had planned this feast.

She that had planned this dinner.

He ran to her and grabbed her hand and they stood and watched as the church became and inferno and not one of the things within broke free of their hunger, their need, their addiction and this, this was their weakness, their greed. Something that made still tied them to their human counterparts. He squeezed her hand and she looked at him and smiled and he returned it. It was a small victory in a long, awful war but it was something. And sometimes small victories were good enough. Sometimes it was the small victories that meant everything. She squeezed his hand again and he looked away from the fire and back to her and she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek and his face ran a deep shade of red.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Hunter.”

“Happy Thanksgiving.” He replied before both turned their gazes back to the fire and the brief warmth it gave.

 

www.meepsheep.com

Losing Our Touch

   I think we’re losing our touch, we who tell the tales meant to make you shiver. We that cling to the darkness and lurk under beds. I think we’re losing our touch. Horror, when done right is a flirtation, is foreplay, is the romance before the consummation and it only goes all the way when the moment is right.
And we’ve lost that.

From haunted houses to horror movies and outward from there we have lost what it means to create fear and to draw out terror. Too often there is no romance, no tension, so that modern horror becomes a sort of porn (the term torture porn, a term I detest, is a great example of the way people are looking at the films now) – all pretense is stripped bare and it’s straight for the jugular. Once upon a time that worked, as audiences grew bored with the pace of older films. It made sense. It was another tool to use, like gore, but when you begin to rely on something too much it becomes not a tool but a crutch, and that’s a problem. We have had our run of slow paced films, gore films, slasher films, and on and on, and horror’s reliance on the newest trend has hamstrung the effectiveness of the genre. We are losing the romance. And this doesn’t mean I am clamoring for a ‘return to glory’, not at all. The future isn’t in the past, that’s silly, it isn’t in aping the films of other decades but is in learning from those other films and books and the rest. You hear all the time how ‘everything’s been done’ , yet, there are always new ways, different ways to tell those same stories. New ways to explore old themes. And I can’t help but be disappointed to see how some movies fail to rise above the easy scare, the jump scare, the gore scare, and fail to really tap into anything deeper. The best example I have of late is that yet another TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE remake is hurtling towards us and yet again it seems like the lessons of the original are being forgotten. Maybe I am wrong. I hope I am. But it sure looks like the notion of tension over bloodshed isn’t going to be on tap.

And we’ve lost our way.

We have bred and audience that only wants the jump scares, and wants the quick cuts and awful soundtracks. There is so much talent out there and none of it is being utilized to its full potential. One of the great things about horror is that it can be a proving ground for filmmakers with ambition and ideas. Horror doesn’t take a ton of money behind it to be effective, heck, you can make the argument that the scariest films are the ones with the lowest budgets. Things have changed though.

Too much money is being spent on horror with too little evidence of return. Every film seems as if it is set up to be a franchise, and that’s fine, IF IT WORKS. But not every film is meant to BE a franchise. I love the SAW films but did we really need seven films to tell that story?

Uh, no.

Same goes with the PARANORMAL ACTIVITY films. A series I rather like but which is spinning its wheels as it slowly doles out nuggets of information. It’s time for that series to end. It’s time for MOST to end. We need a fresh slate. We need direction. We need as much passion and foresight to go into horror that the superhero films are getting right now. We need a plan. And we need the terror to return.

Icons like Freddy and Jason and the rest CAN return, but give them a rest, and when they return give them an arc and after that arc let them go away again. For a while.

And we need new icons. Again, with a plan. With a reason. And with a reason for us to be afraid of them beyond their killing.

We need the scares brought back. We need to feel as if there is more going on than gore, and sex, and self referential humor. We need more than nihilistic murders and meaningless death.

We need it all to mean something.

Something.

There is still good, no, great horror out there, it’s just a shame that so much of it feels derivative and empty, like eating fast food for every meal. Once in a while we want something that really gets us, and gets us at our core.

