THE MEEP SHEEP available for order NOW!

I am very proud to announce the release of my newest book – THE MEEP SHEEP, which is a novel told in short story form about the magic and wonder found in the Kingdom of Man. This has been a total labor of love that started over six years ago and which has lead to this.

I am lucky to all of the friends that inspired the book and its characters, the people who bought the chap book of Messy and the Meep Sheep, the friends, my family, and all my loved ones who helped keep me going through all of this and especially to my girlfriend Amanda, who laid the book out and believed in me and the book every step of the way.

THE MEEP SHEEP is available for $12 right now.

Appetizers – a story

This was a story I wrote for a friend of mine and Amanda’s. It was her birthday and this was my gift. It changed a LOT along the way, but I am pretty happy with how it came together.

Appetizers

She shouldn’t be out this far, out this late, and certainly not alone. She knew better. Only, sometimes she didn’t. Not really. She had been coming out here, into the heart of the forest, for the past six months; coming out for a late night picnic once a month to toast the things that were, could be, and would never come to pass. Her family traveled a lot and this was one place she could feel at home and at peace. She had been coming here since she had quit college, figuring this was as good a place as any to drown her sorrows with some booze and black thoughts. She had since moved on with her life, working jobs she didn’t love but could live with and working on the comic she’d been drawing since she was thirteen and hoping for a break. Thirteen seemed like a long time ago now, too long to still be doing it how she was doing it that was for sure, but here, under the stars, and beneath a full moon, everything seemed possible. Everything seemed real.

Even the incredible.

She took a last drink of her fifth beer then dropped it back into the pack to grab the last bottle and open it. Once opened, she placed the beer beside her and picked her newest issue up again, the familiar warmth that came when she got another one together filling her. This was the one, this was it – if this one didn’t get her some notice then it really was time to do like so many of her peers said and to just let it go. It was never as easy as that though. Never that easy to let go of the things you loved once you had them in hand. But maybe it was time to let go and move on. Whatever that meant.

She lay the book down onto her blanket and grabbed some crackers and cheese from the basket with her food and started putting the two together. There was a chill in the air and she shivered against it and wished she had more beer or something harder. Just as she was considering this though there was a distant sound of branches breaking. The young woman lay the food down and turned her attention to the trees.

The night was still, the sound of night creatures having died down and even the bugs suddenly silent. She breathed shallowly and strained to hear what sounds she could as her heart raced. The sound came again, as if someone was roaming the woods nearby, but trying to be quiet. The young woman pulled her shoes back on and cursed herself for having worn a skirt. If it came to running she wasn’t going to get very far in it that much was certain and it was good sense then that she had held to her grandmother’s credo and had worn panties. If it came to it she could ditch the skirt and make a run for it in her underwear. She was years removed from track, a lot of years removed, but she hadn’t stopped running, so she had a chance. She got herself into a crouching position and strained to listen more closely. It was quiet again but she could hear, if she really concentrated, and heard the faint sound of something moving not far from her. How had she let this happen? She was usually so conscious of her surroundings, heck, overly conscious if truth be told, yet she had zoned out and something had gotten close. She hoped it was just the beer. She reached into the basket and grabbed a napkin that held something heavy and pulled it free and laid it in front of her as she checked her surroundings. Her picnic area was in a clearing deep in the woods, far enough away from the campers, drunks, and horny teens that filled these woods for her to have a meal in peace. The trees here were taller, and wider, and the grass was thicker and softer. Beyond the clearing, her clearing as she thought of it, the trees were smaller and closer together and there were deadfalls and marshy areas. The woods, as she had found the first time she had come out here, were dangerous, and had she not gotten lucky that time, she might not be here to be in danger again. Back then she had found a marshy area while wandering around at night and had fallen in and had been very lucky to get free.

More movement.

Whatever it was out there, it was getting either impatient or bold. She was patient though, and patience would win out tonight. She glanced in the direction of where the sound had come from and thought she saw darkness against the shadows, something moving from place to place, and each moment inching closer. She took her attention away from what was before her and looked to the back of the clearing and saw the path that lead deeper into the woods and toward the marshes and beyond those to the road. It was about a mile to the road if she went that way but the marsh would slow her down. She looked beside her and saw the path she had happened on not that long ago – a small path that some kids must have used years earlier and which was overgrown but still visible. This path would take her near to whatever was out there but would also take her toward the camp grounds, which were two miles away from the road but which were only a half mile away themselves. It was the more dangerous but the smarter path. She grabbed up the napkin with one hand and then reached over and grabbed some food from the basket and threw it towards the far path, where it landed noisily. As soon as it landed she moved, crouch-walking as she went, onto the nearer path and made her way deep enough to be hidden. Whatever was in the brush grew impatient and rushed through the trees and into the clearing, where it knocked over her camping lantern and the small stove she had brought with her. She had caught sight of a dark shape and fur but lost those when the lantern was knocked over. The air became suddenly warmer with the stranger here and there was a scent of wet fur. She waited a moment and heard the stranger head down the far path and as soon as she heard its footsteps retreating she began moving quickly away. She blessed the stars that she hadn’t had to remove her skirt as the path opened and cleared the further along it she got until it was wide enough for her to run unabated. As she ran the sounds of the forest returned and she was thankful for that as well.

A drunk.

Or a kid.

Someone had been out there far enough to see her fire, had gotten nosy, and she had gotten scared for good reason. You couldn’t be too careful out this far, not when there were animals that walked on four or two legs roaming the night.

