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

Christmas Story 2012 – NAUGHTY

Just whipped this up, because I am sorta crazy like that. Hope you like it. Fresh out of the oven so please forgive any errors.

Naughty

He had only been outside for fifteen minutes but the tears against his cheeks were already frozen. His teeth were chattering and his hands burned from the cold but he refused to go back in. At least he wouldn’t go yet.

Naughty.

He was tired of it.

He was tired of the accusations, of the glares, of being told he was naughty because his mom couldn’t remember who his dad was. Why was that his problem? Why does that make him bad? Oh but they were more than happy to point it out though, weren’t they? It started with the whispers each Christmas when he was little then as he started to get older and his mom had trouble finding a job that stuck or a man that stuck around the whispers got louder, and now that his mom was gone a year, crushed under the weight of the monkey she’d been carrying on her back for so long they weren’t whisperers anymore, they were accusations. His aunt would hush them but she was a widow and to the boy’s family she was just shy of a whore. These were the old guard of the family. The bearers of the family history and all of its dead, which they dragged to every gathering as they huddled together over cold coffee and hot donuts, sometimes whispering, sometimes not, but always talking about how Things Had Changed and how So-and-So would never have stood for this or that, looking ridiculous with their socks and hose piled at their ankles. And they smoked, knowing that his aunt hated smoking, was allergic, but they refused to go outside. The Old Gods – angry and judgmental and pointing with gnarled fingers at the boy to tell him that the future ahead was black for bastards. And did the rest of the family say anything? No, they simply stared at the thick brown carpet or played with cooing babies or talked about football, or groused about this celebrity or that.

Naughty.

He had had enough.

He had been the one to find his mother, slumped forward in the bath, her head submerged and a bottle of pills beside her. He had been the one to try to call her back from the darkness. He had been the one to scream for help in an apartment building that had no ears and no eyes and no mouth. To people who knew nothing of the world outside of their apartments because that was safer. That was easier. But he had been the one to call the police. He had been the one to call Auntie Marie to tell her. And it was he who had to carry forward the knowledge that his mother had died on his thirteenth birthday.

He had had enough.

His Uncle Cort had pointed at him and nodded his head at him to illustrate how the Family Tree was dying and that so was the Nation under a black president and a Godless society.

He had had enough.

The boy stood up on hearing this, smoothed out the corduroy pants he’d worn to his mother’s funeral, the funeral these people had whispered their way through, and he walked slowly over to the group of eight, his family, and he smiled at them, and he looked to his left, where there was a vase that had come from the Old Country, a vase that had been in the family for one hundred and eight years, a vase his Aunt Marge brought to every family gathering because it held the ashes of the great-great-great someone or other’s, and he shot his arm out and in one casual motion he swept the vase and its contents onto the floor and his smiled grew wider.

“Oops.”

Aunt Marge screamed as the vase shattered and Uncle Cort shot up with his fists balled. The boy’s smiled grew wider still. Good. Let’s get this out then. Out in the open. Just as his uncle was about to come at him though his Auntie Marie rushed in to push the boy away and to try to comfort the Great Old Ones but there was no calming them, there was no easing their storm. They all glared at the boy and pointed at him and as he turned from them and grabbed his coat he heard one of them, out of things to say, out of words that would hurt, utter the word Naughty.

Yeah, he was naughty.

He was freezing. He had been out twenty minutes and had heard his aunt calling for him but he had no interest in the holiday anymore, or his family, or any of them but her. She was the only one that had been there for his mother and him. She was the only one that had ever cared. The boy, angry again and happy for its heat, spit into the light snow covering and clenched his chattering teeth. He was just deciding on what he should say when he went back in when he heard a howl from the woods behind his aunt’s house. It didn’t sound like a dog. Or the yowl of a cat. Or anything. Whatever it was, it was different and it gave him something to investigate, and a reason not to go in.

With the snow as light as it was it made it easy to sneak up on the woods and as soon as he made the treeline he quickly made his way forward, knowing these woods very well and able to slice through them with ease. As he went deeper in he saw a red glow and realized that was where the sound was coming from and his anger was replaced by nervousness and fear and he liked it. No. He loved it. In a few more moments he was near enough to see what was happening and when he did he was no longer cold, he was immediately hot because ahead of him came the warmth of a bonfire, the scent of fresh baked cookies, and a feeling of absolutely happiness which he had not felt since he was a little boy. In a small clearing ahead of him was a great red sleigh that glowed red despite its fading paint. There were ornate carvings in the body of the vehicle and the runners that it sat on were black and smoked. He knew immediately what he was looking at but couldn’t believe his eyes. He couldn’t. That didn’t stop him from staying though.