I for one am dreaming for a return to that type of horror, the kind that goes to bed with me and follows me into my dreams.

That’s the horror I love.

What about you?

c

Fearful Thing – Halloween Story 2012

Here is one of two Halloween stories I have had in my head this year. The hope is to start work on the second soon. Very soon. 

This hasn’t been edited so keep that in mind when you run across errors. 

Enjoy. 

 

Fearful Thing

    It hid in the dark, in a hole dug in the corner of a basement of a burned out house on the bad side of town. That’s what he’d heard at least. That’s what the street people said. Where the house stood, or what remained of it, was never one of the showcases of the city, was never the place that families went to live when they sprouted children, no, this was the place you came when you had nowhere else to go. This was a place of flop houses, drug dens, and chipped dreams. The fires had hit in the eighties, sweeping from the house at the end of the street and engulfing half of the houses, the others being coated in the soot and debris that fell like snow and covered everything for a half mile. The house where it started still showed its skeleton, and the house beside it was the same way, the cement stairs that once lead into the house leading now to nowhere and the ribs of the house revealing nothing within but emptiness. The teenager stood at the edge of the crater and stared down into it as the sun slipped into the darkness like a secret lover. She had taken the bus out here and had walked the fifteen blocks to get to the house. No one came out to this old neighborhood anymore, not even the squatters, and she wasn’t worried about anyone else. Whoever might be out looking to cause her trouble wouldn’t much like what they found if they hassled her. Not at all. So here she stood, her head full of the stories the old men of the street had told her for the price of some stolen wine and a shared cigarette or two.

“It lives in the basement. You’ll know which house by the smell of the sewer and the ribbons tied around two crooked light poles that stand at the end of its driveway. No one knows who puts those pink ribbons there but every year they bleach, fade, and rot away only to be replaced the next Spring. When you find those ribbons you’ll have found the house.”

And here she was.

She’d found the house.

    And just like they’d said there were ribbons on the two blackened light poles, faded from a long, hot Summer and just barely held together as Fall’s cool winds slithered over the streets. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up and dug her hands into her pockets. Someone had left Jack-O-Lanterns on the porches of the old houses here and it sent a shiver up her spine. It was like hearing laughter in a graveyard. She wrapped her fingers around the small thing she’d brought with her in her pocket and bit down on a smile as she kicked rocks into the hole. It was getting dark but there was enough light to see into the basement and just as she’d been told, there was a rope tied to an errant piece of metal and the rope dropped down into the darkness and in that darkness lay the basement and there, in the far corner of the basement was a hole that was dug into the earth, a hole that glistened with wetness, even as the light faded. The girl lit a cigarette and kicked a few more rocks in and then clenched the butt in her teeth and knelt down to grab the rope and slowly she lowered herself down. And they were right about something else, her street friends, it stunk here, and the closer she got to the hole in the wall the more she gagged. She pulled the handkerchief she was wearing around her neck up and covered her nose. There were more ribbons down here, all pink, all worn. In the far corner, opposite of the hole were several glass mason jars, all full and in a pile but her curiosity, strong and dark as it may be, wasn’t enough to lure her to investigate. No, she was here for something else. She started to march towards the hole but when her left foot sank into a small crevasse and her boot got caught she was stuck and heard something chuckle from the darkness of the hole. Something that sounded like leaves catching fire. Damn. She hadn’t wanted to hurry things, to rush things, her curiosity strong enough to stave off her fear but it seems that, even know, even here, even with this she wouldn’t get her way. She saw something move in the darkness but it was black moving against black so she could make out no shape. The girl looked down and saw her boot was lodged and lifted her leg but it was still stuck, she looked up and the darker black moved in the darkness, shifting weight and watching. The girl lifted again and still her boot was caught. She looked up and the darkness was gone, replaced by a wide shape that stunk of the sewer and gave off waves of thick heat. The girl twisted her foot from side to side and lifted and she felt the light go out of the basement, felt it as if it had drained away or been sucked away. She was out of time. The girl knelt down and pulled at her foot and it shifted, sure, but it was stuck and good. Having no other choice she quickly untied and then began unlacing the boot and as she did she felt something big and heavy approach and hover near, could feel the thick heat of it and its smell made her gag. She didn’t look up. She didn’t look up. She didn’t look up but focused on the boot and when she had it loose she closed her eyes and stood quickly and pulled her foot up with all she had and it stuck for a second then was free and as soon as she was free she hobbled away from the shape and into the other corner. As soon as she was to them she spun around and looked in time to see something that glistened with blackness as it receded into its hole. And again came the sound of leaves catching fire. This time it was laughing at itself. The girl had gotten the better of her there but that didn’t happen often, and never twice.