She saw light ahead and sprinted as fast as she could. She slowed as she neared, not wanting to look like an idiot kid, scared of shadows but as soon when she entered the camp. Everywhere she looked there were beer cans, and sitting beside the fire was a can of kerosene, and beside the kerosene sat an old woman who was deep asleep. The young woman smiled at the scene and cursed her luck at the same time. She was safe, just so long as that kerosene didn’t blow. She walked into the circle of light from the campfire and changed hands that the napkin and its contents were in and made her way to the old lady. From the darkness of the camper came a voice.

“Shhh, now, don’t go wakin’ her, girl, no maam. She had a long day, long day and longer night. You let her sleep. Now what are you doin’ creepin’ around out here in the dark, little girl?”

“Oh, sorry to startle you mister. I just, I uh, I got lost out here and was hopin’, well I was hopin’ you could point me to the road. Pretty dumb, huh?” She hefted the napkin to the other hand again.

“Well, no maam, it ain’t that dumb at all, really. Dangerous place for a young girl, and worse than that, it’s a dangerous night with a moon like that and all.” The man smiled and his smile was all teeth. The girl took the napkin in both hands and began slipping the covering free as she took a step backward toward the shadow and away from the light.

As soon as she was out of the circle of light that came from the fire she became aware of the woods again, and that they were silent and full of the scent of wet fur again.

They weren’t alone.

The girl spun around and saw only trees and darkness, though the scent of fur was strong. She squinted her eyes but couldn’t make out anything. She was just wondering what to do next when a sound from behind her caught her attention again. She turned and the fire was out in the camp and only the dim red light of the embers remained. The man was on his knees, bent over and cowering as something held him down, its jaws wide. The thing was at least eight feet tall and stood on its hind legs, its entire body covered in thick, matted fur that was just a shade lighter than the night. The thing’s head looked like it was made up of only a mouth, which was wide, its head thrown back in a silent howl. The thing leaned forward and pulled the man up easily, lifting him to his feet then off them as the man writhed against his captor. The thing seemed to smile at the young woman, its green eyes glowing as it stepped toward her. It was mocking her. The man was a pawn. It was she that it wanted. The thing grabbed the man with both hands, one on his head, the other on his throat, and brought him up to its mouth. The thing opened its jaws and lowered its head so that its mouth hung over the man’s prone throat and as it watched her, its smile broadened.

And hers began.

The young woman’s smile seemed to light the dark camp as she stepped forward and her boldness and lack of fear pushed the wolf back a step. It lowered its prey and tilted its head to the side. She kept coming, dropping the napkin and holding her prize to her side as she came. As she neared it the wolf whimpered. It wasn’t used to this. She should be screaming, or running, or begging, but not approaching. Never that. Still she came. And as she neared it the wolf’s scent filled her nostrils and turned her stomach. It wasn’t just wet furs she smelled but its recent diet, and that whatever it had been eating lately wasn’t agreeing with it. She finally came to a stop in the center of the camp, beside the fading embers and let her smile burn bright.

The wolf was enraged.

How dare this meat mock it? How dare it not lie down and play dead.

The wolf dropped the man and snarled as it stepped forward, its claws clicking as its paws opened and closed, opened and closed. It leaned towards her and growled, long runners of drool dripping from its teeth as it did. It crouched down and lowered its shoulders, preparing to leap the final ten feet. It was done playing with this meat. It was time to eat.

The young woman, seeing this, only laughed and wagged her finger at it, which sent a chill down the wolf’s spine and stopped it cold.

“You, my friend, are in desperate need of a bath. You stink.”

The wolf tipped its head to the side, stunned at what she had said but in another instant its chest was on fire and that inner flame spread quickly to its arms, legs, and head. It let out a howling scream and fell to its knees as black blood began to pour from its mouth and nostrils. The wolf clutched at its chest and saw that the fur was receding and felt its body shrinking. It tried to howl but out came an all too human whimper. It fell forward and shivered against the cold night that the fire burning in its chest could not fight. The wolf, now a teenage boy, whimpered and reached out for the woman who had shot him as she approached. All he wanted was something, some sign that his passing would be mourned but all she had for him was disgust as she walked past him and toward the old man. The boy died then, naked and alone, and mourned by none.

“GAH! This is getting old. I mean really? Is that all that is out there, these stupid boys and their stupid power trips?” The young woman, feeling like a teenager herself, sat heavily into the camping chair as her father dusted himself off.

“Now, now, now honey. This is just another lost boy, like a hundred others we’ve met on the way. You know how it is – these kid are turned and it’s scary at first but in time it becomes better than any video game or sport they ever played. They get so caught up in being the wolf that they forget to be the person beneath. Hell, you were like that at first too.”

“I was not. Well, not for long at least.” She laughed and her father joined her as her mother sang a song of snores from her own chair.

“You were born into this my dear and taught not to worship the wolf and forget the woman, but to honor and serve both. These dumb kids are brought up on movies and games and if they don’t get themselves killed in the first week then they become these ridiculous movie monsters. But I promise you honey, out there somewhere is a man that is gonna sweep you off your feet and who will fit into our pack. I promise.”

The girl turned to her father and he ruffled her long hair as she smiled weakly.

“You really promise?”

“I sure do. I am guessing though that you can’t keep looking in the woods for Mr. Right though. Just a thought. Anyway, let’s clean this mess up and get packed up and get out of here. You go get your stuff and I’ll take care of this big galoot.”

The young woman watched as her father easily lifted the teen boy and hefted him over his shoulder and dropped him into the fire. He knew she didn’t like this part of it, the burning of the body, but knew too that it had to be done. A silver bullet would kill the wolf, but the human could live through it, though live through it as a sort of ghost, the body alive but the soul dead, the body simply moving about without guidance and always getting into trouble. No, the body had to be burned, killed, but it wasn’t something she enjoyed. She trudged back into the forest and hefted the gun, a present from her uncle the year earlier. Hunters, he had told her, need their gun and this is yours. She was tired of being a hunter though, hunting down rogue wolves who didn’t belong to a pack and who lived only to kill. She wanted more. She wanted a mate. She went back to her picnic and packed everything up and made her way back to her parents.

