The Leaky Pencil

Stories in / Stories out

2012-01-17T20:09:00.001-05:00

Haven't updated in a bit, so briefly:

Lots going on "in the real" at the moment, and many things are draining time/energy/creativity, but such things do resolve, and there will be a way through.

"So smile, you morose bastard"

~ sincerely,
Yourself.

Good - that's dealt with. Now - two things:

1) I'm putting out the call for a reader. I need someone to be ruthless with a short story that is going into my upcoming short story collection as a previously unpublished "bonus" story. I'm having some pretty good success going back and putting a few new doorknobs and picture frames on my previously published stories, but I'm hitting a wall on this new one. It's about 5k. If you're interested, leave a comment below, or you can hit the "contact me" form at the right. (thank you!)

2) We're about 4 weeks away from the submission deadline for Nine Days of Madness. The inbox is a little quiet at the moment, but I'm hoping the next few weeks will bring a deluge of stories in the key of "unsettling" to my door. Submission details here. Get crazy!

That's about it for now. My apologies if I haven't been around to visit everyone recently - again, hoping to get back around soon.

"You're doing it again"

"Sh$#!"

Stream of Consciousness That Runs into the New Year, Written While Imbibing Red Wine in Winnipeg

2011-12-30T21:41:00.000-05:00

Greetings from sunny, frigid Winnipeg, Manitoba.

I'm taking a bit of a post-Christmas holiday, and getting some much needed family time to boot.

In the last week, I've been looking at all the writing I'm not doing, and have decided that I'll live - as long as I stick to my plans for the New Year. Call it a Resolution, call it Fiddles McGee, if you like - I've taken the opportunity of this break to examine what I've been doing writing-wise, and made some concrete decisions about what I would like to accomplish in the upcoming year:

1) The Novel. I've started no fewer than five novel-length stories in the past three years - none of which I've been able to stick to for long enough to see them through to the end. The one I'm working on now is a little different - not in that it's easier - f%$% no. However, I've taken that great work of writer's advice On Writing to heart, and approached this one "with serious intent". I've done the research, I've got the notes - I've just got to make it past page 13. I will - this year I will do this thing.

But first...

2) I've been debating about putting together a collection of short stories for the last year or so. Now that I've done the Smashwords thing for Eight Days of Madness, I'm convinced I can and should collect what I've been doing for the past few years in one place. There's a few new stories that will fit nicely as well. Seeing as how I've also been through the Create-space experience, I'll probably do a multi-format thing with the collection. Work is already underway, and I'm having a lot of fun tuning up my selections for the final draft. Suffice to say, even if you've read the stories before, there's going to be a lot of new material here.

3) Nine Days of Madness. I had a ball hosting the Eight Days of Madness festival in March of 2011. I'm doing it again. You can get all the submission details by clicking on the badge at the sidebar. Please do - I want it to be a tough decision this year! Reminder that if you get into the blogfest - you also get into the E-book.

FYI - the first collection, Eight Days of Madness, is up for a Preditors and Editors award for Anthology of the year. Vote by clicking here!

And that's enough. If I can get those three things done this year, I'll feel more than justified in spending the remainder of my writing time penning shorts for mass consumption on my favourite sites, or subbing pieces to some of the many amazing anthologies I keep seeing pop up - all the while keeping this little piece of the web up and running.

Finally, my thanks to any and all that have checked out the Leaky Pencil this year. I hope you'll stick around for the adventures to come in 2012.

All the best to you and yours for a very Happy New Year.

(Now back to that bottle of red...)

Cheers.

Chris

Season's Greetings

2011-12-23T13:09:00.000-05:00

This little tale debuted on this page last year. Reading it over, I still can't think of a better way to say Happy Holidays to all my friends and visitors to this site. Thank you for stopping by during the past year and for all your words of encouragement.

I wish you nothing but the best of happiness, health and unbuttoned pants this Holiday Season.

With love and thanks,

Chris.

Silent Night
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thumpity-thump thump.

Robbie's heart pounded in his ears. Lying in bed, face pressed against the pillow, it was the only sound he heard. The big red numbers on his clock said three-twelve. Silence filled the room like water. He felt like he was drowning in quiet.

Faintly, Robbie could feel sleep trying to pull him down into dreams, but his mind was racing much too fast to worry about sleeping at a time like this.

A sudden whooshing from outside made him bolt upright, sending sheets and pillows flying as he sprang from the bed. His heart ratcheted up another notch. This could be the clue he was waiting for. With three quick steps, Robbie ran to his window, ducked under the heavy shade and stared out. The winter-kissed glass was cool against his flushed forehead.

Outside on the road, he saw the tail lights of a red pickup truck just disappearing at the end of the otherwise deserted road. There was nothing more to see out there but the neat piles of snow along the curb, bathed in the streetlights' amber glow.

Anticipation was killing Robbie. He'd waited so long, planned so completely, it was hard to believe that in just a few hours, everything he'd prepared for would come to pass.

Directly below his window, he could see the imposing shape of a snowman he and Jamie had constructed yesterday. Robbie's own blue and red toque was perched on its head at an angle. No answers there.

Slowly, Robbie became aware of the soothing cool of the window giving way to the sharp, crisp pain of real cold. He backed away from the glass, rubbing his forehead.

What was that? Footsteps? Where were they coming from? Robbie crept carefully to his door and listened. He mustn’t let them know he was listening, that he was awake. A long moment passed, then another, and another. The sound inside the house was not repeated.

Probably just my heart again, he thought, walking back to the small bed with its colourful sheets. Seeing the tiny, precious book he'd squirreled away beneath his pillow reminded him of the stories he'd heard about tonight.

What was more, it reminded him of the rules. He was breaking the rules.

Dread filled his body, making him shiver as if snow had been dumped down his back. Oh, this was wrong, all wrong. Though he hadn't thought it possible, his heart sped up even more, pounding painfully in his chest.

How could he have been so foolish?

He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake.

He knows. Oh no, thought Robbie. I'm ruining everything. It's all my fault.

Throwing himself down on the bed, he began to weep helpless tears into his pillow. His sobs were hard enough to shake the bed. Clutching the little book of songs to his chest, he sent his panicked thoughts out to the world, I'm in bed. I'm in bed. See? It's okay! It's...

His next thought was broken off by a jaw-popping yawn.

As it has a way of doing in the wee hours of the morning, the need to sleep finally pushed through all other concerns, and made it perfectly clear that it would not be ignored any longer.

Robbie pulled his heavy, soft Monster Truck blanket back up around his ears. Maybe things could still be okay… maybe. He yawned again and, while he was looking at the tiny red and white figure on the front of his book, fell fast asleep.

***
"Wake up. Wake up Robbie!"

Robbie was jolted out of sleep. Before he could make sense of what was going on, Jamie had raced across the room and sent his window shade flapping up to the top of the window with a single hard snap. It was still early, but the golden light of dawn streaked across the room, and Robbie had to squint against it.

A moment later, Jamie had returned to the bedside and was tugging at his arm, "Wake up! It's Christmas!”

It came, thought Robbie, it really came. He had a brief moment in which he felt nothing but relief. Then, the magic of the morning overwhelmed his senses, and he jumped out of bed into his big brother's arms.

Laughing, and practically bouncing with excitement, they ran to wake up Mommy and Daddy.

It was time for Christmas, after all.

How do you top Eight Days of Madness?

2011-12-20T09:37:00.001-05:00

First call for submissions for Nine Days of Madness.

That's right, I'm doing it again in 2012, and I'm bringing an extra day of Crazy*. This past year, I featured seven fantastic writers and their stories on this site. The collected stories were published in an e-Book at Smashwords, that has seen 325 downloads to date. I've got even more planned for this year's edition, which is why I'm opening the doors in December.

The guidelines:

The theme this time around is "Unsettled". I'm looking for the subtle kind of horror that stays with you long after you stop reading, stories that challenge the reader's perceptions. You have free reign on how you achieve the theme, and gore, in its place can have a profound psychological effect. (The usual, sane restrictions of: no kids hurt, no animals hurt, and no torture-porn apply.)

1,500 words is the limit this time around. The deadline to submit is February 15, 2012. Submit all stories to:

8.mad.days(at)gmail(dot)com

Submissions will be acknowledged, but selection and notification will only happen after the deadline. Selected stories will be featured on this site for 9 consecutive days, beginning the week of March 15, 2012. Afterwards, they'll appear in anthology format - for which reason there will be contracts this year. More details on that part later.

Send your stories - spread the word!

* Disclaimer: I get terribly worried when discussing this topic that someone will view the theme of "Madness" as being extremely insensitive to the plight of the mentally ill. For clarification's sake, the stories in this event, and the event of the previous year, are concerned only with "Madness" in the sense of a genre-fiction manifestation of evil intent and purpose, and are not meant to represent real psychiatric conditions and/or treatments.

Greatest Hits (Maybe?)

2011-12-11T15:47:00.001-05:00

The Best of the Poetry I Wrote When I Was 15

Dark hearts blah blah blah
heart la la the Dark
Something something Midnight's Kiss

Alone blah blah with Nothing la blah la Hole in my Conscience blah

Eddie Vedder rules la la blah

Something something infernal caresses my Deark Hart

La la blah Razors

Focus - Must FOCUS

2011-12-06T16:37:00.000-05:00

Haven't posted in a bit, and truth is, I've been getting steadily busier, so my online diatribes may thin out a bit for awhile. Nothing to worry about, but I need to go "head down to the paper" for a little while.

Quickly updating on placements:

1) I managed to get two stories into Pill Hill Press' 2012 "Daily Frights" Collection. I was in the 2011 Daily Flash, and that's a fantastic book - so looking forward to being part of the horror doorstop this year.

2) Rapunzel and the Undead is going to see print in Wicked East Press' "Father Grimm's Storybook" - this one looks wild!

Now - I've just finished a longer short story, and my list of WIP's that I'd like to be writing is getting longer, and, what's worse, I'm at least 2k into each of them.

Care to weigh in? I've added a poll up there in the corner. Feel free to get clicky.

Good luck with your own work. (And keep doing it!)

C

Thank You

2011-11-30T13:03:00.000-05:00

(Tonight, I shave.)

The Moustache: The Short Story

2011-11-20T20:04:00.000-05:00

"Movember" is into its third great week. The 'stache is in full swing, and there is no mistaking my face's devotion to the cause.

I didn't have a concrete monetary goal when I started out the month. I thought, "I'll grow it, talk about it, and see what happens." Here in week three, (and note for next year - plan this ahead). I've decided it would be outstanding if I could raise $500 for the cause of Prostate Cancer research.

Now, I've thrown out the social media "call", as well as some direct e-mail appeals. What I haven't done to help this cause along is what I do every day - write.

So - here's the deal. For every donation I receive over $5 from now until the end of the month, as a personal thank you, I'll send along an exclusive new, never-been-published story entitled, naturally, "The Moustache". (I'll even sign the PDF with a personal note of thanks.)

To those that have already donated, I haven't forgotten your generosity, and will be sending you the story as soon as it's complete. As of this moment, it's 90% done, but I'm putting my word behind it, that the story will be finished, edited, and all copies sent out by Friday, December 2.

Click here to donate.

(And thanks!)

What's My Motivation?

2011-11-10T14:08:00.000-05:00

It's a phrase that borders on trite. So much so, that this question has become shorthand in movies and t.v., indicating that the actor is a pretentious primadonna. What a shame.

Sure, there's some folks out there who are so high on their own talent that when they ask the question, it's more about why they can't just do the thing their way. But, the actors who are genuinely asking for assistance ask because they understand something very important: if you don't have a "why", your "what" is going to suck. I'm going to pick on a movie I saw recently, "In time".

This is a big budget action movie starring Justin Timberlake. The concept is exceptional. In the future, everyone stops aging at 25. After that, your body receives one extra year, on a built in electronic "clock." This year can be bought and sold as currency, and the more time you have, the longer you live. Cool, cool concept, right?

However- none of the characters in this movie have any real motivation for what they're doing. There are "reasons" given for their behaviour, but nothing deeper to explain why that character is behaving this way. Ultimately, I left unsatisfied, and bewildered that I didn't enjoy it more, until the lack of motivation dawned on me.

Motivations also change as characters change. In the US re-release of "A Clockwork Orange", Anthony Burgess, in his new introduction, disowns the first American release of the novel, and the movie that was based on it, because both of these left off the final chapter in which Alex has been seen to finally change. "If characters in a novel don't change," says Burgess, "Then it's not a novel. It's a puppet show."

So - the question is, how do we know what our characters want, and why do they want it? That, folks, is part of the "game" of writing. You've got to be listening to those characters as you move them around, or you've got your own variation of a puppet show. (Nothing against puppet shows, mind you.)

One thing that may help, going back to the world of "theatre" (which is where I first heard this) is that human desire and need can be summed up into "the four f's":

Fight, Feed, Flee, and Reproduction (get it?).

E.g. Why does Character A buy a new car?

a) he just wants it

b) he needs to have this car because later the Ant. is going to steal it.

c) he's got a new job, and everyone at the office drives high priced cars. If he wants to move up, he needs to fit in.

d) there's an incredibly beautiful woman who's just moved in next door, and Char. A has heard her gushing about beautiful cars.
Two of these are weak, and two of these are strong(er). Taking things back to that level, you can start to get an idea for who your characters really are, and what they want out of this world you've plunked them into.

Lesson over - time for games:

There's a million great exercises out there to work on motivation, but I've been playing around with one of my own, that has been sort of fun. By taking one of the primal "f's", you can help yourself "warm up" to doing a writing session by trying this. I've been referring to it as a "Writer's Scale", because you're not going to be using any of this text. You're specifically just doing this to get your brain going, like a pianist would use scales to warm up their fingers before really practicing/playing:

The Writer's Scale

A) write the numbers 1-10 down one side of the page.

B) at the top, pick a primal "f"

C) on the line marked "1" - you have one word to use that embodies that need.

D) on line two, you have two words to work with. Important - you are not continuing on a thought from the previous line. You now have only two words to convey the whole "story."

E) and so on with three, four etc.

F) If you're still having fun after you get to "10" you might try going backward from 10-1.

G) Your top word can be anything, but I've had the most fun so far using this as a motivation study.

Here's one of mine. I tried to think of different sorts of "fear" as well:

"Fear"

1. Inoperable.
2. It's yours.
3. What was that?

4. We need to talk.

5. Please don't hurt me anymore.

6. There is someone in the house.

7. What the fuck are you looking at?

8. You'd better get down here, she's almost gone.

9. I can't hold on anymore, my fingers are slipping!

10.Quinn walked into the enveloping darkness that filled the barn.

There you go. If you're humming along with your project, then you may not need much exercise right now, but I've started to appreciate having a few in my pocket, especially if I miss a day or two from doing writing.

If you're inspired, I would love to see what you guys come up with in the comments below for your "10".

Good luck with what you're working on!

CA

Raising the funds. Putting on the "Mo."

2011-11-06T19:49:00.000-05:00

I have joined the "Movember" movement.