    The girl shifted her weight as she tried to keep her bootless foot off the damp dirt and watched the hole but saw no movement. It was watching her just as she was watching it. The heat of the basement had subsided but it was still warm down there and as she caught her breath, weighing her options, she noticed that as hot as she was there was a chill against her leg. She risked a glance and saw that she was standing next to the glass jars, jars that looked to almost give off their own light, here in the gloom, jars that were full, full and labeled with a name and a date, scrawled in brown on the otherwise clean surfaces. It cherished these. It prized them. She could tell by how clean they were. They may not be stacked neatly but these were still its prizes. The girl knelt to take a closer look and heard a hiss from the shadows and the air turned hot. She ignored the heat and the sick feeling of dread that was bubbling in her stomach and squinted to see what was in the jars. That sickness calcified into a knot that was quickly rising up her throat as she saw what some of the bottles held and she shot up and away from them. There were dozens of the jars, dozens upon dozens of them and probably more hidden away in other places in the basement, older jars, far older, with more of the same. Trophies, trophies that ranged from hair, to nails, to fingers, to bone, to…a fetus, the jar she’d seen had held a fetus and the date marked on the jar was only three weeks earlier. The name on the jar was Treece. She had gone to school with a Patreece but the girl had gotten herself pregnant and had dropped out to be with her twenty-something year old boyfriend. Patreece that went by Treece with the pretty brown eyes and the shy smile. The girl spun around to leave, to run, fear slipping its fingers through her hair and across her cheek in cold rivers but the heat burned it away and the basement was sweltering. She felt the heat on her, against her like someone crowding near, and she felt sluggish and sleepy. The sound of the leaves again but now it sounded like words.
I take. I take. I take what you give me…and perhaps I give you something in return.
There was no joy in those words, nor was there a threat, just a bargain, a bargain that had been promised. The offer of a barter. And was that what was in those jars? Trades? Barters? And for what? She thought of Treece’s jar and felt sick.

    The basement was gone, covered over in darkness that was full of life. She could hear nothing, the sound dampened, but could feel that something was moving, something heavy and vast, something greedy. And it was that greed, that perhaps that made her wonder again what else was hidden in these ruins. But she had come for this. She had come to barter. She had come to trade. She felt it near, so near, and could smell the rot and stink of its breath. It knew why she was here, knew she wanted to strike a bargain, and now it was simply waiting to see if it was worth its attention or not. The girl reached into her pocket and winced as she caught the edge of something and felt the sting and burn of blood. It came closer and her hand wavered. Wavered until she thought of all the blood that she’d worn, worn like dress when things had started to go bad and someone turned their eyes on a twelve year old girl. Five years. It had been five years but it felt so much longer, as if time itself had recoiled at the sight of what had been done to her. She gritted her teeth and pulled her prize free and the heat decreased a little and she felt it move away, not quickly, as if out of fear, but more out of curiosity. The girl held the thing she’d brought tightly between her fingers and pushed first one, the other sleeve of her jacket up. The heat rose and it came closer.