Beside the great sleigh was a tall man that had to be near to eight feet who was very large but had nothing of the belly that people claimed. The great man’s suit glowed in the same way that the sleigh did and the patterns in it seemed to writhe and move as the boy looked at it. The man was bent into the sleigh, one hand on its side and the other holding a long black staff that sizzled against the cold ground. The man was muttering to himself and suddenly he spun around, as if he heard something and the boy fell backwards to see the man’s face. His eyes were wild and glowed the same color as his coat and the sleigh there was a grin on his face that looked half mad. The man leaned forward and his long unkempt beard fell forward and brushed against the ground and as it touched it recoiled and pulled up. The man laughed and stood up straight again, the beard undulating and crawling up to the throat of the coat then slithered down inside. The man turned back to the sleigh and as he did small hands reached up from within and handed him a large brown sack. The man took it with one hand and leaned down into the sleigh and whispered something before grabbing the staff with his free hand and turning back towards the boy. The man threw the sack forward and the toys that the boy had expected to tumble out never came, though the sack did move, it did shift, and from out of it came that scream he had heard before. The boy took another step back just as Santa stepped towards the sack. He took his staff in two hands and held it above the sack and began chanting, shaking the staff every so often as emphasis for certain words. Over and over the boy noticed the word Krumpus come up and every time the word was spoken the howl would ring out again. When Santa was done he turned and threw the staff back towards the sleigh and several small gray hands reached up from inside and grabbed it out of the air and pulled it deep within. Santa turned back and reached into his pockets. From the right pocket came a black rock and from the other came piece of thick, yellowed paper. He leant down and nudged the bag back around to face him with his thick black boot. Once the opening was facing him he thrust his arms inside of it and when he pulled them out the two objects were gone. He stood up again and nodded to himself then stepped back. The bag began to shake and writhe and as it did the light from Santa’s sleigh and coat grew brighter and the boy realized for the first time that the great man cast no shadow.

Santa lifted his arms into the air and put his lips together and whistled tunelessly and as he did a black shape began pulling itself from the sack. It was a small, hunched form which looked as if it had been carved from wood, its body was so gnarled and twisted. Once it was free of the bag it put what must have been its hands onto the ground and it erupted upwards and was suddenly well over six feet tall. Its head looked similar to a wild dog’s and was all teeth, and as if to match its hands were all claws. Santa reached a mittened hand out and caressed the thing’s cheek and then handed it the staff. It took the staff and a dry laugh came from its mouth. The thing bent down and grabbed the sack and as it was standing back up its head snapped to the side and it was suddenly looking at the boy. From its mouth came the most awful sound ever, it was a voice that sounded like television static, only it came out with a word, one word –

“Naughty.”

It was on him in an instant, falling to all fours and leaping to the boy in three bounds and then it roughly snatched him up and lifted him towards its mouth. It stunk of gingerbread and fire. It opened its mouth and its jaw came free and the boy realized it could eat him whole and, glancing down at its pooched belly, it had probably done similar many times before. The boy felt its teeth scrape against his cheeks and couldn’t tell if it was tears or blood that dripped down its throat. Before it could drop him in though he heard a booming voice from far away say what sounded like ‘No’ and the boy was pulled out and dropped to the ground and dragged back to Santa. The boy was let loose at Santa’s feet and the thing growled and dropped to its haunches and tapped the staff on the ground again and again and again, which made the ground hiss in response.

“Get up.” Santa said.

The boy, on all fours, slowly stood up and faced the giant and marveled as he watched the beard pull itself free of the coat and reach forward to stroke his face. Santa loomed over him and he could feel the heat from him but as he spoke there was only the scent of cookies and the feel of cold air.