For the month of November (which traditionally is my least favourite month) I am donating the space on my upper lip to help raise awareness for Men's Health in general, and Prostate Cancer specifically.

When I was in my mid-teens, I went through a span of three years where I lost three grandparents, and an extremely close friend. Cancer has taken far too many people out of this world, far too soon. If participating in this month's world-wide moustachioed festivities helps raise even a few dollars more to help make cancer go away, then I'm going to do it.

One of the things "Movember" is about, besides gnarly looking lip fur, is helping men get a very special message: take your damned health seriously. Get your checkup.No matter what else is going on in your head - you don't want to ever hear the words "it's too late to do anything. If only you'd-"

Here's the end of the "serious" part. If you've got a few bucks to spare, I'd love it if you'd sponsor me here. If not - not to worry - I won't think the worse of anyone, but there is this, and only this - take care of yourselves. I think far too highly of far too many of you to see someone getting awful news because they couldn't be bothered to take an afternoon off.

Now - the other side of the coin is that the "before" pic which I have just added as my new profile, will be proudly replaced by a "during" and an "after" as Movember continues. Get ready for the Used Car special!

Note for those of you in the UK: Steven Chapman is also "growing the ribbon." If you do your commerce in pounds and not dollars, and would prefer to support a local boy, I'm sure he'd appreciate the support!

All the best.

Chris

Hands off the Tinsel!!

2011-11-02T14:07:00.002-04:00

Halloween proper is now two days behind us. I was at a drugstore last night, and they were preparing their Christmas display. Really? Do we honestly require more than a month and a half to get ready for the "Holiday Rush?" Can't everyone just pick up gift cards at the gas station like I do???*

*Speaking only for those who celebrate Christmas. Other traditions, that begin and end in one month, like sensible holidays, are starting to look better and better. I actually do get very excited and giddy around the Holidays - in December*

Why can't we let the Halloween vibes carry us through one more week at least? Coming from a writer of more or less grotesque short stories, you can see that I'd have a vested interest, but come on. In general, the "Changing of the Merchandise" is happening sooner and sooner every year.

Now that I've got everyone feeling festive... here's where I plug my new story.

As I mentioned earlier this week, Thrillers, Killers n' Chillers is making the macabre last, with a whole week of "Hellacious Halloween" stories, and cheers to them for it! Not only are they prolonging the Halloween fun, but they're also helping keep the "November Funk" at bay for one more week.

Today's offerings include "Monkey Tree", by Sean Patrick Reardon, a sublime tale that is practically guaranteed to move you in the oddest ways. Also, there's one more story from yours truly. This is my last piece online for the next little bit, as I retreat back into the woodwork and get back to jamming words together like Mega Blocks® and try to make them stick.

"Pick Your Own Pumpkin" is a story I'm very happy to have written. For the past year or so, I've been toying around with two recurring characters in a series of Drabble (100 wd) shorts, and they refuse to go away. "PYOP" will probably be most people's first introduction to homicide detectives John Blackwood and Albert Milton. The two are "regular" homicide cops who seem to always be getting stuck with the "weird" cases, and as such, they've become experts in Paranormal Homicidal Occurances. I've had a lot of fun writing these two, and I feel like this piece is leading the way to something even longer for the duo.

Scan here for a bonus story featuring
Milton & Blackwood!

I hope you'll check out their "full length" debut, as well as all the other amazing tales that TKn'C has lined up to keep Halloween rockin' and stop Santa Clause from knockin' (for one more week.)

[UPDATE: imPRESSING NEWS]

"Eight Days of Madness", my free e-Book Anthology, featuring Laurita Miller, Benjamin Sobieck, Sean Patrick Reardon, Angel Zapata, Richard Godwin, Erin Cole, Lily Childs has hit 300 downloads! Congratulations writers - that's a HIT. If you've not yet embraced the Madness - click the cover at the right side of this page to get it at Smashwords.

Tricks and Treats!

2011-10-31T00:00:00.001-04:00

October has come and gone and, thankfully, the season has inspired the same burst of story telling that it does every year.

I've been fortunate enough to get a few stories up and about this month, and this week, the fun continues!

Come door to door with me... you'll be glad you did.


Door #1: The Ex-Cop

Door #1 is The Flash Fiction Offensive. Host David Barber is devoting his grit-and gore extravaganza to specific spookiness all weekend. [Update] Head over now for a little "Sex and Beer" - the perfect accompaniment to Halloween madness!

Door #2 - The Old Guy who looks like the Crypt Keeper

Door #2 brings us to Microhorror.com, where the annual Halloween Contest has just ended the submission phase. Over two-dozen fresh new stories are vying for your attention, and one of horror-host Nathan Rosen's three amazing prize packages. My own tale, Monkeyfish, is in the mix. It's up there with some of my most bizarre tales, but it was tremendous fun to write, and I think that comes through.


Door #3 - The Scary Biker that gives awesome candy

Door #3 is Thrillers, Killers n' Chillers. Starting on Halloween, the site is devoting the entire week to its "Hellacious Halloween" festival of fright. I'm happy to say that a brand-spanking new story, featuring two of my favourite characters has made it past the gate. I'll chime in on the day it's up but check back often to get in on the festival fun!


Door #4 - the Wicked Witch of the West Side

Erin Cole is running a Halloween Horror contest in support of the release of her new collection of short stories. The entries are spread out over all the entrants own blogs, which gives you the added bonus of possibly discovering a new favourite writers at the same time you're chasing down some new and stunning terrifying tales. My entry, "Snow and Froth" debuted on this site awhile ago. Click here to check it out.

-----

However you decide to spend Halloween, whether you've got kids and will be taking them on the rounds, or you'll be dressing up and hitting a party, or even just enjoying some drinks in front of a favourite spooky screen gem, have fun, be safe, and enjoy!

A little piece of pie.

2011-10-24T08:37:00.000-04:00

I may have mentioned before (once or twice) that October is a particularly prolific month for me.

There is something about the crispness in the air, and the coming of early twilight that sets the writer bugs dancing in my skin.

This is only to say that, hopefully you're up to a few more new stories by yours truly before the month is out.

Today, the inimitable Lily Childs is featuring my story "Tempting Morsels" on her website. It was chosen as runner-up in her "Mammoth Book of the Best New Horror" Contest.

Take a moment, try a slice. You may enjoy the taste. :)

Of Monkeys and Fish

2011-10-20T14:35:00.000-04:00

Briefly updating - the MicroHorror 2011 Halloween contest is in full swing. This year's theme is "Water"

My entry "Monkeyfish" is up today. Check it out if you have a moment! - C

I don't know poetry... but it's never stopped me before

2011-10-18T13:40:00.001-04:00

Whenever I attempt to write a poem, I feel the heat of fifty thousand-watt lamps on me, and dozens of voices in the darkness beyond scream "fraud!". (Part of this comes from a particularly damning rejection that included the words "...okay, here's where I started skimming... it's pretty much awful from here on...)

I think poetry is incredibly difficult to write - and good poetry, that makes you want to read more of it, and even more, seek it out - is the rarest of all. Several of my friends out here in the writer-verse do a spectacular job of it, and I honestly enjoy their stuff.

All that is to say, sometimes I will get an idea that just doesn't want to be a regular piece of prose. Its got a rhythm, or something that insists itself upon me. I feel like I got close to something "decent" once before with "Analysis"

This week it happened again with Lily Childs' weekly prompt. Not sure of the results, but again, it felt like it had to be something other than straight paragraphs.

Here's a tease, click the link for all of it, and to try your own take on this week's three words.

Newspaper Hat
On Wednesday night I made a friend
For real this time, not just pretend.

(She liked my newspaper hat.)

We ascended to my moonlit home.
A warm tiny place for me alone.

(And my newspaper hat.)

***

How about you? If you write poetry and prose, how do you know where the idea belongs?

Snow and Froth

2011-10-09T22:25:00.000-04:00

Erin Cole is running a contest this October. The prize is her new collection of Short Stories, called "Of the Night." The contest runs until the end of the month. To enter, post a 1,000 max horror flash on your site between Oct. 1 and 31, and link it up at Erin's place.

Here is my attempt. Hope it helps you work up a lather...

___________________

Snow and Froth

"Well, we ain't getting out of here anytime soon." Claude said over his shoulder. "Goddamned weathermen screwed us again." He tromped inside, pulled a fresh beer from the fridge, and plopped down hard on the tattered paisley sofa. I sipped my morning coffee and nodded. There was nothing I had to say that Claude wanted to hear when he was in a "mood."

I'd agreed to come hunting with my brother-in-law only after my sister begged me to spend time with him "man to man". Maybe I could talk to him about his temper, and what it was doing to his wife.

That first night, when I'd merely hinted at Ellie's concern, he responded by slamming his huge, calloused fist into the side of my head. In fear for my life, I finally stood him down at the end of a twelve-gauge shotgun. He laughed.

"Atta boy," he'd slurred. "We'll grow some rocks on you yet, Damian." With that, he turned his back on the gun and passed out on the couch. It was still snowing.

In the morning, before realizing we were snowed in with no phone line, and no cell service, he smiled when he saw the purple-black swelling around my eye, saying "Whoo. Some night, huh Damian?"

I hated him. I hated that he was married to my sister. At least the beer would eventually run out.

We hunted. Besides whatever notion we'd had of doing it for sport, it was at least a two day walk through the snow to get to anything resembling a town. Claude's Wrangler would make it from the cabin to the county road, but there were several narrow throated bridges beyond that which wouldn't see a plow for weeks.

Now that food was a factor, we shot at everything - squirrels, birds -- anything that moved. There was some dry goods in the cottage, but both of us were die hard carnivores, and there was nearly nothing else to do in that place.

We came up empty – Claude drunk was as quiet as a runaway semi.

Back at the cottage, we happened upon a sick looking raccoon staggering around in a drift by our garbage bins. The idiot swung his gun around, almost hitting me, and fired.

"Got 'im!" he crowed. I watched him pick up the messy, shot-riddled carcass. Foam was caked around the thing's muzzle, and clumps of shit were frozen to its fur. It didn't bother Claude, who gutted and skinned the thing on the front porch. In his inebriated state, it was a bloody, half-assed operation; I didn't offer to help. Part of me hoped he'd slice a vein and both Ellie and I would be free of the bastard.

Claude cooked the little bit of meat rare in a skillet. I pushed it around, but ate nothing, which earned me the nickname "Pussy."

Two fucking weeks passed with Claude in the cabin. In the snow.

We played cribbage a lot. I let him win. It was the only activity we had, besides hunting. I'd already read the book I'd brought twice, and at least playing cards was quiet. Every so often, he'd tell me yet another awful story of some woman he was seeing behind Ellie's back. He made me sick, though – if I was right – he was going to be a whole lot sicker, and soon.

I ate most of the beans in the place, and pasta without sauce. On one day, I shot a rabbit that was tough and chewy. Another day, we each managed to get a couple of crows. Next time I want to use the expression "eating crow", I'll think twice – it's something I wouldn't wish on an enemy. Except Claude. For his part, he'd finished all the beer and was working his way through two cases of homemade wine.

On Tuesday, I knew the end was in sight. The bastard always complained when he had a hangover – so pretty much every damned day. This week, though, he'd been worse. His headache never seemed to clear until he'd had a few drinks. From the way he was limping, I thought the cause might be something a little more serious. By noon on Wednesday, he was pale and sweating profusely. I offered to make some macaroni. He refused, and spent the day under a blanket on the couch, drinking wine from the bottle, trying to get warm.

That night, I found some rope in the shed and bound him to his filthy, beer-fart-laden cot.

When I was fifteen, our beagle got scratched by a rabid fox; the vet told us all about rabies. In humans, if you act right away, it's painful, but curable. If you leave it until symptoms start to show up though, it acts quick - and there's no hope for survival.

Claude spasmed awake, grunting. His throat worked convulsively, but he wasn't swallowing. Spit dripped from his chin, and he was screaming for Ellie to come help him.

I'll help him, alright. I brought him a glass of water. He shimmied and jerked, trying to get away. I let the cool, refreshing liquid trickle over his face and lips. He spat foam at me, straining at the ropes. His eyes bulged out. All trace of the hard, mean light I'd come to expect was gone. This was a dying animal in front of me. It was almost a shame to keep torturing him. Almost.

After lunch, I think I'll see if snow has the same effect. I hope so. Hydrophobia is a dehumanizing, painful way to die, but then, two weeks without entertainment is pretty lousy too. If my conscience keeps at me, I'll take off for town and leave the door open. Hypothermia will set in after a few hours, and he'll go to sleep.

Ellie might not understand at first, but with a rabid dog like Claude, there's really no other solution.

monster

2011-10-06T08:32:00.000-04:00

Say Something!

2011-09-24T09:18:00.001-04:00

Dialogue, at least good dialogue, is the lifeblood of a story. You can have the most interesting characters in the world (introducing Sherlock Holmes... Bounty Hunter!) but if their speech falls flat, or sounds unnatural, it will turn your reader off in an instant.

It's not for nothing that Alice in Wonderland begins with Alice musing that the books she has to read have nothing interesting like pictures or conversations. It's the conversations we're interested in here.

Dialogue should not, however, be used to reveal plot:

"Jim, what are you doing up here, on the second floor of the warehouse. You know that I'm the only one who watches this floor at night. Good lord, are you carrying a knife? I certainly hope you aren't feeling 'stabby'"

"Grah", said Jim.

Good dialogue reveals character. That is its nature. Take Stephen King - his dialogue has been both praised and criticized... for the same reason. He writes as people speak. Whenever I've "noticed" his dialogue, it's usually when he's chosen some really obtrusive expression that serves to add a layer of shading to his characters, but in these moments, actually breaks the flow - not good. (I'm thinking about "Happy Crappy" and other similar bon mots - which seem to be a favourite of King's) When I don't notice the dialogue is paradoxically when it works the best. The Stand is built on the back of amazing, natural dialogue.

Dialogue-only scenes in stories can either work, or wreck your flow. Without any modifiers, you can have a quick and pacey read that delights (David Barber's Two Blokes series are a great example, by one of our contemporaries, no less - and also shows how dialogue can reveal character and class status)

Done wrong, these scenes turn into a garbled mess that leaves the reader wondering 1) Who is talking and 2) What the hell's going on and 3) What's on TV, this story is garbage.

Shakespeare wrote amazing dialogue - it wasn't natural (it's in metre fer chrissakes) but it does the job, and it obviously stands up.

The Taming of the Shrew = dialogue 101. (Plus John Cleese...)

Now, what about "unnatural dialogue?" (on purpose)

It's easy to get carried away. Take a look at this clip by Kevin Smith:

This leads to another point - dialogue can also overwhelm. It's a major criticism of Kevin Smith that most of his films are just skeletons on which he hangs clever pop culture dialogue. I would argue that there is a place for that. It's totally entertaining, but it takes the film out of the realm of reality, and we don't learn much about the characters. Counterpoint - here is a clip from "Chasing Amy"

I'm picking some broad examples, but that's to make sure my point is clear. The dialogue may be a little over the top, but you'd have to agree that you now know exactly what Affleck's character is thinking.