As she neared she was happy to see that the body was gone, consumed by an inferno that raged ten feet into the air. Mother was still deep asleep but dad had packed everything else up and was sitting with a beer beside the fire, watching to make sure it didn’t get out of hand. Seeing his daughter he smiled and stood, and she headed for him.

“I nearly forgot – a little bird tells me that your new comic is done, is that true”

She blushed and shrugged. She was always nervous when it came to the comic, the one thing that felt so personal that she couldn’t help but be shy about it.

“Well, what if I told you I booked you a table at the comic convention in the city?”

“WHHHHAT? Are you kidding me?”

She looked at her father with sheer amazement.

“Well, now, I mean, we gotta get some more of your comics printed up first, but yeah, I booked it last week. Now, I expect you to pay me back for it but, I figure after you get a contract at the convention that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Whatever dad. It doesn’t work that way. Dork.”

“Well, maybe and maybe not but if nothing else, it’ll be a good place to meet people.” Her dad winked at her in the shifting firelight.

“I don’t think there are a lot of wolf-boys at these things dad, just smelly, smelly nerds.”

“Baby, I think you have had enough wolf-boys, it’s time for a wolf-man!”

“Oh my god, you are ridiculous, let’s wake mom and get out of here.”

Father and daughter were laughing as they finished packing the camper and put out the fire, the body in it all but ash now. It took a few minutes but they managed to wake mother and filled her in on the night’s fun she had missed as they moved the camper away from their camp and into the darkness, and back on the road, where their pack belonged.

Like it? Check out my book This  Beautiful Darkness, it’s only ten bucks!

Novel Questions…

    OK, I am going to admit something that feels a little embarrassing but well, it is the truth – I don’t know if The Meep Sheep is a novel or not. You see, we all know what a novel is as far as length and all but, well, what if it’s a short story collection where the stories are all so inter-connected that it forms one narrative? That is what The Meep Sheep is, a novel or short stories, or short stories that are novel length.

Or something.

    I honestly cannot tell you which it is. I always looked at these as short stories and this as a collection because I put it all together story by story by story, not really thinking of it all as a larger work. As the day comes closer to when the book will be released though I am realizing that this may not just be a story collection but may be a novel comprised of short stories. I am not really sure.

It’s a quandary, to be sure.

In either case, you will get the chance to tell me what you think in May when the book is released ‘cause I sure don’t know.

c

Presence – a holiday story

Presence

She was the last to arrive and she knew it. She was always last, every year, no matter what she did, how she did it, or when. She could get up earlier, could eat breakfast faster, could unwrap things without taking them out of their packaging but it never mattered – she would always be last. It was just something the other two girls could count on, and, she supposed, that was how it was meant to be. She smiled and pulled the coat up tighter against her chin and wiggled her behind to test for the weight of the backpack she wore and that it was still there.

The snow, which had been but a whisper when she awoke was now a scream and it was hard to see where she was going, the sidewalk lost beneath the powder. Luckily she had remembered her hat or her long black hair would be flying in the wind behind her, a great and tangled sea creature looking for prey. It was still early, even for a holiday, so most of the street was still asleep, or buried in foot high wrapping paper. Her parents hadn’t been keen on getting up at six in the morning today but it was only once a year and she was an only child so, it wasn’t that bad. Worth it, they whispered, when they saw how happy she was when she opened her presents. And she was happy too, to spend time with them on that most special of mornings, but as much as she enjoyed the gifts, and the lights, and her family, and everything else, she loved her time with her best friends the most. The girls. Her smile, which had almost blown out from the wind, ignited again and she hurried her pace.

She was still ten blocks away from the bridge when Mrs. Kendricks and Gunter, her German Sheppard moseyed by her and honked. Mrs. Kendricks was the only person on the streets though and, as heavy as the snow was coming down, it wasn’t surprising. It had seemed as if the trip took far longer than usual but she made it to the end of the sidewalk and let out a long sigh as she looked ahead and saw the hill, now covered in heavy, wet snow, but as soon as she took the hill her journey would be done and she’d be at the bridge. She could have cut through a couple yards and picked up the road from there and taken that to the bridge but this was a faster route, to her at least, and she liked the way the houses looked all covered with snow. She looked up at the steep incline that faced her and took a deep breath and jumped off the curb that encircled the turn around where her street ended and started trudging up the hill. Amy lifted her head after a few steps up the hill and clapped her hands together and let out a laugh that echoed against the snow – just beyond where she stood was a path that had been made into the snow, a path that lead over the hill and surely to the bridge. The girls strike again! Yes, she was late, but it had its advantages sometimes.

Heartened by the friendship of the other girls, Amy pushed forward through the snow, her feet starting to get soaked through the boots and the bottom of her dress dampening as well. The wind kicked up but within feet she was on the small trail and laughed her way up the hill. As soon as she was atop the hill she saw the smoke from the small fire that Kara and Paula had going and, as she hurried her pace, she knew she’d catch the smell of coffee brewing the closer she got. She wasn’t wrong, though what she caught was the smell of chocolate and her stomach gurgled its approval. She gave a call and Kara and Paula, huddled over their small fire beneath the bridge, stood and waved at Amy as she approached. As soon as they caught sight of Amy both girls laughed until tears were running down their cheeks, forcing color into Amy’s face until she realized that they were laughing because they too were a bit overdressed for a simple meeting under a bridge. Amy loved this time of year above all others. This was their time. This was for the girls. But each year was hard, and even beneath her smile there was the trepidation that this day brought with it hand in hand. Things were not as hard for Amy though as this wasn’t her year, but it didn’t make the trek any easier, or the day. Much as she loved this day, she hated it too, though secretly.