“Well, it seems you’ve been quite naughty this year Steven. Shame. You had a good run until tonight. Unfortunately, even without you what you did back at your Aunt’s just seeing us, well, that’s a problem. I see you’ve met my son, the Krumpus, well, you and he will get very close soon. You’ll disappear, Steven, disappear, but you won’t be dead, no, you’ll go where the bad children go, and that’s back to my workshop. The Krumpus will take you, inside his belly. And some day, well, some day maybe I will let you go, if I feel you’ve learned your lesson. Well, Merry Christmas…Krumpus…”

Santa looked over at his son and the Krumpus hissed its satisfaction and was on Steven in a moment. And he didn’t know what to say, he had nothing to say, did he, no. There was nothing to say except –

“Ok.”

Santa took pause,

“What? What did you say?”

“I, I said ‘OK.’ There’s nothing else to say, is there? You’re just like them, my family. You don’t KNOW me, you don’t know anything about me. You just judge me based on an incident. That’s what you do, isn’t it, judge people on incidents and you damn them, and you feed them to, to your son. Well, OK. O-KAY!”

And all he felt was rage now, burning in him like a million homes on fire and everything came out then and in his fury he began to cry and that made him madder still. The Krumpus recoiled three steps and hissed and Santa’s brow furrowed. He pulled one of his mittens off and put his hand out and caressed Steven’s cheek and it was the softest hand he had ever felt but it was gone as quickly as it had come and Santa brought it up to his mouth and licked his fingers, which were stained with blood from where the teeth of the Krumpus had cut the boy. He smacked his lips then put his mitten back on and looked at the boy a moment before a great smile bubbled up from beneath his beard and behind that a booming, joyous laugh.

“Well then, Steven. It seems Our game didn’t quite work with you. I am not sure if we’ve had anything call our bluff in, what is it, son, a hundred years at least. Well Steven, son of Gail, I wish you a Merry Christmas and offer you an explanation – This is indeed my son, and for one night a year, this night, he takes on this form to help me in my duties. You see, mine is not to punish the naughty but to reward the good, but there must be the threat of some punishment because that’s what humans seem to respond to, so, well, I bring my son. And my son finds all the naughty people and puts the most terrible fright into them. He doesn’t hurt them, not physically at least, and most change, most see the errors of their ways and they find a happy holiday (I serve many masters, and Christmas is just one night, and there are many people, believe me), but some, well, some are just blackened to the soul and there is little I can do. But I try. There are no bad little boys and girls at my workshop. No. The elves are there, my wonderful elves, and it is a wonderful place of laughter and smiles. Usually. But this night has grown hard on me, and I find little joy in having to punish people. But it is part of my duty, so I do it. I do it. But, well, perhaps you and I can help one another, Steven. Perhaps you can add a little jolly back to this holiday for me and I can add a little fairness to your life. What say you, boy?”

And just speaking, it was amazing, the great man was no longer fierce, was no longer a monster but was a great, jolly man that the boy felt as if he could sit and speak with for years.

“What do you mean?”

“It seems that you’re naughty, or so says your family. Interesting. I seem to recall quite a few scandalous stories about each of them. Curious how easily they forget. Let’s you and I and the Krumpus remind them, shall we? And when our work is done I would like it if you and your aunt would come spend the evening with me and my son and the day with us and our family tomorrow. Sometimes we need to be reminded what this holiday means, and you and your aunt are the people to do it. What say you.”

The boy was silent a moment then a wicked grin blossomed on his lips and he looked from Santa to the Krumpus, then back to Santa. He put his hand up and stroked his chin a moment and then let out a dry laugh and gave his response.

“Naughty.”

Santa let out a deep, rolling laugh and took Steven by one hand and the Krumpus by the other hand and the three of them started the long march back to the house and a party that was about to get a lot more interesting.

12.24.12

Like it? Buy some of my booksies!

MEEP!

I Remember Halloween

Halloween is over for another year and the pangs of regret follow in its heavy footsteps.

I wish I could have decorated more.

I wish I woulda had more candy for the kids.

I wish I woulda gone to a haunted house.

I wish I woulda written more.

I wish I woulda been more in the spirit than I am in.

Ah, well.

Last night reminded me though, despite the heavy clouds that have covered my heart this entire year, what a special holiday this is. And I realize that this holiday is like every other one and is subject to personal tastes, religious views, and other issues that keep it something that each person views differently. I love Halloween. I love it for the movies, for the costumes, for the trick or treating, for the music, for the decorations, for the scares, for the smell of burning leaves, and for the many, many memories of my parents taking me out, of me going out with friends, and of handing out candy at my parents’ house to kids so I could see what they were all dress up as.

For me though, that’s one of the things that makes Halloween special.