Another famous example of dialogue stealing the show is Quentin Tarantino. His films are acclaimed on the basis of his twisty, pop culture laden scripts, but no one would call the dialogue "natural". But, it's not because he can't do it:

This is a single moment in a film full of great "dialogue" scenes, the likes of which Tarantino is famous for, but this tiny, realistic moment here tells you all you need to know about Brad Pitt's character, and not a reference in sight.

The point of all of this is to think about your dialogue.

That's all.

Make it work for you, and know that when it's working best of all, it will stand out, by not standing out. (Or it will glow in the dark and be the very point of your story - but in that case, it has to be on purpose).

Write on.

CA

(P.S. - Speaking of Tarantino - Jodi MacArthur's running a contest at her site to promote the release of an anthology based... wait for it... on the song titles from the Pulp Fiction soundtrack. How cool is that? Go there... win gum.)

WIPs and the Uncanny Valley

2011-09-16T09:04:00.002-04:00

So, writing is back to a slow simmer on the back-burner. Hopefully circumstances will let me get things back up to a rolling boil soon enough, but until I sign my first million dollar multi-book deal, some things are just naturally going to come ahead of "the craft."

I'm trying to "pick away" at things every day, and do some form of writing, but not as often, or as much as I'd like.

That said - there are bright spots. As I mentioned last time (and so will not labour to repeat here - much) the novel is started, as well as two bright little flashes, and the "Beast" of a short that's been hanging on forever is just about done.

And still there is the allure of the "new idea". That's a question I'd like to ask you all - what do you do when the spark of "new" hits in the middle of writing what you're "supposed" to be writing? I've been running with it, and letting the new things start, but as expected, I get carried away with the new idea and start leaving the threads of the larger work behind. Any tips? What do you guys do?