“Well, aren’t we all a little fancy today?” Kara, the oldest of the three, asked.

Amy smiled.

“Well, I figured it was Christmas and all.”

Paula nudged Kara.

“Yeah, we were just trying to impress you, ya know.”

“Yeah, what she said!” Said Kara.

“And I was trying to impress the two of you, so I guess we’re all even, huh?”

All three girls nodded to one another and Kara put a hand out to Amy to help her down the decline and beneath the bridge. The girls had been coming to the bridge since the summer Kara had moved to town, and Amy and Paula had heard of the place years before that. A couple, she pregnant and he the suspected father, had killed themselves beneath the bridge, on the other side of the river. Some said the river and this area were haunted now but the girls had always felt safe here. They had always felt peace. Above them, around them there was so much chaos, so much change, and here there was only the three of them and nothing else. Here time froze and it was wonderful.

Amy took a seat on the blanket Paula’s great-grandmother had made her when she was still a baby and she felt the cold as soon as she was down so she moved to a crouching position like the other two were in and took off her backpack. Kara had her oversized winter coat on, a hand-me-down from her sister Emily, who had inherited it from their eldest sister Mary, who was off at college now. Paula had her dad’s Army coat on, the hole in the shoulder, where his father had been shot, always calling your eye to it, no matter how many times you’ve looked. Both girls looked ridiculous in their shabby coats and special occasion skirts but Amy thought they were beautiful. She suddenly wished she’d brought her camera.

“Amy, any smokes?”

Amy shook her head.

“Rats. I need a smoke. Mary and her newest boyfriend are in town and Emily is acting like an utter ‘tard and god, mom and dad are barely able to control their annual holiday divorce talks.”

“Sorry Kara. My dad is trying to give up again, you know, for the new year and junk, so there aren’t any around now.” Amy shrugged.

“It’s for the best, Amy. Dearest Kara needs to stop smoking too. Not good for the skin, ya know. I mean, it says it in all the magazines. Anyway, I have hot chocolate – what could be better? Got some from Ricky yesterday. Isn’t he the sweetest?”

Kara and Amy giggled. Ricky was an older boy that Paula had a crush on that bordered obsession but it seemed to be paying off after all those months of work. The girls had to admit though, he was pretty cute.

“Well then, don’t tease the girl, pour her a glass of the cocoa – harlot.”

All three girls doubled over with laughter and it was only that which kept them warm as the temperatures dipped even lower and the wind picked up again. Once in a while a car or truck would pass overhead and shake the bridge and startle the girls into laughter again. After the three had had their cocoa they exchanged stories of their Christmas mornings their minds turned to what they were there to do. The girls cleaned up the mess from the cocoa and moved the blanket to the edge beneath the bridge and were hanging their feet over the small cliff that lead down to the water below. The river was a lie, looking peaceful and easy when all three girls knew that if any of them fell into it they’d be dead before they hit the bend a quarter mile upstream. The river, its edges crowned in ice, was a liar, and each girl knew well the stories that supported this, the most recent involving an old man who had gone after his dog into the water, hoping to save it but losing himself in the bargain. Both man and dog appeared on the banks of the river three weeks later, the man’s arms around the dog and both looking peaceful in death.

Amy shivered and the other two girls did as well, as if from the same thoughts.

Amy looked at Kara in her oversized coat and pink dress and the big winter boots beneath and she was beautiful. She was beautiful because she didn’t know it yet. Her face was just starting a long war with acne and her hair showed the ravages of hard water but it was there, beneath the surface and waiting to bloom. Amy turned her eyes to Paula, who had the bag she had brought with her open and was pulling something free of it. Paula, the youngest of them. Paula with the sad, dark eyes. Paula who was more interested in boys than anything else, even herself. Amy felt her eyes getting wet and made a loud, awkward cough and wiped her face, sad but not sure why. It just felt like with every passing year the three of them were getting further and further out to sea and farther away from one another. Amy’s chest started hurting and her eyes welled again.

“I think it’s time. Are we ready?” Paula asked.

Amy and Kara looked at one another, then to Paula and nodded.

None of them likes this part of them coming here but this was why they were here. This was why they came here every Christmas. They were here because someone had to do this.

They had to do this.

Every year it was a different girl and this year was Kara’s year. It was her time.

Things turned suddenly serious.

“I, Paula, of this tribe of three, give this tool to Kara – may she wield it well and true.”

Paula handed Kara an old hammer the girls had found along the side of the road the summer before they’d started coming here, its body stained with a half dozen colors of paint and its head rusted and bent. For some reason Amy had picked the hammer up that July day and had held onto it, as if knowing what it might become to them. Kara took the hammer and she and Paula bowed their heads to one another and leaned forward and kissed one another upon the cheek. Paula raised the hammer to her brow, then brought it down and kissed it softly.

“To the past, to the present, and to the future of all do I offer this simple sacrifice.”

Paula hefted the hammer up high and pulled her backpack so that it was beside her. The three of them, legs hanging over the cliff and against the cold dirt, were still despite the cold, their breath coming in small puffs. Paula pulled a beautiful crystal fairy from the bag and it took everything she had for Amy not to let out a gasp. Paula had wanted that fairy since she first saw it at the mall back in April and now here it was in her hand and being offered to the altar. Paula had tried all summer to save up enough money to buy the fairy but hadn’t been able to do it, always forgetting she was saving money until she had spent it all. She had asked for it for Christmas but hadn’t expected it, not really. It was a shock to see it, and worse, to see it here.

Amy’s heart sank.

She knew all too well what Paula was going through, as did Kara. This was their fourth year doing this and each year there was a sacrifice, and it was never easy; it wasn’t easy but it must be done.