    Five years. Five years and it wasn’t over. She was no little girl but she was thin, she was pretty, and she was clearly still their flavor, though they still had a taste for the young meat. She grimaced with disgust. It started with a hand on the knee. A hand on the back. A kiss on the cheek. It started as a friendship. That was how it started. And now her sister, her nine year old sister had a new friend, a new friend that was very familiar to the girl, who had known them since she was twelve. It had been that first time, when everything went red, and she had known it was wrong, had cried and cried and cried until there were no more tears left in her, it had been then that she knew things would come to this. She never would have guessed it would lead her here though to take care of things. 

Her face was burning up, it was close, impatient, bored. It was time.

“I have a bargain. I will give you something if you will do for me a favor. One favor.”

There was a heavy silence and she could feel its hot breath on her as it considered her words.

“Favor?” It asked.

“I will give you my most prized possession, something I cannot live without if you will take care of a problem.If you will do me this favor my possession is yours.”

“Fa-vooooooooor?” Impatient again.

“I need you to make someone go away. I need you to…I need you to make them go away. I need you to make them go away…forever.” And did she mean that? Did she mean the implication? Then she thought of her sister, and how soon, very, very soon, she would start being taken to secret places, and told secret things, and taught about blood.

“Bargain?” It whispered. 

The girl felt tears welling up but the heat of the thing burned them away. And was it fair, was it fair that it had come to this? Was anything fair? Some things can’t be tattled away. Some things can’t be fixed. Some scars don’t ever go away. Sometimes they just end in red.

Like this.

“I offer this.”

The girl took her prize and gritted her teeth and before she could think twice she ran it down her arm and split the skin open and sent wide rivers down her arm. The thing recoiled in shock and her arm burned incredibly but it was too late to stop now. She switched hands and her hands was shaking now, she felt sick and weak but she ran the blade down her arm and more rivers sprouted and she dropped to her knees. She dropped the blade and forced herself to look up and there, in the center of the darkness she saw the thing that lived here, its face drawn with shock at what she was doing, and seeing it, she would have surely gone mad had she not been so far down the well and falling fast.

“I…I…I offer…I offer my blood. I offer my body…I offer myself…please, please, please…protect her…please protect her…”

    She wobbled, she wavered, and she started to fall sideways into the jars but before she connected with them something stopped her, something grabbed her roughly and with great strength. She was pulled back up and kicked her feet and realized she was being held up, above the ground. Everything was going white. She closed her eyes. She was drifting. She felt something hot and rough against her skin, against her left arm, then her right, something that burned and stung but before she could wonder what it was her mouth was forced open and something cold and hot at once flooded her throat and she thought she felt glass against her teeth, thick glass like a jar has, and then she was dropped to the ground again and everything went black.

    The thing was in her dreams waiting for her. It revealed itself to her and it was an awful thing but there was more to it than that and it took her hands and showed her what it was, and her heart ached at what it had been through, and raged and what it had become. It was a monster, a thing, a beast, but it had not always been that. But some armor, chosen to protect, can also bind, and now it was bound, to this place, and to the darkness. And for the first time in years she cried.
When the girl woke her face and eyes were wet, though she couldn’t tell if it was from tears or dew. It was morning and everything in the basement was damp and she felt soaked through. She sat up and realized she had passed out in a corner of the basement where there was a nest of clothes. Why was she here? Her mind felt fuzzy but suddenly everything rushed back to her and she looked down at her arms and there were long, jagged scars that ran from her wrists up to the ditches of her elbows, scars where something had burned her wounds closed. It hadn’t worked.

It hadn’t worked.