Case in point - I threw in an entry at Lily's this past week, almost at the end of the week, but then the character sprang to life, and now I can see a whole huge story here, waiting to get out!

~~~ Story removed. Sorry - I need to get this piece off-line for awhile so it can be worked into a longer piece that still counts as "new" ~~~

At any rate - here's to the weekend; may it bring clarity.

Here's to having ideas at all, which beats staring at a blank page by a mile.

And here's to you, for dropping by!

Bonne fin de semaine!

Alive and updating

2011-09-08T10:25:00.000-04:00

Briefly updating - I'm lessening the hold the blogosphere has on me, but I feel like once a week (or so) is not too bad...

I've dipped the pen onto the paper and have started handwriting "the book." It's going slowly, but my mind and time are still a little divided these days with some non-writing things. That said, I had a really great meeting with my writer's group this week that might keep that particular fire kindling.

In the meantime, I did a bunch of daily writing last week at Nina Powers' blog, but one of her prompts over the weekend got me started on a really fun flash piece (I've never really done much with vampires before...) And I've got another flash started that has some legs.

The "long-short" that I've been working on is currently cooling down. My sights are set high for this one, so I am categorically not rushing it.

That's about it. October is coming, and with it, some "seasonal" writing opportunities that I look forward to every year. They'll distract from the book a bit, but I can't help myself. The last two Halloweens have been flash-fic feasts for my writing soul, and I'm hoping for nothing less this year.

Keep @ 'er.

2011-08-31T08:11:00.002-04:00

small words in the middle of a page are profound.

untitled

2011-08-25T14:49:00.000-04:00

You can’t force it, she said.
I can, and I will, he replied.
It’s going to break, she said.
It did. It snapped. And he cried.
When will you learn, she asked?
Never, I guess, he lied.
In truth he’d learned it already.
It was her certainty of his failing he defied.

(From today's "Oneword")

Kind of a Funny Situation

2011-08-23T08:27:00.000-04:00

Fellow Canuck, Nina Powers, has been posting a lot of really intriguing writing prompts recently. From the sounds of it, it's related to her recent adventures with Google+, but whatever the reason, there's been some super-specific ideas given out, which let the imagination run riot. Here's her most recent post.

I took a stab at this one, in which you have 200 words, in the first person, to explain yourself, after being caught stealing.

Here's mine:

A Funny Situation

"A'right...its kind of a funny story," I said.

"Not that funny," said Constable Lewis.

"Hear me out. We was drinking. A lot."

"That much I believe."

"Anyways, I says to Georgie, that if the fleckin' Buds blow another overtime, he can have my TV - 'cause I ain't watchin' anymore."

"And?"

"And what? You seen the score tonight, no?"

"It wasn't your TV to give."

"Of course not! Sorry. Of course it wasn't. It wasn't even my house."

"That's the problem. And if there's a point, get to it."

"Me and my neighbour, right? Two doors away? Well, our front door keys fit both locks, his and mine."

"Your neighbour? The one who turned you in."

"Of course he did, I had his TV. But I thought it was my T.V."

"Your houses look the same. That's your excuse?"
"Almost."

"What do you mean?"

"That's the only difference between Bill's brownstone and mine. I have a bathroom in the front hall. He's got a closet, right?"

"And?"

"And that is why he probably turned me in. Not 'cause of the T.V. at all."

"I think you're full of shit."

"Not anymore."

"You filthy bugger. Get back in that cell."

A Year of Friday Flash

2011-08-20T20:17:00.000-04:00

And check out this e-book, too!

On Friday, I posted an entry to Lily Childs' Friday Prediction. It's called "Sam Collins, P.I.B. (Paranormal-Investigator-Bastard). I'm happy with how it turned out, and the character is fun enough that he may just deserve a longer story some time.

Anyhow - with this entry, I've now thrown my work into the ring 52 weeks in a row. That's a year's worth of 100 words stories. Out of these, three became serials, one has started to become a novella, and another will likely be a book someday. From the remainder, I'd say that at least half have potential as full-length short stories.

This weekly exercise, deceptively simple in scope, has proven to be a wellspring of ideas and, indeed, there have been weeks in the past year when this is the only writing I've done.

So, all this is merely preamble to this - thank you, Lily, for hosting this challenge each week, for making it friendly and competitive, and for your insightful comments and "summaries" of the stories.

I may or may not be as regular a contributor as the next 52 weeks progress (I've finally started putting pen to paper on the book I've been putting off for months,) but it's been a crazy-fun year.

Best of luck with your blank pages, folks.

C

The New Flesh: Year Two (or: "It's been a pretty good week")

2011-08-11T22:08:00.000-04:00

I haven't had many new stories up recently around the web. Mostly, I've been working on a few "longer" pieces, which I have earmarked for a few specific places. As of this writing, I've submitted one, and am rewriting the end of the other, which is topping out around 7k.

So - it's with a big smile that I share that two of the stories I had published for the New Flesh last year have been selected for their "best of" collection, Long Live The New Flesh: Volume Two. "Conveyor" was a piece that was too weird and dark for a lot of markets, while "Treasures of the Deep" was written specifically for their "Eye in a Pickle Jar" contest. The collection is a free PDF download, and features some other familiar, very talented faces, including (but in no way limited to) Angel Zapata, Erin Cole, Jodi MacArthur and Lily Childs! What are you waiting for?

That, in addition to the new story up on MicroHorror this week, "To Play with Fire", I'm having a pretty fun week. Here's a sample of this one (which I had a lot of fun with):

"One thing that may surprise you is that when you take society’s stereotypes about beauty off the table, it’s incredibly easy to get laid.

So, when I saw the chance to push the borders once more, I took it.

The Craigslist ad read “Sexual Immolation. Serious inquiries only.”

~To Play with Fire

Next up, I'm finishing the 7k story, and then I may get a little quiet, as (yes, yes, here we go again Allinotte, say it again...) I'm going to be spending time with my novel.

Hope all is well with your respective white spaces. Keep going!

C

You Can't Write if You don't Read.

2011-08-09T09:21:00.001-04:00

"If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that."

— Stephen King

This is such simple advice, but really, really important.

By exposing yourself to stories- all kinds of stories, from all kinds of voices, you learn. You learn what works, you learn what doesn't.

Once you take up a pen and start trying to do this for yourself, you start reading differently too. It may be a conscious thing, that you start out with a notepad handy when you read, or at the least, a highlighter (though the local library frowns on that sort of thing.)

Regardless - if you write, and keep writing, and then write some more, you can't help but start to notice things. Things that just start to hit you, like "Ah - that was a neat transition into the scene," or "Oh - so that's how he manages to get his two main characters alone in the restaurant."

"It was the best of....zzzzzzzzzzz"

If you're not "studying" what you read, you should at least try to remain open to these "aha" moments. And honestly, when we read for pleasure, can we ever really keep up a serious focus on it? That's why most of us (well...ok... me) wouldn't touch half the books I was supposed to read in High School, but have since rediscovered, and fallen in love with them. If you have some of those in your past, do yourself a favour and pick them up. Those books are a double benefit, in that they're usually really good to read, and they've often got treasures of writing to teach you. Example - I was supposed to read "The Sun Also Rises," in Grade 11, and never touched it. Now - I've discovered the elegant, stripped power of Hemingway's storytelling. I now count "The Old Man and the Sea" among my top ten favourite stories. This style is not the right tool for the job all the time, but when it works. Wow.

"And the killer is... skipskipskipskipskip"

So - read. I've usually got three or so books on the go - two at home, and one in the car. During my commute, (which totals about an hour each day), I listen to audiobooks from the Library. I've discovered this is a fantastic way to catch up on "classics", and sometimes, hearing the language performed can help you penetrate some of the dense text. Moby Dick? Loved it. It took three weeks to listen to the whole thing, but I "get" it now.

Lecture's over now. Here's some parting goodies:

If you haven't joined "Goodreads", give it a look. It's very much like Facebook, but focused on books. You can catalogue and rate what you've read - and that's just for starters. You can recommend books to your friends, and get the same back. (Look me up if/when you get there!)

Finally - my most recent read was a great one. I've been meaning to get my hands on one of Matt Hilton's books since I first became acquainted with him through Thrillers, Killers, n' Chillers. This week, I finished Judgement and Wrath, which is the second in the Joe Hunter series. I've always been a horror/fantasy type of reader, but after reading this one, I'll be getting my hands on the rest pretty quick. It's some of the cleanest, most fast-paced action that I've read in a long time. (You can read the rest of my review... on Goodreads) If you're unfamiliar with Matt, check out his site, and say hello! He's got the latest book in his series coming out soon, so now's the time to catch up on the rest!

***UPDATE***

Just got word that a new story of mine, "To Play with Fire" is now live on MicroHorror. I went a little outside my comfort zone on this one, and didn't shy away from the heat. (Alright - full disclosure - it's full of sex.) Check it out if you have a moment.

Keep @ 'er

C

Blog Award!

2011-08-04T22:27:00.000-04:00

Nina Powers , who recently joined this cozy little Leaky Pencil group, has nominated this blog for an award! These are great little moments to share appreciation, and help generate traffic and followers for our fellow writers, so a big Thank You to Nina.

Now - to work:

The rules of the award are:

1. Thank the giver and link back to the blogger who gave it to you.
2. Reveal your top 5 picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
3. Copy and paste the award on your blog.
4. Have faith that your followers will spread the love to other bloggers.
5. And most of all - have bloggity-blog fun!

There's one last "unwritten" rule, in the spirit of helping your fellow writer's grow - it's meant for blogs with less than 200 followers.

So, my picks (they're numbered, not ranked.)

#1 David Barber's Fiction World - the editor of the Flash Fiction Offensive, and a damned fine writer in his own right. Check out "The Two Blokes". Trust me.

#2. Steven Chapman (writer) - full of insight, laughs, and commiseration on the periods of futility that all writers go through

#3. Erin Cole Writes - Author of "Grave Echoes", and contributor to my own anthology "Eight Days of Madness", Erin muses on muses and writes on writing. Meet her!

#4. R.S. Bohn - you want stories with edge? With heart? With "Holy $#% what did I just read?" - Check out the writing of Ms Bohn.

#5. Calling Shotgun - Laurita Miller is a fellow Canadian, an writer of amazing diversity, and as eloquent a blogger as you'd want to read. (So start readin'!)

Thanks again, Nina!

What Colour is Your Story?

2011-08-02T21:44:00.001-04:00

I came up with an exercise today for the local writer's group that I run. It came about as an extrapolation from one of John Gardner's (the Art of Fiction) - called "The Barn". In that exercise, you write for five minutes, describing a barn, as seen by an old man whose son has just died in the war. You may not mention the son, or the war. The idea is to get used to shading your language, and your word choices to add another layer to your story. They tell more about your character, giving the reader indirect hints about the point of view, or mindset of the person experiencing the scene.

So that is the established exercise. (We did that one as well, and it's fun.)

What we did next was along the same lines. I got a word chosen at random (stab a newspaper somewhere). Then, you write for five minutes using that as a prompt but, here's the thing, you write the piece inspired by a colour. Example, the word "opponent" is the prompt. You then write for five minutes with that as the focus, but shade it using the colour "blue" as an inspiration. The focus of the exercise is the same - to learn to add that extra something else that will tie your piece together and make it something special.

At any rate - it's a neat way to have some fun when you need a break from the WIP.

Keep writing!

Clarity of Night - "Elements" Contest Update Results are in!

2011-07-27T13:41:00.000-04:00

The Clarity of Night Contest is over. Congratulations to Darby Krenshaw, who won with the story called "RIF"

My piece called "After", didn't place, but, I did qualify for "The Forties Club". If you've been involved with one of these contests before, you'll know that that in itself is pretty damned cool. (Quickly, for those who don't - stories are scored out of 50 on technical merits and writing skill, anything over 40 gets into "the club".)

Thanks go to Jason Evans for running such a great contest. Some other authors who have enjoyed his hospitality and contests through the years have set up an "afterparty" blog to thank Mr. Evans for his generousity of time and money in setting up this, and other contests. If you've been a fan of the Clarity of Night contests (or will soon become one... ;) ) go on over and drop Jason a line.

Now that the contest is over, I'm happy to bring my entry over here and share it with you. It turned out more or less how I hoped it would. (I've been saying that a lot recently - I think this "trying harder" thing might have something to it.)

After

Grace jerked awake, gasping for air. In her dream, she'd been trapped in a burning house and acrid smoke had choked off her breath.

She started coughing. Coughing became retching. The air in the living room was a stinking red miasma, swirling along the floor in unwholesome eddies. It smelled of metal, and something else – something familiar.

Cupping a hand to her mouth, Grace took a tiny sip of air. Again her body rejected the vapour as useless. Her chest began to throb. It was like being under water with no view to the surface. The fog was oppressively humid, but she was shivering.

The ceiling track lights had become hectic yellow beacons in the mist. Grace stood up on the sofa, following their glow. The cloud was a little thinner away from the floor.

She inhaled again, coughed again. Still no good. Her lungs were a throbbing blue agony. Grey and purple sparks danced before her eyes. Up ahead, the living room door swam into view. With lurching, desperate steps, Grace charged for the blackness.

She stumbled through the door and the mist was gone. With a single, painful whoop, Grace filled her lungs. The swampy, fetid air tasted awful, and wonderful.

When she looked back into the room, through its curtain of red, the air escaped her in rush.

Memories flooded in to take its place: Alan, accusations, tears, screaming, and finally, the shotgun.

After one final moment, Grace turned, and stepped gratefully into the welcoming dark.

***LAST THING***

As of this post, there's about 2 hours left to enter Lily Childs' Friday Prediction. I'll be sending my winner's picks to her tonight. Check out her site tomorrow for the results.*CLICK*

"Lessons" and Lily's Friday Prediction

2011-07-23T09:52:00.000-04:00

Got some great news Thursday - my entry "Lessons" into Lily Childs' weekly "Prediction" Challenge came up #1.

Not only is this amazing, in that I managed to squeak out a whole lot of amazing stories, but this week's win brought an additional laurel - I'll be your humble (?) judge for this week's go.

The words are: Slur, Invisible, Moat. Give me your best shot (in 100 words or less.)

Here - if you missed it, is "Lessons" (featuring a character I'm probably not done with yet.)

Lessons

Molly stood atop the spire, and watched the little demons play. There was such volatility in the young, and so little subtlety. They roamed about seducing or assaulting at their whim.

It came, after all, to just one more bloodless sheep in an alleyway.

She straightened her legs, and went en pointe on the tip of the copper cross. It was showy, but she was feeling precocious.

A moment later, Molly dropped heavily to the street. She applied emerald lipgloss, and smiled. Tonight, she would teach. Her new playmates would learn what it was to hunt.

They smelled delicious.

Quick Writes

2011-07-16T15:32:00.000-04:00

Nothing fancy today - just a note that Jason Evans' Clarity of Night contest is open for business.

Write 250 words, using the given photo as a prompt. Check it out here.

There's prizes! I'm going to be throwing something in for this one, as I continue to finish up a few shorts in preparation for throwing all my effort behind the novel soon.

I just had some excellent feedback from another writer on one of the stories, and tried to do the same for them in return - though it's always a somewhat prickly situation to offer critique to another writer - especially if they're a friend. My own critical style comes from the way I was critiqued during a recent college creative writing course. It's a little blunt at times, but I found that it helped me immeasureable.

Hopefully, if an excellent story comes of it, then it's all worth it.

Keep writing.

Chris

What's the World's Oldest Part of Speech?

2011-07-11T20:40:00.000-04:00

Thesaurus.

Yes, I just said that.

(Please don't leave.)

The question I've got today is this - when do you decide to dig into the literary china cabinet and break out "the good words?"

I've heard two sides to this story. There's one argument that says that using one precise word for what you mean can be so much more effective than three words that bring about almost the same idea.

E.g.
1. Edward walked with slow, even steps toward Bella. She waited at the bar, sharpened stake in hand. He'd come home smelling like wolf for the last time.

2. Edward ambled toward Bella. She lingered at the bar, fondling a sharpened stake. He'd come home smelling like wolf for the last time.

Not necessarily the perfect example - but I think the word "ambled" in the second scenario adds a little something. There are associations with the word "ambled" that "walking with slow steps" doesn't really touch.

Now - the other side of the story is - pretentious. This is the thinking that if you don't "own" the word, don't use it. (And for heaven's sake don't just go through randomly swapping 50 cent words for the 3 dollar variety. You'll come off sounding faker than a ... yeah.

E.g. #2

1. The killer drew near. His blade caught the moonlight, and in the yellow-white glare, Sarah saw madness.
2. The homicidal psychopath impended. His bodkin shimmered in the moonlight, and in the saffron luminescence, Sarah beheld dementia.

I'm being deliberately overwrought here, but you can see how easy it is to get carried away.

So - what I've come to is this - the thesaurus is definitely a tool for the editing room, and can certainly help tighten up some of those unwieldy sentences - and give you "ambled" or "sauntered" where you had a very matter-of-fact action.

But.

I think you do need to somewhat "own" the words you use. The thesaurus should remind you of words you've already read before. You need to be able to look at that chunk of synonyms and know which one you mean by what you've written.

A little while ago, I mentioned that I'm working on editing a story where the ending took off on me, and I'm just about done the second write. The process is incredibly slow this time around, but part of that is that I find myself being so much more careful this time around. I really am trying to grow my craft with everything I write, and what I'm finding is that I've been writing on a sort of plateau, and to get to the next level, I've got to work a little harder than I'm used to. Growing pains, I guess. But I'm trying, which may also explain some of my navel gazing of late.