Kara laid a black brick in Paula’s lap and nodded. The brick was the altar and had been found by Kara beneath the bridge, on the side where the couple had killed themselves. Paula laid the small figure on the brick and took the hammer and closed her eyes. This happened every year and Amy wondered when it happen that the girl wouldn’t be able to go through with it. This wasn’t that day though and Paula took a deep breath, took the hammer in both hands and brought it down and shattered it. Paula let out a sob and closed her eyes against the tears. With eyes closed Paula swept the remnants of the figure away with a mitten and Amy watched as the particles mixed with the falling snow and was lost to the river below. Paula let out another sob and Amy knew that Kara, like she, wanted nothing more than to comfort their friend but this was what they were here to do. This was the sacrifice.

“May this small token pay our way into tomorrow. May it pay for that which we did yesterday. May it keep us safe this in this moment.”

Paula took in a deep breath and slowly let it out and then handed the brick and hammer to Amy.

“I yield these tools to Amy to keep, to watch over, and to protect. May they be well protected and safe. May this next year be a boon to us all.” Having said the words, she released the hammer and brick and Amy took them, nodded, then put them away into the backpack.

“What, what did you give the sacrifice to? I mean, if you don’t mind.”

Amy held her breath. They never, never spoke of what the sacrifice was to, whether the past, present, or future. It was between the person making the sacrifice and whatever they made it to. There was a quiet moment and as the three girls sat a truck rumbled overhead and startled a squeal from them. Finally Paula looked up from the river and at Kara.

“The baby. I gave the sacrifice to the baby. For what it will never have. For what it will never know.”

All three girls looked across the river to the other side of the bridge where there was a small, modest memorial that the girls had built for the unborn child that had died when its parents had killed themselves. Kara and Amy nodded in silent agreement and that was all that needed to be said. Amy felt tears again, something she felt often under this bridge. She remembered coming here in the fall with Kendall Graham, a boy in her grade who had moved away but was in town to see his sister, who was getting married. She had brought him down here and they had kissed and afterward she had cried for hours. Cried at having betrayed their secret place, and having betrayed her friends, and having betrayed the baby that never was.

She thought of what she had in her bag, of the doll she had brought, the last doll she would ever have, and what would be her sacrifice this year. She had begged for it from her mother for weeks and her mother had finally given in and she had gotten it that morning. It was beautiful. A little porcelain thing that was hand painted and had a stunning velvet dress on. She loved it at first sight. She loved it but she owed a debt.

She owed a sacrifice.

She didn’t know why – why they had started this tradition, and why she felt the need to do one this year, on an off year for her – but she knew it was right.

It was right.

She would wait for the girls to leave before she came back, and would sacrifice the doll to the child across the river.

For the girls.

For herself.

For the past, present, and future.

Because it was right.

There was more silence and the snow, which had finally stopped, blew in on them and extinguished the fire. Paula suddenly let out a large burp that echoed beneath the bridge and forced laughter from all three girls and suddenly it was ok again. The ceremony was over. The girls bundled up again, folded up the blanket, made sure the fire was out, and started out for their homes again. They made small talk about what they were all doing for New Year’s, who they thought was cute at school, and what day they wanted to go to the mall to spend their Christmas money.

It was good again.

And while they were slipping further out to sea with every day, for now they were friends. The best of friends. There was that. There was this.

And Amy smiled, though beneath it she knew that she would return later, alone, and would continue to return every year at this time, with or without the other girls. Would return because sacrifices must be made.

Prices must be paid for the things we had, have, and want.

Because even if we ignore them, prices must be paid.

There must be sacrifices

It was was right.

For the past, for the present, and for the future.

This Beautiful Darkness…

If you are interested in checking my short story collection This Beautiful Darkness out you can find it on my own Create Space site  for ten dollars -

https://www.createspace.com/3386414

You can find the book through Amazon.com as well, where you can download an e-book.

(thanks to David K. Ewen for having me on his show tonight! -

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/ewenprime)

This Beautiful Darkness

I am very, very proud to announce the upcoming release of a new short story collection entitled This Beautiful Darkness. It is being proofed right now then will be up for sale on Amazon. The book will be ten dollars and features thirteen stories. All stories, interior pictures, and the cover is by me. The layout was done by my badass girlfriend Amanda.

I am more excited than words can really capture.

Cover and back cover images below. More info to come.

Alexander and the Monsters

Alexander and the Monsters

The boy woke up with a start, heart racing and his forehead sweaty and knew he was not alone in the room. He looked out into the darkness and saw two small pinpoints of orange light that hovered not far from him and he let out a sob. A tear slid down his face, unseen but sensed and a hand, large and soft, reached out and wiped the tear away and the conversation started back from where it had been left a day earlier.

“But…why? Why do you have to go away? Why do you have to hide?” Asked the boy, trying but failing to keep his voice from quivering.

There came a pause then a long sigh that moved the covers on the bed, and then came the voice, deep and resonating other times but now low and gentle –

“Because they don’t want us here, Henry. They have never wanted us here.”

“Who never wanted you here?”

Another sigh, another pause –

“The adults.”

A sob broke out and filled the dark room. A small, frail hand reached out for the course, furry one but found only cold, empty air. Another sob. The boy sat up quickly and swung his arms around in great arcs -

“Alexander, Alex…ander? Are you, are you still here?”

There was no response and the pinpoints of light were gone. Henry dropped his hands to the bed and his shoulders slumped forward.

He whispered -

“Alexander?”

The air was still another moment then it heated and the orange eyes returned and with it the voice, though more far away.

“I am here, cub, but not for long. Not for long at all. I am not meant for this place. I no longer belong here. I am…no longer needed.”