It has a religious bend, for those that follow that path, and it exists peacefully amidst the rest. The issue I have with Christmas, love it as much as I may, is that while it was begun as a religious holiday (as was Samhain/Hallowe’en), it has become more than that. And I love that. THAT tells me that it is a pretty special time. If a fella like me, who is not religious, can find reasons to rejoice and be merry around Christmas, then so be it. To me, that doesn’t mean the message of the holiday is lost at all, it means that it has transcended the religious beginnings. (And this could be a LONG post and debate getting into the ‘real’ origins of Christmas and the commercialization and all that but that’s not my interest so, no thanks). Christmas has changed with the times, with the people, with the culture, but it is still an important holiday.

So is Halloween.

Ah, but why?

For adults Halloween allows us to hearken back to a time when we had far less cares in our lives and could enjoy what it meant to be silly, to be ridiculous, and to remember what it was like to be a kid. Sure, we have fun as adults, but how often do we get to dress up as something we’re not, and act a fool? Sure, some people take it too far, but letting loose and letting go is healthy, in small doses.

We need it.

And we, as adults, need to remember what it was like to look at the world with wide eyes and a silly grin because as hard as life is, as tragic as it can be, it can also be deliriously funny and strange.

For kids, this is a day that is meant for them to be what they are – kids.

The problem with adults is that we want a world that’s safe for children. That’s a great sentiment but the issue is that we build this world as adults thinking for children, not as adults thinking with them. We tell them they can’t do this, or that, or this, or that, and then we market directly to them with sex, with violence, and with actions and language that isn’t appropriate for them. We build a world of shame for those that don’t have children, scolding them for not being more conscious about the kids (WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?) but then parents let their kids do and say things that are utterly ridiculous, wear things that are inappropriate, and treat them as if they do no wrong.

Fast fact – kids do wrong. Kids to a lot wrong, and many times willfully.

And guess what, they’re KIDS.

But if we’re going to go on and on about how impressionable they are and then inundate them with sex, violence, hate speech, selfishness, and greed and then wonder how it is that so many of them get into trouble.

Because we won’t let them be kids.

We TELL them how to be kids.

Or we bitterly shake our fists at them on nights like Halloween when most of us know darn well that we went out trick or treating ourselves and got into some of our own mischief that night.

For kids Halloween is a night for pretending. Pretending that monsters are loose, that there are creatures in the night, and that they really are the characters they are portraying. Kids wanna be scary, cute, funny, heroic, and the like. They want a night to just be kids. To pretend and be with friends and peers and to celebrate their imaginations. I saw so many kids that were STOKED to be out trick or treating. And some put more work into costumes than others, and some were shy and some were outspoken, and some were adults posing as kids so they could trick or treat and that’s FINE! Fun has no age. (And no, I am not going to get into any sort of creep-o factor here about adults trick or treating because it, again, is another story for another day). I trick or treated until I was nearly twenty because I loved it. I loved the fun of it, the thrill of it, and I miss it to this day.

And parents NEED to be safe with their kids, and need to be vigilant, but they also need to let kids be kids. We need to go out with them not because ‘bad people will snatch you up’ but because we want to be with them to share the night with them. We need to check their candy not because ‘someone might poison you’ but because we want to know what they got. We need to stop scaring children out of their childhood. Kids are pretty well aware of the monsters in the world, and it’s our job to protect them – from the monsters AND from fearing those monsters at every step.

Let kids be kids.

Let them have Halloween. They are not using the night to worship any deity, are not all going out pranking, and are not all greedy little monsters. They didn’t create Halloween, they just want to celebrate it. So let’s stop taking this night, this holiday away from them, let’s stop taking another thing away only to stretch Christmas even more (and that’s where you will get me on your anti-commercialization bus). Let the kids be scary, gross, silly, and let them have fun. We are taking so much from kids, only to replace it with something ‘safe’ and commercial, let’s not take this away from them too.

If a family is religious and strongly disagrees with this ‘pagan’ holiday (they need to look up the origins of their own holidays if that is the case) then so be it, but at least let the kids have some fun at a ‘harvest festival. We are creating a world where there can ONLY be Christmas, and every other holiday be damned. And then we wonder why kids are so greedy. It’s because we train them to be. Trick or Treating isn’t about greed, it’s about tradition. Sure, they want that candy, but why shame them for that? They didn’t create the tradition. But dollar candy and expensive toys that we consistently market to them and tell them they HAVE to have are worlds apart on Planet Greed.