As always, you should let your story and characters be your guide. But it never hurts to pick up and play with some of the tools in your kit from time to time.

Back to the editing room* I go.

Keep writin'.

C

*By the way - if anyone's in the mood, and has the time to offer a word of advice on this beast, I'd be more than happy to share.

"Until Dead, Dead, Dead."

2011-07-05T08:22:00.003-04:00

U.D.D.D.

Memories come unbidden in percussive flashes.

A girl.

A note.

A gun.

Red light blooms in an optic flood behind dehydrated eyelids. Tom's neck itches.

In the blinding light a man is standing. The pose says authority, the gun on his hip is unnecessary. The running is done.
"Your sentence ..." the man begins. The only word that matters is treason. Tom shuts his eyes.

E-mails.

Stolen files.

A girl.

On his right, something creaks - something long unused.

There is just one crime left here that warrants death.

This one.

A girl.

Falling.

Black.
____________________

This is my 100 word entry into this weeks "Friday Prediction" at Lily Childs' Feardom. The prompt words were: "optic", "treason", and "pose". What can you do with these? You have until Thursday at 9 p.m. (UK Time). Give it a go!

Eight Days of Madness - 200 Downloads! (and a "What's Happening" update)

2011-07-02T18:01:00.000-04:00

I've been out of the loop for a little bit - on holiday with the family. It's actually been amazing to almost completely unplug for going on a week now. Last night I picked up paper and pen and felt the words come pretty easily. There's a backlog of stuff I want to write, but I'm coming to understand that that's okay. It'll happen.

Some of the stuff I'm working through in my non-writer life has yet to resolve, but the rest and change of scenery (in a cabin on Lake Winnipeg) has been excellent.

Now - a big, fat WOO-HOO:

Eight Days of Madness just hit 200 downloads. That's 200 people that have now been exposed to the phenomenal writing of Laurita Miller, Richard Godwin, Benjamin Sobieck, Angel Zapata, Sean Patrick Reardon, Erin Cole and Lily Childs. I'm so proud of this collection and of all the authors who gave stories to it.

Today is a good day.

Lights, Camera... Gah...my pen ran out of ink... why does this always happen when...

2011-06-20T08:43:00.000-04:00

Briefly updating - I've had a pretty good weekend, writing wise. On Saturday, I had a chance to go to the big Reference Library in Toronto - where the "rare" books live. I got to take a look at some materials for my novel, including stuff that was printed in the era (1900'ish). It was inspiring to say the least.

Secondly, I'm still hacking away on a short story (around 6k in length). For some reason, this story has leant itself very well to me practicing a more diligent editing process. Currently, I'm on the second go-through, chopping out all the lines that just plain don't sound good.

Next up though, and what I really want to talk about, is that I'm going to go through it as if I'm filming it. This idea comes from John Gardner (The Art of Fiction). He approaches "psychic distance" in this manner:

Psychic distance is how "close" the reader is to the action. Picture a camera on a dolly. With this dolly and the zoom lense you can get as close to, or as far away from, your subject as you wish. The example he uses is an excellent one, so I'll paraphrase.

Wide Shot: On December seventeenth of that year, a man made his way unsteadily down Main street, skidding in the smoke stained slush.

Medium Shot: Philip cursed as he slipped again. He paid his taxes like everyone else, the least the city could do was clear the damned sidewalk.

Closeup: Wet, freezing clumps of coldness slopped over the rim of his shoes, soaking his socks, his feet, his will to live.

See - neat, huh?

Jumping around a bit, Terry Pratchett famously said that the first time you're writing a story, you're telling yourself the story. The second time through, you're telling it to the reader. Big difference.

Now, let's put the two together. When you're writing, do you see the action in your mind? Do you hear the dialogue? If you think about it, do you see the camera cutting back and forth between your characters, and the action?

This is something to do (and something I'll be bringing to my local writer's group this week.) Take something you've written. Now, put on a baseball cap and a soulpatch, and mark the thing up like you have to shoot it. Mark your shots (Wide, Medium, Closeup, Extreme Closeup... wiki for more...) Mark up your cuts, and mark your major scene changes.

Now, how does your "shot list" compare with what's on the page? Make that movie - if you rewrite a paragraph from a different "angle" or "zoom level", what happens to the action?

And then, let me know how it worked for you! I'm just starting down this path myself, and I'm desperately curious to know if it's helpful.

Keep @ 'er.

CA

Back to our regularly scheduled #Fridayflash

2011-06-13T16:46:00.000-04:00

I had the chance to meet a couple new people over the past week or two, who played along with my "Monday Motivator". Thanks Rebecca, Nina, and Lydia for stopping by!

Rather than post another (which I was doing as the site I'm about to mention took a break), I'd like to direct your attention to a challenge that offers the same rules and three word prompt, has been doing so for just over a year now, and has a ravenous, rabid following of the most supportive writers you'll ever meet - Lily Childs, take a bow! (And welcome back!)

Challenges are posted every Friday. See you there!

One more Monday Motivator

2011-06-06T09:41:00.000-04:00

Hoping to see a dramatic resurgence in the "writing time / mental will to get the job done / je ne sais quoi / thing that makes me write" thing this week. In the meantime, I'm keeping the pilot light on with another Monday Drabble "self challenge".

Last week I chose a number at random, and googled "motivation", then counted off the number of words in the listed results.

Same thing this time - except I googled "Monday".

So, by Friday, I will have posted in the comments below, 100 words including:

standard

last
lifestyle

Join me if you'd like, heckle if you'd like, but most importantly - keep your own sparks firing.

CA

excuse the mess...

2011-06-03T08:53:00.000-04:00

Trying to get this site to look proper when viewed on most browsers, including smartphones... blogger's not cooperating. Feels like the old Daffy Duck cartoon where he's fighting the animator.

Sorry for the weirdness. Better will be coming soon.

Monday Motivation

2011-05-30T16:16:00.002-04:00

I'm going through withdrawal.

Right about this time, I'd be happily sweating over 100 words for Lily Childs' weekly Prediction.

However, as every true artist knows, and she is certainly one of them, you can't be doing everything for everyone all the time. So, the drabble-fest is quiet for two weeks.

If there's a better time to paddle,
I don't know when it is.

During my own recent downtime, which is getting closer to an end, but still requires obscene amounts of my writing time, I've been using the weekly 100 to keep the ink in the old pencil flowing.

So - I'm going to do one here. Alone if necessary - but you're all welcome to join in, via the comments below.

The reasons for doing this are twofold - one is that, even though 100 words in a week is pitiful production, it's better than nothing, which is what I'd do otherwise right now. Second, if I don't say it aloud, it won't happen.

These prompt words were chosen by using a random number generator, googling "motivation" and counting the words. They are:

makes

treatment

intrinsic

I'll have my 100 words up here in time for #fridayflash.

Want to play?

Blowing the Publicity Horn

2011-05-22T20:17:00.000-04:00

I have to tell you about Unquiet Earth. Last year, the incomparable Chris Bartholomew at Static Movement decided to do a Zombie Flash collection. She held a contest to decide the name. The winner also got to write the blurb on the back cover. I think you see where I'm going with this...

It was awesome to win, and a little nerve-wracking that my title and back cover now grace this wicked collection of reanimated flash stories.

Now, with my name on the back of the book, and my history of zombie stories, I couldn't not submit to this; so I did, and got in... three times.

That's right - inside of Unquiet Earth are three original zombie stories by yours truly: Upping the Ante, Bones of Contention, and In a Little Undead House.

Zombie stories are so much fun to write - they afford a ready made backdrop to show a microcosm of the human condition and extremes of natural relationships.

... and I'm just totally stoked that I had so much to do with this book.

It's available from the Pill Hill Press bookstore (good for US and UK) or Amazon.com/.ca.

Infomercial over.

Have a great week!

#amwriting - Endings and Beginnings and Icon-ic disappointment

2011-05-19T21:26:00.000-04:00

Just a quick update on things.

Damn you white space! Be more full!

It's been a pretty good week, writing wise. I ended up getting some time to myself a few nights ago, and as a result, I'm almost done the first draft of the short story I've been working on (though the clock is ticking on the antho I'm planning on submitting to). This one has posed a problem that's sort of new to me. It's a horror story, with lots of crazy, gooey action, but it didn't feel right to end as soon as the "scary part" was over. I have a survivor, and I've got to deal with him - so I've been writing the ending to this thing for about three weeks. It's the first time an ending has done this particular trick, but I recognize if I rush it, it'll only undo all the cool bits in the middle.

Next - one of the main source books I've been using to plan my novel just came back in at the library. I promised myself when I was finished the short story, I'd put everything else on hold and make a solid push to get this big story going. There's one flash piece in limbo, though, that I want to put down onscreen and get over to a friend, so I'll be working on that when I need the mental break.

Finally, a note of disappointment. I commute upwards of an hour each day, and have been enjoying audio books during these drives for about a year now, and it's now official - I can't stand abridgements. Last week I picked up Peter Straub's "In the Night Room" to listen to (from the library also... love the Toronto system, they have just about everything). I've never read the book, but the audiobook was impossible to listen to. The story took huge disjointed jumps, and made the exposition seem forced and unnatural. I gave it up after disc three (of five.) Previously, I'd listened to Stephen King's "It", which was 35 freaking discs long, but unabridged, it was everything I loved about that story. So - I've come to the conclusion that I'd rather carry a phonebook sized packet of CD's around in the car than listen to a story that's not everything the author wrote.

Btw - as a replacement, I picked up Joe Hill's "Horns", and am loving it.

Keep writing everyone!

Storm

2011-05-10T09:23:00.000-04:00

Still on a bit of a "pause", while I sort out some things "I.R.L." (in real life dont'ch know) ... but I miss you guys. I'm going to try to make a round of the blogs this week and see what everyone's been up to before I jump back into the squirrel hole again.

In the meantime, here's a small... something (not sure if this is a piece of something larger, or it's own thing right now, but it's self-contained, and it felt good to write; to be writing.)

Storm

I sit on my roof and become an animal once more, embracing senses and instincts part of us humans since we began. The yellowing sky is heavy with ozone and the wind is thick with potential; my little paper bag of nails threatens to ride the asphalt ski jump.
Even the trees sound different, as the wind whips through hundreds and thousands of leaves; every edge curled upward, thirsting for what’s to come.
My pocket rings. The pop music ringtone is discordant blasphemous noise against the overture that surrounds me. Practice is over. Time to go.

The old gutter, patched liberally with duct tape, threatens to give way and buckle beneath my weight as I descend. I smell metal beneath my hands, and metal in the air.
A crack opens in the sky, filling the world with light. A moment later, the reverberating crash is heavy enough to shake the ladder. Echoes of thunder roll away, making the gathering clouds growl.

I am all purpose now, and dash to my car. In the sky, there is only the faintest sliver of yellow now. Twilight has come at noon. In my haste, I forget to get lost in the side streets, and I get to my wife and daughter just in time.

The car doors close, and the sky pours itself out on us. It’s too heavy to drive. We sit, and we watch.

In the back of my mind, understanding blooms, and I’m a little afraid. Water enough to fill a stream is coming down around us. The insistent beat slows enough to get moving. We pass steadily growing puddles with little floating islands of detritus, soon to be washed away.

We could be washed away. Nature doesn’t need us.

I reach around the seat and squeeze my daughter’s calf. She giggles.

“Why’d you do that Daddy?”

“Just making sure you’re there – you’re so quiet.”

“I was just watching the rain. There’s lots.”

“Yeah,” I reply, looking at my wife. Her gaze is fixed outside the window too.

“What if it never stops?” asks Julie from the back.

Her tone is the same as if she’d asked “Why is that dog brown?” So I answer, “Don’t worry, honey, it’ll be over soon.”

Looking back at the road, I hope to hell I’m right.

The Man Behind FFO - David Barber Speaks! (Well.)

2011-05-04T15:56:00.000-04:00

Good friend David Barber is interviewed over at "Gutter Books" today. He gives great insight about his new gig at the Flash Fiction Offensive (FFO), the world of writing, and the world at large. (Also: see David's knees at no extra cost!)

Gutter Books News and Events: 7 Questions: David Barber#comments

Feel my pain...

2011-05-03T22:27:00.000-04:00

This song has been stuck in my head for the past three days. This is the best damned presentation of it I can find, and I'll forever associate this song and this movie.

Enjoy!

Oh... and FYI - Eight Days of Madness is now available at Barnes & Noble's "Nook-store"!

Some Quick News - A Review and an EDOM update

2011-04-29T09:05:00.000-04:00

Hey everyone,

Still kind of in a hibernation-mode, as some day-to-day life things are taking up most of my free (read: writing and blogging) time. I'm hoping to be back amongst the blogosphere soon - visiting and commenting on all the amazing things my friends are doing, but "ya gotta do what ya gotta do." Still - I've been trying to keep my toe in the water, 100 words at a time over at Lily Childs' Friday Prediction.

In the meantime, two little things have come up. Emma Kathryn, she of the blog "Beware the Vampire Bunnies" and author of scores of tales in the wonderful Static Movement Anthologies, has begun reviewing short stories from some of those anthologies. Today, she shines a light on my tale "Adaptation", which originally appeared on MicroHorror.com, and was picked up by SM for inclusion in their "Creepy Things" anthology. Read the review (for which I'm super-duper grateful) here.

Secondly... it's not news yet ... but it will be: "Eight Days of Madness" which is up to 125 downloads (!), has now been approved for "Premium Distribution" by Smashwords. What this means is that in about 2 weeks, these eight stories will be available for download at Barnes & Noble, the Kobo Store, the Apple Store, and the Diesel e-Book store. I'm totally stoked about this for the wildly increased exposure it means for seven talented authors who trusted me with their tales of insanity!

Keep writing, folks.

It's Oh So Quiet

2011-04-11T22:03:00.000-04:00

I realize I've been a bit quiet of late. Sorry for that. Life, as they say, has a way of asserting itself. I'm still chipping away at the blank spaces when I can, but some other things have taken a higher priority of late. (Everything is fine, though - no worries!)

Here is a happy song, because Eight Days of Madness just broke 100 downloads!

Keep writing, friends!

"Eight Days of Madness" is now available at SMASHWORDS

2011-04-01T12:22:00.001-04:00

You came, you read, you commented. Now, you can download the entire collection of stories from "Madness in March" as an eBook! For FREE!

The anthology is available in every popular eBook format, and features a fresh new cover.

(And name - because "Madness in March" was a deliberate riff of "March Madness" and I'd just as soon not do anything to provoke the NCAA...)

Downloading the book is free (and in the less than 24 hours this has been available, 22 intrepid readers have already gotten their hands on it!)

So. The only request I make is this - if you download the book - please show your support to the authors whose work appears within. Check out their websites, leave comments, buy their books!

I am so proud of the stories contained in this anthology, and completely pleased to share them with you one more time, in eBook format.

DOWNLOAD YOUR COPY HERE

50 Followers? Wow.

2011-03-23T20:27:00.000-04:00

Still in the middle of a sort of "radio silence" while I try to marshall my ADD into creating something longer than 1,000 words, and force that same impulse to edit those longer pieces that I have written, into something people might actually be interested in.

However - just wanted to take a second to mark this milestone. 50 people who at least at one point, wanted to hear something I had to say.

Cool.

Thanks everybody.

I'm probably not going to be posting again for a little while. I've said this before, but procrastination is a tough habit to quit... I'll start tomorrow.

I'll finish this ramble with a recent quote that meant a lot to me, from none other than Ray Bradbury:

"If we listened to our intellect we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go in business because we'd be cynical: "It's gonna go wrong." Or "She's going to hurt me." Or,"I've had a couple of bad love affairs, so therefore . . ." Well, that's nonsense. You're going to miss life. You've got to jump off the cliff all the time and build your wings on the way down."

May you keep your white spaces at bay, my friends.

Chris

The Madness has Passed.

2011-03-20T22:35:00.000-04:00

I had a blast last week, and I'm glad to see a few people stopped by to join in the fun.

Now, the time has come for me to get a little quiet, a little less "bloggy" and get a little work done, so updates will be a little less frequent for a bit.

In the meantime - I mentioned "dancing" yesterday. Here's the last word from me on "Madness" for awhile. Enjoy!

Madness in March - The End, The Winner, and a ...Bonus story?

2011-03-20T01:00:00.016-04:00

This has been an amazing week.

First off: Thanks go to all the amazing writers who contributed tales,

Laurita Miller,
Richard Godwin
Angel Zapata
Benjamin Sobieck
Sean Patrick Reardon
Erin Cole
Lily Childs

Each of these stunning writers brought their best work to the theme of "Madness" and, as the comments have shown this week, each of them has a growing (and much deserved) fan base. Well done to all of you.

Secondly: When I announced this event, I mentioned that the winner would receive the promotion of the book of their choice on this blog. I admit that this is a meager prize, but it's what I'm able to do this time around, and in addition to the "space", this writer can count on me to provide a space, a plug, and/or an interview in support of their upcoming work in the weeks to come.

This was an incredibly difficult decision, as all the stories this week have been absolutely amazing. We saw seven completely different angles on the theme of "Madness", each captivating in their own way. But- there was one story with images that kept haunting me long after I'd finished reading.

The slow decline of the mind of a woman, waking up in an unknown location, with no idea what has happened to her, to the point that she eats and enjoys her own liver was like nothing I'd read before.

Congratulations, Erin Cole. The top corner of "The Leaky Pencil" belongs to you and your book until the end of April.

I had intended to list runners-up, but choosing one story among seven was tough enough.