The boy reached out blindly for the monster, his small body shuddering under the pressure of his heartbreak and the illness that had brought him to this cold, lonely place.

“But I need you Alexander, I need you.”

The boy broke into coughs that doubled him over and splattered his hands, arms, and bedding with fresh blood.

The boy swooned, weakened, and began to lean towards the edge of the bed, the side where the steel rails were down. Henry tried to catch the bedding with his hands but it slipped through them and his vision started to flicker. Just as he lost the last of his strength and was about to fall from the bed he felt strong, soft arms encircle him, steady him, and lay him back gently. The orange eyes are brighter now, wider, and ringed with wild fire that seems to warm the air and the breath that falls on the boy.

“And I need you, cub. I will never abandon you. No matter the danger, no matter what they say. I will remain with you. Somehow. But you have to fight, fight what is eating away inside you. I will help you, but you have to be the one to defeat it. You have to be strong. No matter what happens.”

Suddenly an alarm sounded from the wall behind the monster and the boy rose off the bed.

“Run, Alexander, run…”

“I won’t. We have run long enough.”

The door swung inward and the room was filled with the harsh, cold light of the hospital corridor. Henry clamped down onto Alexander’s arm as he realized what was happening. Three guards and a nurse rushed in to see how Henry was doing and, seeing the monster, the guards changed direction and went after it. Henry spun towards Alexander as the guards neared him but it was too late, the light had already hit the monster and he was fading quickly, his furry outline, marked with one ear always folded down, and his eyes were all that remained.

“ALEXANDER!”

The shadow raised a paw to the boy then was gone. Gone to wherever it was that monsters were banished to, whatever dark, lonely world where there were no humans; where there were no children.

One of the guards let out a scream at the sight of the disappearing form and dropped his weapon. In a moment it was gone completely and in another so was the darkness.

And laying in an adult’s bed, in an adult’s wing of a hospital, and with an adult’s disease lay Henry, a very little boy, who had no words for what he felt, but had a name for what had taken it away before and it was that name he whispered to the unrelenting light – Alexander.

Con Artist

It’s a peculiar thing indeed to find yourself sitting behind a table selling things you worked on, put your heart into, and are now hoping that someone is going to validate you by buying something.
What a weird damned sorta thing that is.

It’s a thin line to walk, the line between commerce and art, the line between doing something for passion and doing it for a dollar. It’s a line that more, and better people have rambled on and on about and that I’ll spare you from this time. It’s not that I don’t have an opinion but more that that takes me away from what I wanted to get to, and that’s the strange feeling of selling your work face to face to someone. For me, the magic of doing this is that it always reminds me that, in the end, if I am ever to write as more than just a hobby that I will always have to be selling. This does not mean that I have lost sight of what drew me to writing and what keeps me doing it – the magic that exists between my hands and my mind, where the story really comes together. It’s a sort of dead area where things shake out, take shape, and where they become stories.

I have been doing conventions since I was in my early twenties, and they’ve never stopped being the most amazing and boring things around. Amazing because meeting other people with similar passions to your own and my god, you can’t imagine how many damn hours you sit around trying to lure people to come see your wares. Conventions have been the best and most inane experiences of my lives. I remember my first, when I was there with friends pimping what was to be our one and only issue of a magazine that went natiional. We’d begun as ‘zine nerds and suddenly we were on the brink of, well, who the hell knew but it was awesome to be there as guests. It was a comic convention near Detroit and the feeling of wandering into the ‘green room’ whenever we wanted to get snacks was awesome. It was like we were big shots. Well, the magazine never went past issue one and all of a sudden we were paying customers to the comic convention but the experience had taught me something that has stuck with me and that is that in the end, if people aren’t interested in what you’re doing, then you’re not apt to do it long.

When my publisher went down into the deeps I found myself holding a great mass of books with very few options to sell them. It’s a crummy thing to learn that most bookstores, indie or otherwise, aren’t as excited or interested in indie writers as they may claim. I can see why, I mean, you’d get anyone who can get access to a copy machine putting out these crazed missives about how their cat killed JFK so, I can see why you want to be leery of who you let onto your shelves but, well, damn, give a guy a break. There’s the internet, sure, but, unless you can get people to wherever your books are, and get them to BUY them, well, it doesn’t  mean a hell of a lot. You’re another ‘writer’ (or artist or photog or poet or musician or whatev) on the web, doing your thing with no one watching.

And here’s my thing – I love writing and to some degree always will. It’s in me and I am into too many forms of it to not write BUT…when it comes to stories, I am a story teller and a teller is only as good as those he is telling to and when you’re telling stories to yourself, well, you don’t need to open your mouth. The stories take power from those that hear or read them and without the people, well, the stories don’t need as much so, for me, I write for me, sure, but I post and publish and tell for YOU.

Anyhow, I needed to get my work out there and I suddenly realized that, damn, there’s that comic con thing that would be PERFECT to sell my books. Well, yes, and no. It’s a great idea, going to a convention where there are so many indie people into indie things and selling their indie good but, alas, being the only kid on the block selling lemonade when everyone else is selling Coke don’t exactly make you a big seller. So, I never sold much at the conventions but each year I learned a little more and sold a bit better and each time out I met more great people and that was the real value for me – getting to make connections with other people with passion for something.

Recently I did a horror convention, which was the first chance I had to sell books to as close to ‘my people’ as there are apt to be. I mean, hell, I write dark stuff that isn’t for everyone and, darn it, it’s as close to horror as you can get usually so, that was the best place to peddle my wares. This time I was also selling some silly art as well, something I have never felt confident enough to try, to be honest. I had similar results to what I have before but, bit by bit, I am finding 1. how to sell my works and 2. the places to do it. Inch by inch I am getting my work out there.