    She stood up slowly, carefully, her hand on the cold black wall of the basement, and she looked towards the hole and saw nothing. She stumbled forward and her foot kicked something that made a high, sharp sound and she looked down and saw the razor, coated black with her blood, and beside it was a jar, lying on its side. She knelt and looked down at the jar and saw yesterday’s date – October 30, and the year, and inside was thick, red fluid. A lot of it. She stood up quickly, queasy and weak but run through with fear. She was about to leave, leave as quickly as she could but something caught her eye in the corner, near the hole – another jar. This jar was larger, far larger than the rest, and far older, in fact it was more of a jug and she had no choice but to see, to see what it was, despite the danger. Despite the fear. She stumbled forward and got within ten feet and didn’t need to go any further. She saw all she needed to see.
Within the great glass jar was her sister’s teddy bear, floating in a mixture of thick brown and yellow fluid, the bear itself soaked in red, and floating with it were the hands that had hurt her for so many years, the mouth that had assailed her, and all of the parts of the person who had brought her here in the first place, had brought her to the darkness.

The girl smiled.

    It was a shaky, weak smile but the darkness was gone. The morning had finally come. The girl looked past the jar and into the darkness and saw something black move deep within the hole. And she smiled and said nothing. After a moment the girl turned and made her way slowly to the edge of the basement and climbed up and out. Mist covered the ground and it was as if she’d woken from sleep into a dream but she knew that this dream would be sweet, and she would wake from it safe, and that her sister would never fall asleep to tracing the highways of scars that ran across her body like she had. And it wasn’t a perfect ending. And it wasn’t a pain free road ahead. But it was a happy ending, and for once, she could greet her dreams with a smile.

- c

If ya liked this, check the links to your right for my books. 

As Darkness Spreads

 

 

 

 

It’s hard for someone like me not to love Halloween and this season. There is a feel to the world, a scent to the air that reminds you of being a kid. And that’s something we miss, as adults, that feeling of wonder that the world gives us. That first kiss, that first date, that first time driving on your own, the first place you move into when you leave home, and that first time trick or treating without a parent, those are things that we truly only experience once and ever after that initial wonder, that initial fear is gone and there’s something special about those times that we don’t get back. Sure, they are replaced, as the world always has something new to offer us if we are open to that, but that sense of wonder, that the world is a lot bigger, scarier place than we imagine, is something that we lose along the way. Monsters are replaced by serial killers. The fear of the dark is replaced by the fear of losing our job. And the sense that that just around the corner anything could be waiting for us is replaced by an apathy that whatever happens will happen. 

Halloween is about wonder, and about the primal fear we have of the dark and of things we cannot fathom. And of all of our holidays it is one of the few that still clings to the old ways, to the dark days, and to our unshakable appreciation of mortality. 

And honestly, it’s nice to get a little darkness before we hit the major holidays of the year and have all that cheery music and brightly colored lights. 

So, I offer you my gifts of the season. 

My dark little books that are sure to give you a chill as Halloween nears. 

A SHADOW OVER EVER

(Kindle)

 

RED DREAMS

(Kindle)

 

THIS BEAUTIFUL DARKNESS

(Kindle)

 

NOCHES DE CORAZONES NEGROS

(Kindle)

It’s That Time Again…Time For A Good Scare

Ohhh, you can feel it in the wind.

Can hear it in the rustle of the leaves.

You can even smell it in the air.

Halloween is creeping its way nearer and nearer and it’s a perfect time for stories that will chill your bones.

Well, you’ve come to the right place .

Do I ever have stories to send a shiver down your spine.

You can try my new novel, A SHADOW OVER EVER which is a tale of monsters and zombies and a man setting out to begrudgingly save the world. The book is big, dark, funny, and has all manner of things that go creep in the night.

Ebook?

Book-Book?

Or how about one of my short story collections?

These are books full to the binding of dark tales of things within the shadows of our rooms and of our hearts. The hungry things that clamor for blood.

RED DREAMS

From a dying young girl’s friendship with strange sisters who live in the woods, to an encounter with an ageless horror with an insatiable hunger, to the horrible truth behind a brother’s sudden disappearance, to the awkward realization of a haunted body part and so much more – these are stories that are born of the darkness and live on the borderlands of fear, these are Red Dreams.