Thank you, so much, to all the contributing writers. I am in awe of your talents.

And finally: What if you threw a party, and nobody came? That was my fear as I organized "Madness in March". I've been at this blogging thing for just a little over a year now, and I give my thanks to everyone who submitted, and all of you who showed up to read and comment. Because I was somewhat uncertain of the response, I crafted my own entry for this week, which I didn't end up needing. However, it turned out to be one of my better ones of late, so - if you'll bear this moment of shameless self-indulgence, I'll end the way I began - with a story and humbly invite you to visit with "The Dollmaker and the Rat."

The Dollmaker and the Rat
Chris Allinotte

Gavin chuckled when he heard his cell door open.

"Back again, huh doc?"

When there was no reply, he added, "Think this time'll cure me? Get me outta here?"

The doctor inclined his head, paused, and then said, "You seem to be in a good mood, today. That’s positive."

Gavin squinted against the sunlight flooding in from the window. He studied the doctor carefully. In turn, the doctor remained silent, waiting for his reply.

Gavin burst out laughing.

“You’re not a real doctor, are you?”

The doctor nodded, cleared his throat and continued, “We felt," he said, "that you weren't responding to traditional therapies."

“We?” shouted Gavin, “Who’s we?”

“My,” said the sleek-bellied rat, “You are clear today.” It sat back on its haunches and stroked its whiskers.

“It seems a shame to squander this opportunity,” continued the rat doctor. “I’d still like to talk. If you’re willing, that is.”

Sunlight fell through the window onto Gavin’s face. He closed his eyes, and enjoyed the sensation, resting his head against the wall. After a moment more of simple warmth, he said, “Whatever you want, doc.”

"Fine," said the doctor. "How about some word association?”

“You know all the games, don’t you?” replied Gavin, then sighed. “Fine. Whatever you’d like.”

“Excellent,” said the rat, his tone brighter, “Just say whatever comes into your mind first."

They began:

Hot.
Cold.

Tall.
Short.

Fat.
Disgusting.

Man.
Woman.

Woman.
Girl.

Girl.
Doll.

Doll.
Kill.

Doll.
Evil.

Doll.
…

Gavin was starting to breathe hard. The world was starting to swim again. He wanted his special dolly. The one that couldn’t look at him. He’d hold it so tight. He’d stroke its hair. It would be good again.

"Now," the rat continued, "What do you think it is about dolls that unsettles you so?"

"Their eyes. They have those cold blue eyes that won't stop looking at me."

"I see," said the doctor, twitching his tail back and forth. "And what colour were your mother's eyes, Gavin?"

Gavin didn't reply. He picked at the crust of bread and scrap of cheese stuck to his tin plate. There were some potato chips crumbs left, too. That was good.

"Would you please answer me, Gavin?" said the doctor, his tone sharp. Immediate. "What colour were your mother's eyes?"

Gavin knew the answer would just cause trouble, but what could he do? They would keep asking until he told. Merciless bastards. This rat was no different. He was another part of their “Wellness” machine.

"Blue," he mumbled.

"I see," said the doctor, scratching his nose, "We're making some real progress here today, Gavin. I'm very proud of you."

"Sure," said Gavin. “Great. He ran his finger around the edge of the plate, gathering up potato chip crumbs. Closing his eyes, he sucked the salt off of his fingers.

“Tell me about the buttons, Gavin," said the doctor.

"What?" said Gavin. He'd thought they were going to talk about the Bitch.

He'd spilled mother's cup on the living room floor.

Mother asked him to please meet her in the guest bedroom, that sterile, not-for-you chamber where her china doll collection resided. Row upon row of baby-doll eyes watched. His screams fell upon dozens of uncaring ears, and one that was inhuman.

Gavin stood up and looked out the window. At least the view here was all right. Warm yellow sunshine painted the expansive lawn a violent, vibrant green. The sight cheered him, and brought him back to now, where the “doctor” was growing impatient.

“It seems we lost you for a minute there,” said the doctor. While Gavin had been lost in thought, the rat had climbed the vinyl padding on the wall and now sat perched on the windowsill. Seeing the rat mere inches from his face made Gavin retreat.

Unfazed, the rat continued, “What were you thinking about just now, Gavin? Was it your mother?”

“Yeah.”

Gavin, turned away.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Alright then. Let’s continue talking about the buttons.”

"The doctor last week knew all this stuff," said Gavin. He hated the sulky tone he heard in his own voice.

"Enlighten me," said the doctor. Cold and condescending, he added "Tell... me ... about...the...buttons...Please."

The words were dull spikes being pounded in Gavin’s ears. It was enough. Enough questions, enough tests. Gavin screamed and lunged at the doctor. He meant to rip the doctor’s tiny throat out with his teeth if he could.

The rat doctor squealed, jumped off the windowsill, then darted to the door.

Gavin's momentum carried him face first into the wall. He cried and sat down hard.

Cowering by the door, the doctor stared at Gavin with his queer black eyes and said, "That was unnecessary.”

Rubbing his throbbing and bleeding nose, Gavin said, “You were bullying me. I hate bullies.”

His voice still high and panicked, the doctor tried to regain composure, saying, "You might have simply told me that."

Gavin shook his head and smiled. “That was more fun.”

The doctor crept along the wall. "What do you suggest we do?" It stopped. "Sooner or later, you have to think about what you did."

Images spun in Gavin's mind: matted hair, wet, choked screams, and his blade pushing past resisting skin and flicking those eyes. Blue. Hard press of the needle. Nice, quiet button eyes. His dollies. His dollies were the perfect playmates. No more blue. No more nasty eyes. Quiet, pliable, lovely dollies. He made sure to hug them all goodnight before he left them propped up against the pillows.

No dollies now. No more. Only this cell. This window. This rat.

"I don’t know, Doc. Maybe I should just off myself?”

The Doctor nodded, "That is an interesting suggestion."

Gavin snorted. “That’s not very doctor-like of you, is it? Aren’t you supposed to be trying to save me?”

The Doctor made a small clicking sound in his throat, then cleared it with a tiny but perfectly human “ahem”. Coming to the middle of the floor, it looked up and said, "I’m saying, Gavin, that if you refuse to discuss your crimes, you aren’t going to get any better, and you’ll stay here until you die.”

Gavin didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Bizarre as this whole thing was, the rodent was right.

“And if that’s the case,” continued the rat doctor “Today is as good a day to die as ten years from now, isn’t it?”

Scratching his right bicep, where the white jackets always jabbed their damned “calm-down” needles, Gavin considered, then said, “So, what, you’ve got a better idea?"

"I do," said the rat. “Go with it. Talk to me.” It walked closer, and nosed by his foot a little before continuing, “We were already making progress, weren’t we?”

Gavin remained silent.

He looked down at the doctor rat. “Progress?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. Lots of progress, really,” the rat said.

The rat paused to clean a forepaw. It made an unpleasant, moist licking sound. "Anyway," it continued, "What have you got to lose? This can only help," it finished, sounding almost cheerful.

"It'll help. Maybe. Except now, I'm talking to rats."

"We've all got problems,” said the rat with a shrug, “I've got delusions that I’m a psychiatrist in an insane asylum."

A long minute passed between them. The rat’s final words hung between them like a gossamer brick.

Fuck it, he thought, just go with it.

“Alright,” he said, with a laugh, “Let’s talk.”

"Excellent," said the rat, scuttling over to the remains of Gavin's lunch. “My first question is the most important.”

“And that is?”

“Are you going to eat this?”

Patient #110319: Lily Childs

2011-03-19T00:00:00.005-04:00

Lily Childs is a busy, busy woman. Between crafting her dark and delicate poetry, and stories that seem flayed from the very flesh of the nightmare realm (which she would probably then turn into a delightful pair of wings), Lily finds the time to support her fellow writers in many, many ways.

She's the host of the rapidly growing "Friday Prediction", a three-word challenge presented every Friday (including yesterday... no rest for the wicked). In addition, Lily just pulled off a tour-de-force fiction event with her remarkable "February Femmes Fatales", in which she showcased the talents of stunning group of women.

With a style that is absolutely and uniquely her own, it is a pleasure to share "Living in a Box".

Living in a Box
Lily Childs

Quivering, vaporous forms. They are indistinct as my eyes open to the familiar pale green of the box. Walking, talking photographs, paintings even - that morph back and forth.

My mouth is dry – it’s always that way. Someone sticks a tube between my teeth and I suck in the salty, pale-orange liquid. It tastes of electricity and saccharine.

The figures are clearer now. I recognise them from yesterday and the day before that. One’s a man – an old man. The other is young; his daughter perhaps. She is so thin I call her the Spindle Queen. Inquisitive, her tight face bears more lines than the father, but she has scarlet lips; lips that pout, lips that squeeze when she is angry. I’d like to eat them but she draws back as I lunge, a fruitless effort.

“God, she’s fast.”

They nod heads and play out a psst, psst, psst tittle-tattle game of whispers before turning back to face me. My head dips to one side and I carefully emulate the woman’s fake smile. Mine reaches my eyes where hers does not. With a little flare of the nostrils she backs away, fading though the door until it is an empty picture frame.

I would love to stand up. When did I last use my feet? There are straps at my wrists, at my ankles; around my calves, my thighs and up, up, up to my chest where, without warning my heart swells hot then cold – freezing cold; pulsing fast, fast, faster. I can’t bear the panic. I need to run away. The chair is bolted to the floor but still I try to rock my way out of it, going nowhere. Quickly, my body gathers momentum until with every spasm the leather cuts into my skin, spraying blood over the thin gown. It spreads.

The old man calls into the wall.

“Assistance!”

I’ve heard that word before. It makes everything go black.

From somewhere within my belly I feel the squeal. It mounts and grows, taking my soul with it to the ceiling as its pitch rises. From a great height I circle the seated echo of me and join in with the scream pouring from my other throat. We labour as twins to fill the room with unique harmony.

Assistance arrives through another door. It’s the Spindle Queen. She winces at my song. She calls me Banshee.

I can do that. I’ll visit her in her dreams later, steal her children.

My ethereal being flails at Assistance as the needle is rammed into my corporeal arm. Although she cannot see my wraith she swipes at it anyway, but no matter - I am already sliding back inside. I have just enough time to spit in her face. There is red in it. I have bitten off the end my tongue.

***

Black.

***

“She’s not who she says she is,” the old man tells a gaggle of bespectacled onlookers. He smiles benignly at me so I guess it’s time to show him my claws. Midnight blue. I stretch them out as far as I am able.

“Can you tell our guests your name?” He is bent towards me, not too close but near enough that I can smell pipe tobacco.

“Lompster. Snap, snap.”

The visitors scribble onto notepads and clipboards, muttering and frowning. Old Man Pipe speaks again without averting his gaze from my lovely claws.

“Miss Pearce believes she is a lobster, for today at least.”

One of the group stares at me longer than the others. I wiggle my antenna and hope he will fall into my trap. I’m hungry.

Sniggers and half-concealed smirks ripple through the rabble, and then I spot her; Pipey’s daughter. She’s telling them I claimed I was a doctor last week. That’s ridiculous. I’m only twelve years old. Look at them – they’re the deluded ones in their white coats, writing and gossiping as though they can see inside my head. It’s the reverse. It’s me that knows they’re all after Thermidor for dinner; wondering whether to cook me gently, turning the heat up until I fall asleep – or plunge me into a boiling vat.

I don’t like it. I start to rock. Here it comes...

***

Black.

***

Get it out! Get it out! It’s stuck in my throat. What are you do...?

***

Black.

***

Apparently I’ve been so well-behaved I can go home to Daddy tomorrow.

I don’t know what they’re talking about.

I only arrived here yesterday. Didn’t I?

I’d rather eat razor blades.

***

Black.

***

London. Gerard’s come to collect me. His tone is laden with pity as he rolls out the questions they’ve prompted him with. He must ask them every day.

“What’s your name?” he says as we sidle through traffic in his battered heap.

I clutch my plastic handbag and reply. “Grace Pearce.”

“How old are you Grace?”

“I’m fifteen.” I don’t know if this is true – I’ve just learned to repeat what they told me.

“Where do you live?”

Nothing, silence. I have no idea.

“C’mon Gracey,” he nags. “Hammersmith. You live in Hammersmith, by the weir.”

Something’s wrong. I may not know who I am but I know there’s no weir in Hammersmith. I turn to examine Gerard’s profile. It is bloated, his face scarred and pocked. There’s a scent of turned vinegar about him.

“You’re not my brother,” I say.

Gerard’s plump hands grasp the wheel for a moment. I watch the set of his expression change to one he must have been practising.

“Sure I am, Grace.” He pats my leg. “The doctors said you might have trouble remembering some of the family as you’ve been... away for so long.

I turn the tables. “Tell me about the family, Gerard. Who’s waiting for me at home?”

He won’t look at me. Won’t. Look. At. Me. He’s not my brother. He’s...

“Dad. Dad’ll be there. With Uncle Barry. And, erm, Uncle Roger.”

Men. All men. I’ve never heard of them.

Sunlight hits the wing-mirror so hard the flash is blinding. I squeeze my eyes shut - once, twice. And there, unmistakable – is the shift. With absolute clarity I recall the day I entered Marston Hospital – Marston Asylum for the Clinically Insane, as it is no longer called. Mama. Mama killing Daddy for loving someone else in their bed. Blood all over her hands and the quilt and the scissors she’s used to stab Daddy and the girl – and she is just a girl; she’s my best friend from school. She’s twelve like me. And now she’s dead. And Daddy’s dead. And by the time the police arrive – because I am clever and phoned them – Mama is dead too. She has cut her own throat. I scream and don’t stop until they give me the needle and...

Black. But there’s no black now. Gerard’s calmly driving, his hand still on my knee, rubbing it too hard. He isn’t my brother. I never had a brother. I think back to the green box, Dr Pipe and his daughter and... Gerard. Gerard was in that group of visitors – how long ago was that? He was the one that paid me extra attention then went off to talk to the Spindle Queen while they shot me full of dope.

I hang my head. It’s obvious.

“How much?”

Gerard slams the breaks on to avoid hitting the back of a bus. “What? What are you talking about?”

“I know what you did. You bought me. She sold you to me.”

He doesn’t even attempt to deny it; simply shrugs his shoulders.

“You were cheap; getting a bit long in the tooth. If you didn’t look so young I wouldn’t have bothered.”

I grab at the door-handle but of course he has put the child-locks on. There’s nothing for it.

The bus pulls into a stop and we draw alongside it; the lights ahead are red. I turn to the window and hammer, hammer, hammer with my fists. A few passengers turn to see what the fuss is about. Beside me Gerard unbuckles his seatbelt and draws a knife; he pokes it into my side. The pain is nothing. I don’t care if he kills me or not. I bite – hard. Red spittle sprays over the window and I bite again. On the bus, children are crying and pointing. A woman has her phone out. “Help!” I mouth; my teeth coated with shards of tongue. In front of us the lights turn green. Gerard, already in gear rams his foot down but the bus-driver is faster, twisting the vehicle into our lane. The car hits it at speed. I fly forward, then back; whiplash tearing through my neck. The last thing I see is Gerard’s broken face the other side of the windscreen. Between his legs the knife he was holding has punctured his groin. I am glad.

Sirens wail.

***

Black.

***

The bus driver was cleared of attempted murder; hailed a hero. Gerard – not his real name – did know me after all. He was a mate of my Dad’s, part of the same filthy gang. He didn’t die; he’s paralysed for life. That’s better than any punishment a court could hand out, though he’s in jail now too. The judge refused to give him a shorter sentence for squealing like a cowardly pig on Uncle Barry, Uncle Roger and the man who was to play the part of my father.

I stand here at the final hurdle. When they sentence the Spindle Queen to life imprisonment I cry my first tears for four years. Now she’ll know how it feels to live in a box. I hope it’s painted a sickly, pale green.

The woman from the bus who called the police is waiting for me in the hallway of the court. We’ve been talking. She stands and smiles, takes a tentative step towards me. I raise my eyes in hope, and she nods.

“It’s all agreed. Come on Grace, let’s go home.”

My bedroom window looks out over the prettiest garden I have ever seen. I can smell the roses from up here. And I have space; space to sleep, space to dance. Space to be me. I turn, slowly at first then twirl, spinning – my arms outspread. I am a ballerina, pink like the walls.

In here, there’s not a spot of green.

In here, there is no black. At least, not today.

Lily Childs likes to dally on the dark side where demons wear corsets and nothing is ever as it seems. Her fiction and poetry has been published in print and online. Find out more on her blog The Feardom at http://lilychildsfeardom.blogspot.com

Editor's note: Join me one more time tomorrow for the wrap-up of Madness in March, announcement of the winner (whose work will "own" the top corner of this blog for the next thirty days) and other mad ramblings by your humble host.

Patient #110318: Erin Cole

2011-03-18T00:00:00.007-04:00

I first encountered Erin Cole during the first year of her exquisite Halloween festival of fear, "13 Days of Horror" at her blog, "Erin Cole Writes". I've become a huge fan of her writing since then, and during this past Halloween, was luckily chosen to take part in the 2nd annual "13 Days" contest.

(As you can probably tell, I've mercilessly borrowed the format of this week's event from her - so due thanks are owed.)

Erin has a knack of getting the reader right where she wants them, with meticulously chosen words and imagery. She then delights in pulling the rug out with wicked, malicious glee.

Here, with pleasure, is Erin's story, "Still Alive."

Still Alive

Erin Cole

[United States of America Presidential News Conference; May 10th, 2022]

Our nation is under attack. But do not doubt, for a second, that we will prevail. America is one of the greatest countries and we will persevere through this difficult time—today, tomorrow, and in our children’s future.

* * *

The sun faded into a black and green curtain of light from a debris-filled cloud. Her memory flashed—an explosion—the punch of thunder—shards of glass and metal lacerating her chest and limbs.

Smoke burned air from her lungs (though others could still scream) and something else in the dust stung, like the sharp acidity of chemicals.

Leona gasped. Awake. Her eyes blinked open to a dim space. The smell reminded her of a hospital, astringent with medicine and cleaning solutions, but the room stretched long and narrow, with grooved aluminum walls suggestive of some type of disaster relief shelter. A circle of spotlights shined above her, blinding, but warm.

Whatever had happened, she was still alive.