Sure, I want to be a guy that publishes work and can focus on that and not the sales, I dunno anyone who wants it any other way but, alas, that isn’t how it is. Really though, I love the excitement of seeing the person who is going to give my work a try, the people who are giving ME a chance. I’ll never claim to be an artist with whatever I am doing just because I feel like I just do what I like doing, but I don’t think that my selling would take the art away from what I have done and, honestly, there’s a bit of perspective in seeing that there’s a difference in making art for yourself and in making art for others because, if you do it right, there shouldn’t be a question of who the art is for, just that it’s art, it’s passion, and the rest works itself out.

Now, I got boxes and boxes of passion, books called Back From Nothing sellin’ for five bucks a pop.

Who’s game?

c

Horror Anonymous

Ladies and gentleman, I write horror stories.

I can tell from the hush in the crowd that I have offended some of you, and for that I apologize.

It shouldn’t have taken me this long to offend you.

I need to try harder.

Truly.

It’s strange, this tag system we have as humans, where we label every thing we see so we can better define and understand it. I mean, I get that our brains work that way. That’s swell. Hell, our minds work the way they work, what can ya do? The thing is that those labels can become cages for the labeled and the labeler, which is why I, and most people who do any art, avoid them.

Sometimes we try to hard to avoid them.

Over the past weekend at the Motor City Nightmares I got a chance to speak to some writers who are part of a writing group that focuses on horror and supernatural stories and I found myself saying the tried and true – I don’t write horror necessarily. As soon as I said it I regretted having said it because it sounded so pompous and like something every asshole that drives me crazy says – oh, horror, no, no, no, I don’t do horror. As if horror is something negative or bad. Bah! For me, it isn’t that at all, it’s that what I write is close to horror but isn’t necessarily horror. It’s a close friend and neighbor but not necessarily the thing itself. Ah, but there are exceptions. See, I do have stories that are horror, and nothing more or less, it’s just that I don’t consider them very horrifying personally. I try but I can’t tell you if I succeed or not. That’s up to you or some other person to say. But I, like most people, don’t want to think that all I write is horror. Take Stephen King, a hell of a writer who gets a lot of crap because a lot of what he writes takes a walk on the darker side of things. The thing is, so what? He tells stories about vampires and monsters and ghosts and stuff. So the hell what? Why is his stuff less valid than anyone else’s? I don’t get it at all. I have read some overrated crap that is considered brilliant when I found it dry and dated, but I won’t tell you or anyone that that work is invalidated as art, same thing should go for King, or me, or anyone.

The rub is this – no one should be JUST this or that. You should never want that and, I don’t think that anyone IS that. Even if you only write about space ships and martians, there is something deeper at work, even if it goes unseen by the writer themself. There is is always more, even to the simplest of stories. Running from the label though isn’t much an answer though because it’s just another trap. It’s a shame, too, because you’d think it’d be enough to write a story, a good story, and people can figure out what it is and what it means along the way.

Alas, no.

The crummy thing too is this – in the world we live in, you sorta have to fall into a category to be published because that makes it easier for publishers to know whether they have experience with or interest in what you do. Crap does it get depressing though reading – no horror – as they call for literature. And I laugh because I wonder if even they know what literature means other than that it reminds them of some other writer that was called literature. Me, I dunno what I write, other than the silly ‘dark fiction’ title I give it all so I fall towards horror just because I don’t figure I write lit.

What do I know?

I hate labels, even as I label things myself. If I have to have one though, I can live with horror. Between you and me though, I write dark literature. Keep that to yourself though.HAHAHAHA.

…c…

Weapon

My body is a weapon, a breathing, bleeding, seething thing waiting to be freed.

My body is a weapon, sucking life from me; my body is a weapon, its beauty mine to see.

My body is a weapon, a promise yet fulfilled; this body is a weapon, with many more to kill.

In me breathes a monster, ticks a bomb, lives a weapon that sucks my life from me moment-by-moment, day by day. A dreaming death clock that has decided all that is to befall me save the day it is to come. In me has grown a vampire, from seeds sown deep in me, a grim black thing that sucks days from me like blood and can never be sated.

I fought it, and fought it hard, as can be seen in my eyes; or rather the circles dug beneath them like moats. But you can never fight this thing, not fight it and win. It craves your struggle, gets stronger the more I fight it, so I stopped fighting, gave up is what the people that loved me said, but you can’t give up a fight you can never win. You have to have had hope to give up. Hope’s a thing I never had.

Hadn’t had since, oh, oh that was so very long ago, when I had hope.

I was seventeen, it was in fact, the day I turned seventeen, the day I lost hope.

Oh yes, but perhaps I get ahead of myself.

Perhaps.

But then that happens when there is a time bomb within you ticking off how much time you have left.

But lying.

Telling you you have more time than you ever can.

I believed the lies, you have to if you want to see any other days past the one on which you hear those words, hear the pronouncement of your sentence. And so you believe them, the doctors, the counselors, the friends and parents. You believe them when they tell you that you can beat this, that you are strong, that they will find a cure.

But the vampire knows better and laughs at all of this as it drinks deep of your life. Laughs as you struggle to hold on, to find an answer, a reason, a cure. And it’s that laughter that haunts your nights, taints your dreams, filling your heart and head and pushing everything away, as if you are floating out to sea.

And they tried, god how they tried to save me. To help me. To love me. But the vampire doesn’t allow that. And they could never see that. Could never see that it was me that was turning away from them, was pushing them away as this thing raged in me but that it was it that did it. That made me say the things I did. Tell them what I had done.

And god the things I have done.

But maybe I need to go back.

So far back.

Some friends had thrown me a party, a birthday party, and it was amazing. I couldn’t believe how many people had shown for it. And sure, most came for the beer, came because everyone else had come but still, to think that even some of those people had come for me. Because of me, it was something a bit beyond wonderful. And so was the night.