There is so much to celebrate with Halloween. So much that we lose and give away. And it’s a shame. We are taking everything fun and silly away from kids in the name of Safety, and in the name of What They Need and are replacing these things with a paperhouse in a firestorm. We are killing imagination moment by moment with these kids and that’s what fuels innovation, and is what saves all of us, and I mean ALL of us, when things get their darkest in our lives.

Sometimes the best thing in the world, the most important thing is to be silly, to be weird, and to cut loose a little.

And maybe it’s time we stopped denying that.

All Hail Halloween.

- c

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)

Buy My Books For As Low As .99Cents!

Curious about my books?

Have a Kindle?

Well then, all of my books are available on Kindle (save for Back from Nothing but that’s WAY pre-Kindle so it’s only in paperback…from me).

Better -

All of my story collections are .99 cents. 

The novel is $5 but that’s a behemoth.

Best -

If you have Amazon Prime all of the books are free to ‘borrow’ on there.

Awesome. .

Here’s the link to find all of the books!

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.

Read more!

A Note To Friends And A Press Release – Hooray?

Eighteen years ago I began a journey.  It started with a short, weird little story about an angry man with a pumpkin on his head and it became the seed for what would eventually become my first and perhaps only novel.  This novel has been with me for a long time.  From that short story it grew to a second, then a third, then a final story.  This novel was never intended to be as such, but I fell in love with the cantankerous old man in it, and I fell in love with the world where he lived, bleak as it can be at times.  A SHADOW OVER EVER truly is one of the things I am very proud of because it took a long time to get it out, to get it to the world, but it was worth it.

On Friday, August 10^th I am celebrating the release of my novel by having a release party with my dear friend Charles Shaver, who will also be releasing books that night.  This is my way to celebrate not just this book, but all of the books, and the long journey it took to get them out.  I will have my art and books on display and for sale but more than that I will have stories and art dating back to when I was still just a kid in the ’80s and ‘90s so we can see the weird little path that this and all my stories took.

This night isn’t about me, about my book, but about you, all of you.  Because without the friendship and encouragement of all of you there would be no art, no stories, and certainly no books.

There will be snacks, and music, and lots of awesome on hand on August 10^th from 6 – 9pm right downtown in Flint at 625 S. Saginaw St., and I really hope you can make it.

https://www.facebook.com/events/233371616781885/

Thanks,

Chris R.

To order A SHADOW OVER EVER

Book – http://www.amazon.com/A-Shadow-Over-Ever-ebook/dp/B008QQ60Z4/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1343655762&sr=8-2&keywords=a+shadow+over+ever

Kindle - https://www.createspace.com/3942067

On Friday, August 10^th, Flint author Chris Ringler will release his first novel, A SHADOW OVER EVER.  This novel is the story of the end of the world and the angry man that must risk everything he stands for to try to stop it from happening.  The living dead, old gods, the first Children of Eden, and a healthy helping of hillbillies are all part of this dark epic.  This is Chris Ringler’s seventh book and first novel and will be released during

On Friday, August 10^th join author and artist Chris Ringler for the release of his newest book, A SHADOW OVER EVER.  This night will see the release of night just Mr. Ringler’s book but the release of local author and filmmaker Charles Shaver’s newest book as well.  At their event – A Declaration of Co-Dependence – they will have their newest offerings on hand as well as their past releases and a collection of their art they shall have displayed for this event.  This is a free event open to the public during the Downtown Flint Art Walk and will be held at 625 S. Saginaw St., Flint, MI from 6 – 9pm.

Chris Ringler is the author of seven books that range from fairy tales for all ages to dark fiction for only the strong of heart. Chris has been published in BARE BONE and CTHULHU SEX MAGAZINE, received Honorable Mention in THE YEAR’S BEST FANTASY AND HORROR twice, was voted Best in Blood on HORRORADDICTS.COM, and has been working on his writing and art.

Chris is a writer, artist, weirdo, and creator of the Flint Horror Convention.

A SHADOW OVER EVER

https://www.createspace.com/3942067

A Declaration of Co-Dependence

Friday, August 10^th

6 – 9pm

625 S. Saginaw St., Flint, MI, 48502

Free.

For more info please contact Chris Ringler

grimringler@gmail.com