Book

Ebook

THIS BEAUTIFUL DARKNESS

From the madness of a father showing his son how to kill, to the quiet desperation of a man trapped by love, to the horrible memories trapped within a haunted bed – these stories shine light into the places of the human condition rarely examined.

Book

Ebook

NOCHES CORAZONES DE NEGROS

These stories are my personal tribute to Halloween and all things dark. Some of the darkest stories I have ever written and written to make you squirm.

Book

Ebook

 

This is the perfect season for dark tales and grim delights. For things that go bump in the night. So share a scare, and get ready for the real fun of the season!

 

Showing Restraint

Sometimes too much is just too much.  There’s a line, an invisible thing that serves as our marker that states Here There Be Monsters.  And through our lives we’ll dance close to the edge on some things, and on others we’ll pull far, far away, and sometimes, sometimes we stride over it to stretch ourselves, test ourselves and to remind ourselves why it is we have the line the first place.  But there are lines, unseen but there that crisscross our lives and remind us of the things we believe in.  One of the things Art is meant to do is to blur that line, to intentionally cross it and dare you to cross as well.  Sometimes though, the line exists for a reason,  and those that cross it do so only because they see no better way to make a point that can many times be made more subtly.

In writing this my thoughts are on so many films that fill the horror genre (though I can honestly think of examples in comedy as well, and could go out from there if I wanted I suppose) that gleefully remove the lines of restraint in order to prove a point that they feel is important to prove.  Sometimes these are decisions that, while unsettling, prove out the point of the film – IRREVERSIBLE, LAST HOUSE ON THE LEFT, and SERBIAN FILM all fall under this category for me – films that have something to say and don’t want to say it, your mores and issues be damned.  These are movies (movies that I already know people debate me on regarding their artistic merits but so be it) that are but examples of what is out there, movies that have a vision and refused to be penned in by the rules of cinema and society.  Ah, but there are other movies that refused to follow the rules simply because they choose not to, and you know, so be it, that’s part of being an artist, making those choices, but I can’t help but feel like that with some restraint the message, if that be what it is, can be made with less blunt force trauma.

A notorious example of this, though one that, again can be debated pretty strongly, is the use of animal killings in the Italian cannibal films.  These films were the Italian’s answer to America’s growing realism and violence in their art house horror films and the zombie movies that were becoming so popular and so gory.  The cannibal movies were an answer to America’s darker turn in the horror genre and was a turn towards a hyper-realism that was influenced by the States and influenced the States as well.  These were hyper-gory, nasty stories about people playing with things they didn’t understand and opening doors best left closed.  Most are not much more than curiosities but there are a couple at least that are pretty darned good.  The problem I always had though was that the Italians wanted to up the ante in these movies and the intensity and so they used real animals for scenes where they were fed to other animals, or killed and slaughtered, and these are scenes that, truly, are unnecessary and needless.  Scenes that take you out of the story and out of the message and are there just for shock value.  They are so over the top that you lose the thread of the film for a few moments.  Even if you were into that sort of thing it would take you out of the narrative.  That’s just what happens.

Now if you consider that example turning the dial all the way up you can turn it down a little and get some of the gorier films out there (I think you can safely exclude the underground horror movement because this stuff is nasty on purpose and it speaks to and sells to a certain segment so let’s leave them off of the list because they know what they’re doing and they’re doing it on purpose so well, it is what it is) that push buttons and go far because they can.  You see a lot of this in the indie market and the up and coming filmmakers who are making a name for themselves.  They want to stand out and to appeal to the diehards and so they go that extra step, they take the governor off and go full bore and often leave the story behind.  I have seen it too many times where the film isn’t bad necessarily but the need to show graphic nudity, and graphic violence take center stage, the filmmakers forgetting that with an ounce of subtlety you can oftentimes make a lot darker of a point.  Sure, even the established directors do this, go further than they need when the path of restraint may have been more unnerving, and that’s a shame because the story should always be the master, and the film should serve the story completely.  And believe me, I know too well the lines that can be crossed as a writer.  You make a decision as to what you want the focus to be on, the moment or the overall piece.  What do you want people to leave the theater talking about with these films, or when they turn the movie off at home – one moment or the overall piece?   And that is what is lost.