Without access to memories, Leona didn’t know who she was or much of anything else, just an awareness of the present filled with uncertainty—the fear of what doctors would tell her about the extent of her injuries. From what she could remember, it couldn’t be good.

[Two men were talking]

What are the commonalities among them?

Most share your typical impact injuries: severed subclavian arteries, radial fractures, and chemical burns over most…

What? Leona thought, panic-stricken. She’d been burned? She tried to imagine how she must look, the hideousness of her face and body, but it was too much for her to take in, and she focused on her immediate surroundings.

[A news station broadcasted]

Are you saying these are terrorist cells were dealing with, Nancy?

Yes, Jim. That’s what the FBI is telling us. So far, they believe that this was a biological attack—a new strain of anthrax laced with a synthetic spore.

A synthetic spore?

That’s right. But the physicians at Emanuel Institute won’t say anything else until more tests are concluded.

Dread sunk into Leona’s gut, thick as oil. Charged with fear, she needed to get up, walk around, eat something—pretend that things were normal again. Her stomach growled with an appetite ferocious enough to be its own separate entity that wanted to climb from her jaws. She tried moving her limbs, suddenly fearing that she might not have all of them. Her legs jerked and her arms flinched under a crisp sheet.

She, at least, still had those.

“What the hell?” One of the doctors said. Pitch shook in his voice—something was wrong.

Leona sat up, but with difficulty. The sensation that her head was larger than usual pained her neck. The room swayed. She fell back onto a bed, colder than a mountain river.

One of the doctors leaned over the foot of her bed, starring Leona into stillness. His eyes resembled those on fish, all round and big like. His mouth fell agape. He was trying to scream. When he finally found his voice, it came out shrill and pain-ridden, and he tripped over a tray dangling with bags of yellow and clear liquids.

He crashed to the floor, whimpering like a kicked dog.

Leona rolled her head sideways. The other doctor, staring at her in the same way, grabbed the fallen doctor’s arm, and pulled him to the wall where they both shouted into a speaker next to the door. Dear Lord, Leona thought. I look worse than I can possibly imagine.

She slid her eyes downward and lifted the sheet. Terror stormed through her. The kind of terror when your child runs into the house with blood spilling from somewhere on his face; terror like the laws of nature have fractured and the gates of hell have opened. Her body had been severely cut up. No. Not cut up. Sliced apart, into two gory sections of flesh and muscle. One long line that started below her naval ripped up the charred flesh of her torso to where she could see the curvature of rib bone beneath.

How can this be? She questioned. How could she still be alive? Or even conscious?

[A lab technician beeped through the intercom]

Dr. Gerald, it looks like we’re dealing with a more serious strain of anthrax than we originally hypothesized, one that sustains metabolic processes and prevents organic decomposition through bacteria eating sporophytes. What this means is that the injured might not die, no matter the extent of their injuries. I advise everyone to evacuate, this strain is highly contag…

The doctors, with mannerisms of wild chimpanzees, neglected to hear the voice from the intercom speaker over their yelling and banging on the door.

Leona sat up again. Blood-covered organs glistened and slopped from her gut. She pushed her hand (good Lord, she had only two fingers!) against her gut to hold them in place, but at the touch of warm, squishy tissue, the sweet, coppery smell of blood, her hunger overrode reason. Leona took a bite of her own liver. Madness—hot, black tar—spilled into her thoughts.

What is wrong with me? She pleaded, before taking another bite. She couldn’t help it. It was one the best things she could ever remember eating. And she couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. Leona yelled for the doctors. “Doctors? Please, help me! Please!”

She couldn’t tell if she was actually talking, but the doctors wouldn’t hear her anyway. They had already opened the door and were scrambling from the facility, moving their arms and legs faster than they could effectively function. Leona wanted to do the same. How could they leave her? Like this?—Eating her own body parts. “Please, somebody, help me.”

Emotions, as feral as primitive reptiles, stirred her with strength and determination. She crawled off the cold bed. One foot gave way under her weight and twisted sideways. Oddly, it didn’t hurt. She tried to look up, grappling to lift her head. It fell to the side, but she could lift it enough to look in the mirror, as much as she didn’t want to. She had to look at herself, like gawking at a car accident or descending into a blackened basement. You don’t want to do it, but you do anyway—darkness has a place in every mind and it must be replenished.

Leona hobbled over to the mirror. Though pain should have immobilized her, it was tolerable—actually, it felt good. When she steered her eyes up and saw the grotesqueness of her own body, she froze, unable to recognize herself. But…but…No. Don’t say it! She screamed at her thoughts. Because her ruined body looked gorgeous, with all the cuts, burns, and broken bones. The severity of her wounds gladdened her.

She wasn’t afraid. Or maybe, just too hungry to care.

In the mirror, behind her, she realized that she wasn’t the only one like that. There were others and they were waking up too. Leona turned for the door. She wanted to talk to those doctors. Before she ate them.

Shuffling down rickety platform steps, confusion haunted her. She looked around, struggling to fathom just what it was she had wanted to do. She walked ahead, following the scent of people.

More hot, black tar erased her thoughts. Time lapsed with it. She was standing at a door, not knowing why, or how she was to get through it, but one thing was clear—she could smell people behind it. They smelled like a barbeque and she moaned to devour meat from bone.

Shouts echoed across the street. Leona turned to find two uniformed men in army-green, crouched behind cars. The expressions on the men’s faces resembled those of the doctors’—fish out of water.

Their arms extended with long black objects. She knew what they were, that they were dangerous, but she couldn’t think of the name for them.

“Shoot it!” The first one hollered.

—memories suddenly crammed into Leona’s conscience. She was a mother. A wife.

“Shoot Higgins!”

—she went to the market for vegetables to make soup.

“Now!”

—she had just run into a friend she hadn’t seen in months when a blast exploded everything around them.

“God dammit, shoot it!”

—and now, she was an it.

A loud pop ricocheted through the streets. Then again and again, a violent crackle of fireworks. Leona felt an invisible punch throw her backward into asphalt. She pushed herself back up. More fireworks boomed, but it didn’t stop her from reaching the door to the building.

How to open? She grabbed the handle and pulled. The hinges snapped and the door fell off the frame. The people inside looked like fish too. Leona grabbed one by the head, went for the neck.

Yes, she was still alive.

Erin Cole has been published in various online magazines and print anthologies, including 'The Best of Lame Goat Press,' 'Back to the Middle of Nowhere: More Horror in Rural America,' and 'Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal.' Her stories have been shortlisted in the 2009 Tom Howard / John H. Reid Short Story Contest and won honorable mention in the 2009 Kay Snow Contest. She is the author of Grave Echoes: A Kate Waters Mystery and is currently working on the sequel.

Patient #110317: Sean Patrick Reardon

2011-03-17T00:00:00.009-04:00

It occurs to me that the selected stories this week showcase a balance of "horror" and "noir" writers. It's part of the reason, I think, that there are so many different takes on the central theme.

Sean Patrick Reardon is the third writer who, though I was familiar with his work, and have quite enjoyed it on Thrillers, Killers n' Chillers, found the story below to be one of the best I've read by him, and am honoured that he chose to share it here. I will be watching Sean's future stories with great interest.

(Incidentally - Happy St. Patrick's Day. The choice of a "Patrick" for today was unintentional, but definitely serendipitous.)

Here then, is "Heart Shaped Hammer"

Heart Shaped Hammer

Sean Patrick Reardon

I push the Sgt. Peppers CD into the disk player of the Lincoln, select track six, and the tears start coming before “She’s Leaving Home” begins. I have listened to this Beatles song every day for six months, waiting. This will be the last time, forever.

The day she was born.

I was always what doctors and educators now call ‘hypersensitive’. Even at six-years old, “Eleanor Rigby” would have me crying my eyes out. Nobody came. I was not sensitive earlier this evening though and I will not be telling my version of Father McKenzie what I have done. No one except my wife will ever know.

The pink Barbie nightgown.

Julie was fifteen, would have been sixteen last month, if he hadn’t given her the poison that night. I know in my broken, yet guilt free heart, the right thing has been done tonight.

The first day of kindergarten.

We didn’t like him from the start, ended up forbidding it to go any further. Parents know such things, if they have lived fun, adventurous lives growing up like my wife and I had. He was bad news and we knew it.

First Holy Communion.

Sure, Julie protested, sulked, got dramatic, maybe even hated us in the way only a teenage girl can. We honestly thought it was over. The cell phone, computer, and schoolbag were secretly checked out of love, not distrust, of her at least.

The adolescent female secrets I was not supposed to know about.

A Saturday night at the mall with her friends was not something to be concerned about. Trust earns rewards and she hung around with a good bunch of girls. I dropped them off myself, leaving the pickup to another parent.

The junior high prom

We got the call that Julie was not there when it was time to leave the mall. The parent told us the other girls said she left with someone, but had not returned like she was supposed to. Him!

Christmas mornings, vacations, and Confirmation.

Calls to her cell phone went straight to voicemail, text messages weren’t answered. A half hour later, the police called, telling us they knew where she was. We were scared and concerned, but relieved.

The hospital.

We rushed to the emergency room. The officer we met at the entrance mentioned heroin and overdose. She was in very bad condition. He told us the suspect, him, had fled the scene, but was apprehended and in custody at the police station. A house party was where they found her, details were still scarce. Julie died before we got to see her, say goodbye, or tell her how much we loved her.

The body identification.

He gave her alcohol and she sniffed some powder that he offered her, telling her it would make her feel alive and relaxed. Everyone does it. Julie lost consciousness. He left her to die on the bedroom floor of the house where the party took place.

The funeral

My wife and I attended every court appearance. He cleaned up well, even wore glasses. Turns out he was a popular kid, promising athlete, even had decent grades and was accepted to a college. This meant nothing to my wife and I. He was a killer and a coward. Many people spoke on his behalf, but none on Julie’s.

The plea bargain and probation.

We were destroyed. Life as we knew it was decimated. There was no other child to transfer our love to. Julie’s room and belongings were left just the way they were when she left for the mall that night. It was not fair, justice had not been served, and we were helpless. Or were we?

The six-months spent waiting, watching, and suffering.

He hadn’t changed his ways, never went to college, and was selling drugs again. We were sure of this, had the proof. I watched him leave his dealer’s house and as he walked down the dark street toward his car, I pulled up next to him pretending to ask directions. I had sixty seconds and absolutely nothing to lose. If I got caught, I did not care.

The abduction

The bucket hat, long haired wig, and fake beard ensured he wouldn’t recognize me and run. I sprayed Mace in his eyes and jumped out of the Lincoln, clutching an aluminum bat. I cracked him across the side of the head. He fell to the ground, unconscious, and I took his cell phone from his pants pocket. He fit nicely in the trunk of the car, his mouth taped shut, hands and feet zip tied.

All the things we never got to do with Julie.

I pulled into the two car garage at our house and the automatic door closed once I was inside. The other bay was empty. I dragged him out of the trunk, letting his body crash face down onto the plastic that covered the concrete floor. I rolled him over and wrapped more tape around his mouth, before kicking him in the groin and stomping on his face, crushing and flattening his nose. I hit him in the ribs with powerful swings of the bat. He was now ready.

The sledgehammer

I broke him in every possible way. His clothes and skin became nothing more than a facade for shattered, splintered, and grossly disjointed bones. I thought about the disassembly of Steven “Willy” Williams as he looked up at me and I brought the hammer down on his head with all my rage and hatred. He was finally gone.

The hacksaw

My wife did a fine job covering the floor and walls with plastic. There will be no blood evidence, or any other trace of what has been done. I wished she could be there with me, but she decided to stay in the house and keep the bed warm for my return. I started by removing his head, then cut off his legs at the knees, and arms at the elbows. The remaining stumps were severed at the torso.

The disposal.

His body parts easily fit into an industrial strength, black trash bag. The tools, bloody plastic sheeting, overalls, and gloves went in a separate one. As I lifted the bag filled with Julie’s killer and swung it into the trunk, I was happy, smiling…vindicated.

The Our Father and Hail Mary.

Nothing will ever be found. I am sure of this. There is no longer anything left to find. It is after midnight when I pull the Lincoln into the garage bay where justice was served. The door rolls down behind me and I let out a long exhale as the final notes of “She’s Leaving Home” play. I eject the CD, snap it in half, and put the pieces in my coat pocket.

The alibi.

When I get to the bedroom, my wife is sitting up, looking concerned. I crack a smile, nod, and she smiles back as I climb in beside her. We now have peace, closure, and a secret that we alone will share. We cry, holding each other, knowing we will be able to sleep tonight. I have been home with her all night and she will never crack or deviate from that story. I am sure of this.

Sean Patrick Reardon is an aspiring writer from Massachusetts and author of the crime thriller "Mindjacker". His stories have appeared in Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers, A Twist of Noir, and Do Some Damage.

Visit Sean online here.

Patient #110316: Benjamin Sobieck

2011-03-16T00:00:00.010-04:00

Benjamin Sobieck is another new writer to me, but one I'll be watching out for now.

The raw, unapolegetic style of his story, "The Giver, The Taker, The Monster" caught me completely off guard, and I found myself reading it again, and again, discovering depth beyond the surface that is only hinted at the first time through. There is real madness in it, from a totally unexpected direction. This story will test your limits. You've been warned.

His work at "The Flash Fiction Offensive" is equally gripping. Benjamin's flash fiction has a fresh style, that takes risk, and is sure to provoke a reaction in the reader.

Here is: "The Giver, The Taker, The Monster" 

The Giver, The Taker, The Monster

Benjamin Sobieck

My girlfriend was like, "I'm tired of your limp dick. Go see a doctor." And I'm all like, "Whatever, bitch, I'm over fuckin' you anyway."

But I figure gettin' checked out ain't a bad thing. For the sake of the snatch I ain't speared yet.

That's called, "being a giver."

They start with a physical. Pokin' this and proddin' that and cuppin' these and strokin' it. Everything looks good. Then on to the piss in the cup. I ask if I should give them a semen sample, too. I'm a giver, see.

They say no. Fine with me, there's no porno in the place anyhow. Wish there was, 'cause they have me waitin' around forever after I give 'em the piss cup.

Then this totally hot nurse comes in and tells me my "cree-at-uh-nin" and "B-U-N levels" are something something. I forget, 'cause I'm checkin' out her fine B-U-N level.

I tell her I can only understand bitches when they talk into my cock. I shake the buckle on my belt. 

That's called, "empafizing a point."

She's like, "Sir, you have end-stage renal disease. Kidney failure. This is very serious. Your erectile dysfunction is a symptom of it. There may have been other symptoms, but kidney failure is a quiet condition. You probably wouldn't have known without a urine analysis."

"Are you sure you don't wanna do that physical again, sweetheart?" I says.

She's like, "I'm going to leave now."

And I'm thinkin', good, leave, you prude. Get that fine ass back on the treadmill.

Then in walks Dr. Well. I forget his real name, but he says "well" a lot.

"Well, with kidney failure, there are three options," doc says. "Get a kidney transplant, go on dialysis or do nothing."

"Doin' nothin' sounds good to me," I says.

"Well, if you do nothing you'll die in six months."

"I got pelts to snag. What 'bout a transplant?"

"Well, you'd need to find a suitable kidney donor. But your chances are very low. Your blood type is O. That's the universal blood type when giving an organ or blood. Unfortunately, it's the worst one when receiving."

"But I'm all about the big O when I'm receivin'," I says. "Especially head."

"Well, uh, OK then. Even if you do find a donor kidney, your body will likely reject it. Your medical history tells me you've had numerous infections in your life. As a reaction, your body built up many kinds of antibodies. Your risk of rejection is very high."

Holy shit, this guy is intense. Probably hasn't had pussy in years.

I says, "So do nothing, that sucks. Get a transplant, that sucks. What's left?"

"Well, dialysis. You're attached to a machine that does the work of your kidneys. It cleans your blood. It takes several hours to do. You'd have to do it at least three times per week."

OK, now this guy is just makin' shit up. "Get the fuck outta 'ere," I says.

"Well, people choose dialysis for a number of reasons. Some can't find transplants. Others are elderly and wouldn't recover well from transplant surgery. Dialysis is hard on the body, though."

Now I'm gettin' all sweaty and fidgety. I says, "Well well well, Dr. Well. Looks like you gave me a buncha shitty options."

Kinda wish my girlfriend was here. She always knows how to make me feel better. Run her hands through my hair. Whisper in my ear. Tell me it'll be OK.

But no, she had to work today. It's my own fault. I'm a giver. I gave her permission to get a job. Should be at home keepin' up her figure. Maybe then I could get it up.

"Well, whatever decision you make, do it soon. You have six months of kidney function left. That means six months of clean-ish blood. That's more than a lot of my patients," doc says.

I says, "This is all real nice of you to talk about my kidneys and stuff. But I don't have no problem gettin' it up. I'll show you. Get that nurse back in here."

"Excuse me?" doc says. He's lookin' at me like I just pissed on the Pope.

"I'll universally donate my type O in her mouth," I says.

Doc is shufflin' his papers, gettin' all weird on me. Then he stops. "Well, show me then," he says.

He leaves for a while and comes back with the nurse. And I'm all like, "Hells-yeah" when she walks in. 

Doc tells the nurse, "This gentleman would like to demonstrate he can have an erection. Please assist him. Orally." 

That doc is a stone cold pimp. No shit, you can't make this up.

The nurse unbuckles my belt. I hop up on the exam bed and lay back. I'm thinkin', "Fuck-yeah."

The nurse starts goin' to town on my junk. I grind it into her face. It helps her do her job. I'm a giver like that.