Until…

I was the belle of the ball, was talking to people I had never spoken to before, that I had never even seen before, and they all listened, all smiled, all responded when I spoke. And the more I drank the more I did speak, and the more they said back. And whenever my hand was empty in it sprang another drink, as if by magic, and I drank it down and there was another. And why not? It was my birthday.

But the later it got the more things seemed to slow down for me, and the slower I felt, as if I was in quicksand, and always there was a drink in my hand, even when I put the cup that I had been given down, always there was another, and behind that cup was usually one of two faces, two guys I had seen at my school, and always they were there, smiling. Giving.

But I had had enough. And then my friend Jamie floated into my view and took my hand and led me to the back of the house, to the guest bedroom. She said I looked sick, that I had been drinking too much. I wanted to answer, even tried to answer, to tell her that it wasn’t me, I wasn’t even getting the drinks, I was just drinking them, but I couldn’t even speak. I tried but I couldn’t. So she laid me in the bed and kissed my forehead and turned the light out and told me she’d be back soon.

But she never came back.

And so I sat there in that darkness, awake but not conscious, just floating, everything feeling fuzzy like it does when you are sick with fever.

Then there was light for a moment as the door was opened and then closed again, and then came the voices, two voices, and I knew them, I knew them because they were the voices of the guys from school, the ones behind the drinks. And I wanted to tell them I was sick, that I wanted to be left alone, I didn’t want company, but I couldn’t speak, found I couldn’t even move, and then they just started laughing, laughing with each other as they started taking my clothes off. Stop it, please, please stop it, but they wouldn’t, they went on, and suddenly I was naked and I felt their mouths on me, their hands, and then their bodies and god how I hurt, I could feel the blood running from me down my legs and pooling beneath me as they, as they, as they…and it went on forever and all I could do was lie there and wait for them to be done. I blacked out before they were done though, blacked out and awoke the next day when my friend Jamie was asking me what had happened, why there was blood on the bed and why I was naked.

And I told her.

Told everyone.

But no one believed me.

Even if they had said they did.

I saw it in their eyes, all of their eyes, I had wanted it, had been drunk and horny and had wanted these men to fuck me, the perfect birthday present.

And so nothing was done.

And I had to face them, those boys, in the school halls for the next three weeks before graduation. I was trapped. No one believed me. No one would do anything to help me. And there was nowhere I could go with three weeks left in the school year before I graduated.

And that was when I lost hope.

And from there, well, the bottom wasn’t very far at all.

Nothing mattered, not the name, not the face, just what was behind it all, and when I was done with them I was done. I didn’t need a thank-you, I love you or goodbye. I needed them gone so I could be alone again.

I don’t even know if I felt anything from any of it, I was so far gone by that point, I just wanted to stop the hurting and thought that might do it.

It never did.

And it never cured the loneliness, not even when we were fucking, they always thinking they were special, were the one that would break this ice-queen’s shell.

Would rock my world.

But they all were turned away and in the end I was alone.

And so was I.

I found out three years ago.

Safety had never been the first thing on my mind, not even worrying or caring if I got pregnant, just seeing the darkness in me and wanting to fill it, so I can’t say I should have been surprised.

And maybe I wasn’t.

But then again we never see our end, even when it is right before us.

And by the time I found out, a matter of luck as much as anything else when my doctor asked me if I had been tested for it and then telling me I should do it to be safe, to be sure.

And the rest you know.

The vampire, the weapon was in me, was strong and had been there, within me, silent, waiting, for an untold time.

It could have been anyone.

It could have been anyone.

Does it matter though?

Does anything but that night so long ago?

The night they pushed me down the path that lead me to the vampire the lives deep inside me?

I have lain awake for months wondering that very thing, does it matter? And it does.

It does because, because…

Again, does it matter?

In the end I am alone. Alone with my curse, my vampire, my weapon.

They wanted to help me, wanted to understand what I was going through and wanted to help me but they could never save me and they never saw that.

No one can save me.

The Damned have no Savior.

And all that matters now is that the weapon is ready, the vampire is hungry, and I am almost out of time.

You can’t see it on my body, still slender, still smooth, but you can see it in my eyes, can smell it on my breath.

Death.

But they won’t see anything. Won’t smell anything.

And that’s what I am counting on.

That’s what I am counting on.

The funniest thing about it all really though is that they never seemed surprised to hear from me.

I had had to track them both down, not that they would go far, few like they ever manage to leave their old stomping grounds, do they?

But they they have the absolute gall to not be shocked to hear from me is something I hadn’t expected.

A hidden bonus I suppose.

I laugh now to think about it all.

Me, dressed in heels, thigh-high nylons, short black skirt and no panties, waiting like a vulture for the meal to arrive, and them coming to this shitty flea-trap thinking they are about to re-live their greatest night.

Are about to re-enact their great achievement.

Thinking all the while what all of their kind think she wanted it, I knew she wanted it.

And I am more than happy to let them think it.

Let them believe it.

As long as they show up.

As long as the evening ends with the four of us in bed, naked to one another – them, my vampire, and me.

It’s eager to meet them.

To meet the men that helped to create it.

And I am more than happy to oblige.

More than happy.

I fought with myself about this.

Wondering if it was right, if it wasn’t murder, if it wasn’t playing god.

But then the laughter fills my head and all doubts are gone and all that are left are the vampire and I.

Me and my weapon.

And there’s the knock I have been waiting for, and it takes so much not to smile, to laugh as the vampire laughs.

And I can’t wait to tell them the news, can’t wait to tell them of the gift I will have given them, and oh how we’ll laugh together.

Oh how we’ll all just laugh and laugh and laugh…

…csr…6.2.02…