And far be it for me to say that I don’t like some gory movies and gore, usually, is pretty needless and mostly excessive.  But there is a line there too, and there are definitely movies that I still am very fond of that forget themselves and go further than they need to and harm the story.  But in the end it all has to serve the story.  And there will be stories that are extreme and need to go to extremes for you to appreciate the gravity of what they are saying – I just watched a film like that actually, SNOWTOWN – but I am seeing far too many movies that eschew storytelling for shock and awe and for essentially trying to see how uncomfortable they can make the audience and in so doing losing the point of what they set out to even say.

c

www.meepsheep.com

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A Shadow Over Ever – an excerpt

Last night was an amazing night for me. I have wanted to see the release of my novel A Shadow Over Ever for a long, long time and it’s amazing to finally have it out.Here is a sample from deeper in the book, when things are established and the true danger is becoming apparent.

This scene is my little homage to DAWN OF THE DEAD and sets two of the characters, brothers Terrence and Cloot against a mall full of the living dead. The world is changing, you see, due to a war between Heaven and the first children of Eden and the war is taking its toll on all of existence.

(this is from an earlier draft of the book so don’t mind any grammar bumps, they’ve been fixed!)

    Fifteen minutes and about a hundred pounds of weaponry and ammo later the three of them, Terrence, Cloot, and Warren a.k.a. Flyboy, re-enter the fray. They are all three armed with as much as they can carry, which for Warren is the small squirrel rifle Cloot had been carrying, but are ready for a war, though Warren looks rather queasy under the bright mall lights. Before them await the dead, the smell of their rot filling the hallway, suffocating their minds. They must have heard the three inside the store arguing because as soon as they left Kill World they found themselves all but surround already by them. And as the three of them prepare for combat the dead approach slowly, tightening their circle and readying for an attack. The three men level their weapons. Beneath the sound of the shuffling they can hear the screams coming from the underwear store. The dead though, they make no sound. The only sound they make is the sound of their movement, which sounds like paper being rubbed together, and it is a chilling sound. And slowly do they approach, their limbs stiff, bodies frail, one two falling apart as they approach. And on seeing them Warren lets loose a pathetic whimper and retches onto himself, washing his overalls in orange, dropping the gun, and falling limply against the wall. Terrence and Cloot turn to him, eyes wide, pulled from their own fear by his falling, and suddenly they realize that it’s too late to do anything else but fight. And on come the dead, their arms reaching out, their bodies moving slowly, so slowly, their jaws opening wide in soundless moan. And behind them come the screams of the trapped people again. And within Terrence and Cloot lay trapped their screams.

  “Pick up that goddamn gun Flyboy, get it, get it goddammit…”

  “I…no, no…I can’t…”

  “You can and you will goddammit. Too late to run chicken now. You got no choice. None of us got any other choice. Fight or die, that’s the choice we gots. ‘Cause them fuckers there don’t care ‘bout you but to kill you. You wanna die motherfucker? If you do wanna die then we’ll do it for ‘em and save you the pain and get you outta our goddamn hair. ‘Cause if you ain’t gonna fight yer a liability to us and we ain’t gonna have that.”

  Terrence raises his rifle and aims it at Warren’s head; taking dead aim on his quivering face. Once, a few days ago, he would barely have done this as a joke but now, after the Calling Station and the baby, there is no turning back. Cloot looks away, uncertain what to do anymore, looking instead to the dead coming closer to them as he raises his own handgun.

  “No, don’t look away brother. You need to see this. This is war. This is…this is war…and in war there ain’t no thing as prisoners…close yer eyes Warren, just close yer eyes…”

Buy A Shadow Over Ever here.

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