But, fuck me, I still can't get that shit up. Somethin' must be wrong with this bitch. Probably used to eatin' pussy.

That's when I feel the doc pullin' straps over my chest. "What the fuck?" I says.

I look at the nurse but she's gone. The bitch starts helpin' the doc strap me down. Can you believe that shit?

Then a bunch of these big guys run in. They pull more straps over me. It's so tight. I can't wiggle my fuckin' toes. They unlock the wheels on the bed and roll me out the room.

Next thing I know, I'm beside this little girl. She's on a bed, too, with a bunch of tubes and shit attached to her arms. A big machine is next to her.

The doc leans over me and says, "Jane here is 12 years old. Like you, she has kidney failure. Like you, she's blood type O. But unlike you, she's out of time. She's hooked up to this dialysis machine 24 hours a day just to stay alive. Without a transplant soon, she'll die."

"Good for her," I says.

I feel this prick in my right elbow pit. That shit hurts. Then it hurts worse. They're threadin' something up into my vein. Feels like a motherfuckin' worm.

Doc says, "An IV normally puts things into blood. But it can be used to drain, too. It can do it very quickly. Time is of the essence in Jane's case."

 What the fuuuuck?

 "Remember how I told you O is the universal donor blood type?" doc says.

"Life is all about givin g."

"I been g ving all my life. She cant hav e my blood," I says.

"I 've seen pe ple like you b fore. Evil. Monsters. Mad on domination. You take an d tak e and t ke. Now you'll kn w what it is to give. I'm g ing to take your ch nce at lif e. With your bl oo d Jane m ght live l ng eno gh to get a tr nspl nt."

And I was lik , 'T is   is some cr zy s it.'

Oh     mn     ths     is    sm     crz     sht

I            ai nt        n giv            r

                  f          k...

Benjamin Sobieck really did receive a kidney transplant in 2010. He writes crime novels and flash fiction, but pays the bills working for a non-fiction publisher. 

Check out his website at CrimeFictionBook.com or MinnesotaAuthor.com.

Patient #110315: Angel Zapata

2011-03-15T00:00:00.005-04:00

Our next story comes from a writer who is well known to many.  His dark and creepy tales have a nasty habit of staying with you long after the story is over.

I'm a big fan of Angel's work. His poetry and stories are ubiquitous online and in print. Every single piece of his satisfies with solid, meticulous writing that sucks the reader in, and doesn't let go until the screaming is done. 

Recently, Angel announced a new writing collection of his own. 5 x 5 Fiction asked writers to tell stories in five sentences, with five words to each sentence. The first collection is due out soon. Keep an eye on the 5 x 5 page for more details.

Without further prologue, here is "Mad Dash."

MAD DASH

Angel Zapata

They had been talking about voicing one’s needs.

“Speaking of voices,” Shirley rolled up her sleeves and showed Dash the row of scars on each forearm. “I feed them blood. It’s the only way to shut them up.”

She had just come back into the living room from the kitchen. Dinner had been great. Two glasses of wine later, she said she had something to show him.

What the fuck? Dash was on the couch. He nervously played with his tie. “Uh, it’s getting late. Maybe we should call it a night. I’ll… call you. Okay?”

Shirley leapt over the coffee table and straddled him. “Wait!” Her hands were on his face. “Listen.”

Dash strained his ears, but couldn’t hear a damn thing except for his own erratic heartbeat.

It was their third date. When Shirley had agreed to come back to his place he was sure they were going to do ‘the deed.’

Boy was he wrong.

They had met at work. She was training as a cashier. Dash was mopping up a spill at aisle five when he spotted her. She was gorgeous; short blond hair, blue eyes and legs that went on forever. They made eye contact and she smiled. There was something about her that was so familiar. The next night they went out for coffee.

Who would have thought the chick was a psycho? Dash pried her hands loose and examined her arms. “Did you do this to yourself?”

“Yes,” she bit her bottom lip, “one for each voice.”

“You do know how nuts this sounds, right?” Dash clenched his jaw. “Please get off of me.”

She bowed her head and a single tear fell on Dash’s shirt pocket. “I thought you’d understand.” She slid off his body and fell to her knees.

Dash rose and made his way to the front door. Hurting other people he could understand. But hurting yourself? “How do you figure that?”

“Because Dybbuk told me.”

Dash froze. How the hell does she know about you? “What did you say?” He faced her again.

She looked up from the floor. “Dybbuk told me.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do.” She hiked her skirt up and exposed a milky-white thigh. “See?” Blood was oozing from a freshly bandaged wound. “He’s grown quiet now.”

Impossible, Dash thought.

“Nothing is impossible,” he heard Dybbuk whisper in his head. “Can’t you see them?”

Dash focused his eyes on Shirley. She peeled the bandage off and licked it. In the dim light of the room, he could see dark shapes flicker behind her. One of them had horns and fangs. He’d have to do something about that.

“You ever see who these voices belong to?” Dash asked. There were so many sharp items in the room; he didn’t know which one to use on her first.

“Tonight was the first time.” She was laughing, pointing all around room. “Look at all the women you’ve killed. We’re all here with you.”

That’s why she seemed so familiar.

There was a mirror on the wall above the loveseat. Dash stared at his reflection. Behind him, the room was empty. He adjusted his tie and winked. Dybbuk winked back.

Shirley’s bones lay still beneath the house.

“So how do you want to spend the rest of the night, Shirley?” He stretched out his scarified arms.

Shirley slid cold arms around his waist. “Let’s do something totally crazy.”

Angel Zapata is the author of The Man of Shadows, a horror short story collection released by Panic Press and available on Amazon. 

Visit his website here.

Patient #110314 Richard Godwin

2011-03-14T00:00:00.009-04:00

Richard is the first of a couple new acquaintances I've had the pleasure to make as a result of this event. I first encountered his gritty, distinctive noir style at Thrillers, Killers, n' Chillers, and was exceptionally impressed by his economy of language, that manages somehow to be more thrilling than some writers manage with three times the words.

I could go on about what's cool about Richard's writing, but I'd rather let you see for yourself.

Here is "Blister Pack"

Blister Pack 

Richard Godwin

“WE KNOW OUR PROPERTIES THROUGH AND THROUGH.”

The ad grabbed me from the word go, and I found myself reaching for the phone and dialling Happy Homes.

The voice on the other end was upbeat in a sing-song maniacal way.

“Hu-l-lo, Happey Homes, Sin-clair speaking, how may I help you?”

“I’m calling about one of your houses.”

He ran through his repertoire and I answered his questions, making up most of the information.

When he got to the bit about a job, I paused for a few seconds before saying:

“Freelance detective.”

“Oh, rilly? That’s most in-teresting , Jack, I don’t think I’ve ever dealt with a detective before will you be requiring a mortgage?”

His voice reminded me of some musical or catchy little jingle, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

 I looked out of the window to watch a dog being kicked by its owner while he rabbited on and made my appointment for later that afternoon.

The hotel was cramping my style and I thought that owning a place would give me just the break I needed now that I was able to do what I wanted with my life again.

It started to rain, and I watched it come down, washing the streets clean and sending everyone in doors, especially those who’d been caught out without an umbrella, although that never bothered me, I liked the unexpected element about rain. Then, later, just before I left, the sun came out. 

It was a beautiful colour at that time of day, a melting reddy-orange that streaked the clouds just a little.

I thought about that song “Somewhere over the rainbow” and tried to remember the words all the way there on the bus, but couldn’t.

It was a long time ago that I’d last heard it, somewhere in my childhood.

I got to Acacia Avenue a few minutes before Sinclair was due to arrive and took a walk around.

I was wearing the new suit, which I thought made me look professional. It was a little tight and I’d even bought a tie, a coloured one with patterns of boats on it.

The neighbourhood was a good one, a far cry from the council estate I had known growing up. That was before my mother od’d and they took me to the home which burnt down. But that was all a long time ago and I just decided to stop thinking about it, because I could feel something rising in me like a snake.

I passed a mother with a baby in a pram and she smiled at me, so I just smiled right back, figuring that was what you did around here.

Her face looked hollowed out and the baby was screaming.

I walked round the block.

No syringes, no used condoms, no graffiti.

I felt respectable all of a sudden.

Sinclair was standing by his car and I spotted him a mile away.

He had agent written all over him, from his mobile phone to the property details he was clutching.

“Mr Steele”, he said, extending a hand.

Limp shake. 

“Shall we go in?”

He passed me a sheet.

I glanced at it and dropped it on the floor as he fumbled with the keys.

The house was real nice, all new floors and wallpaper.

I wasn’t sure I liked the design since I hadn’t known much wallpaper in my time, certainly hadn’t seen any for years, just peeling white paint and pipes where I’d been living if that’s what you could call it.

Thinking about it made me want to light up but I thought I’d better wait until I’d seen the house.

Sinclair was rabbiting on about something or other and I just tuned him out of my head like a bad radio station and looked about.

It was clean and easily big enough, and I knew I wanted it.

“Will you be needing a mortgage, Sir?”

“No, this is a cash purchase.”

“Oh, rilly that’s eksellent, you’re an agent’s dream.”

“Do you understand dreams?”

He looked at me, not knowing what to say and I could see him reach for his script.

“Do you like the house?”

“Yeah, I like it just fine.”

It was all happy families, kids in the nursery and cooking, real home cooking in the kitchen, not pies with weird shit in them, and I started to feel that snake whipping its tail again. So I asked to see the bathroom.

That was when it hit me. 

I knew it would, it always does, somewhere in a house. I should have known it would either be the bathroom or the bedroom, since that was all that was left, and since these looked like decent folk, from what I could see from the pictures they had everywhere, smiling wife and seriously hardworking hubby, I figured it had to be the bathroom.

A click later and I was standing in it.

Bathtub, loo, some small sink thing on the floor probably for babies to wash or something and a mirror.

Sinclair had followed me in and was standing behind me as I looked at the mirror and saw his face change.

His suit started to catch fire and I saw the mark on him. Yes he was one of them all right the mark was right there all across his face and I heard it loud and clear.

Kill the fucker, cut his headoff.

And his skin started to peel away like burnt paper.

I turned round quickly nearly knocking him over and made some excuse about having forgotten an appointment and could I come back again?

“Yes, no problem, but how do you like the property?”

I left him standing in the hallway looking puzzled and ran for the bus like a greyhound who’s just seen the hare. 

A couple of days later I called him. I hadn’t changed since the appointment and I smelt real bad.  In fact I hadn’t been out and it was a while since I’d eaten, so I had a quick shower and went to the local caf which I liked because there was never any one in there and it was cheap.

After a hearty fry up I fixed up a second appointment.  

Then I cleaned up my room, thinking this was the chance for a new start, for the kind of life they’d told us all we could live.

I looked at the tie again and the boats sailing around on it and wondered where they were going, and then I put it on, making sure I got the knot right.

I was crossing that bridge and I could see normality beckoning on the other side, I could even taste it.

Then I looked around my room scratching my head.

There wasn’t much in it, just a chair and bed, and the small TV I’d bought, and the little picture of ducks on the wall.

But I had a funny thought all that day which I remember now clearly, that I’d forgotten something really important, you know, like the one when people say they left the gas on, or didn’t pay a bill, none of which I’ve ever known, but I just kept walking about my little room trying to remember what it was and eventually got sick of the walls moving in out like they were breathing and so I went back to Acacia Avenue.

I hadn’t realised just how beautiful it was the first time I went there, I was probably focusing too much on all the money involved in buying a new place, but I kept telling myself that I’d just won the lottery, so it didn’t matter. I was going to throw some parties when I met some people, maybe join the freemasons, yes.

The road was immaculate and the people were so friendly, one woman passed me and said:

“Vellcome to da neighbourhood”, and I answered her back:

“Thank you, ma’am, I will be holding a house-warming party later this year and you are cordially invited.”

She beamed me a smile, and I adjusted my tie. 

The place smelt of roses and something rotting at the middle but I just ignored the second bit and concentrated on the first.

Then I saw Sinclair again and thought what a nice fellow he was, and gave him a warm handshake.

“Shall we have a look around, Mr Steele?”, he said, and I just nodded and smiled at him, not feeling too bad that was not my real name.

It was a pity I couldn’t find that lottery ticket, but I knew it would turn up one day, probably still will, and anyway, it didn’t matter.

Then I was inside again.

We walked around the house and I told him how much I liked their ad in the paper.

“Well, we do help people have happy homes”, he said.

“Yes. A happy home is a good place to start, but I liked reading how you know your places through and through, it’s that wording that drew me to you.”

I’d watched those programmes on the TV where they help people buy a place and I knew the script pretty good, so he never suspected.

When he got off the phone he saw me looking at a picture of the family and said:

“Are you married Mr Steele?”

“Yes.”

“Any children?”

“One on the way.”

“Oh that’s lovely.”

Then we went upstairs.

That was when it started.

I knew it would. 

I can always tell when a place has them.

They don’t rattle chains or wear white sheets, that’s all cartoon stuff for kiddies.

No, they always come out of the mirrors.

That’s how you can tell if a place has got them.

And I can tell you for sure, most places do. And if they don’t they will, because why would squatters stay in the street when there are empty houses?

So we kept on chatting and talking shop and I asked him how quick the people could move because I really wanted to throw that party, and he said:

“I’ll have to check with them.”

And that was when it happened.

There was a mirror in the hallway just between the two bedrooms.

I hadn’t seen it properly the first time I went there but now it loomed out at me from the hall, almost grabbing me.

It had an ornate frame and on the edges there were clear blood stains, deep ones like when the blood has pumped furiously out of a major artery. The blood had sprayed all over it.

Then we went into the bathroom again.

He went in first and I followed him.

And as I did I remembered what it was I had forgotten.

I could see the pills in their blister pack lying at the back of the drawer in the cheap bedside table at 
the hotel.

Dr Brown’s face loomed at me out of the darkness as he fumbled with the cord.

“If you take these, you will be OK. No voices.”

His smile always made me feel sick.

He clicked the light on and we went in. 

I had my hand in my pocket and just as he turned and became visible in the mirror, I knew.

He had no face.

Nothing.

Just bloody holes and a head full of snakes.

They were writhing around in there hissing and spitting venom.

Some of it landed like semen on the glass and trickled down heavily.

Then he began to laugh.

I could see his body was full of insects, maggots and beetles and disgusting stuff that would make you throw up if I told you.

He just stood there laughing and saying things like:

“I work for them. They pay me very well.”

The light was hissing and fizzing and the bulb exploded shattering us both with shards of glass and as that happened, I pulled out the knife and just hacked his head right off.

His eyes were popping out like a pair of ping-pong balls and his mouth was moving in slow motion, a thread of saliva between his teeth as he tried to speak in their secret language. But I just kept sawing away at his neck, slicing through his Adam’s apple, and watched the saliva turn red and bubble.

His head came away easily like a slice of rotten meat and hung there from a thread while his neck just showered us both with a curtain of blood and I just stood there hacking away at this last thread which was some piece of wire to their headquarters until his head fell off and thumped to the floor.

It was a good knife, and I dismembered him with it.

I cut him through and through, and placed his organs in a neat row by his head.

Then I just left and went home and had a shower. 

They must have been following me because later that day the blue people came and got me.

I heard their radios crackling from the street below and knew they had trapped me again and would send me back to the factory, but decided the next time I would be cleverer.

You probably read in the papers the headlines they wrote. All lies. Don’t believe a word of them.  

Things like:

“Estate agent killed by escaped madman. Married man with promising future decapitated. Lunatic strikes.  Horrified family come home to dismembered corpse in the bathroom.”

That’s what they print to stop you knowing the truth.

But they’re out there and they’re taking over.

They have your wife, your children, your jobs and your futures, and they must be stopped. Some people can see them, but they’re only visible in mirrors.

I can hear them in the corridor.

I know the shuffle of their shoes.

They’re coming to give me my pill.

I gave up trying to fight them since I’ve been back here, since they just sit on you and get the fat guys in white to hold you down, then they pull your pants down and stick it up your arse, laughing at you.

So I’m taking them.

But I’ll stop.

And I’ll get them.

I’ll get them all.

They’ve killed two of my allies since I got out.

They say they’ve gone, but I know they did away with them and they’re serving them up in the pies. 

That’s why I’ve gone vegan.

It’s my human rights, you know.

I read that out there.

I won’t keep taking their pills for ever.

People don’t know about the plan to take over the planet.

You’re being used.

They’re all agents, they all work together.

Outside, through my window I can see one of them.

They’re coming, I can hear the door opening and I can see their shadows in the mirror.

Richard Godwin’s novel “Apostle Rising” is being published March 10th 2011 and he is widely published in magazines such as A Twist Of Noir and Pulp Metal Magazine and anthologies, as well as being a produced playwright. His story “Pike N Flytrap” is in the latest issue of Needle Magazine and his story “Face Off” is in Issue #5 of Crime Factory.You can check out his writing credentials here and listen to his recent interview on The Authors Show

Richard is online at Richardgodwin.net

You can pre-order a copy of “Apostle Rising” here.

Patient #110313: Laurita Miller

2011-03-13T00:00:00.044-05:00

Welcome, everyone to "Madness in March". Each day this week, I'll be bringing you a new story of madness. Each day will bring a new voice, and a new examination of the horrors within the human mind. 

Leading off the week is Laurita Miller. Not only is she a fellow Canadian, (and winner of best Canadian blog for 2010), but yesterday, she "Shaved for the Brave" fundraising drive to benefit Young Adult cancer research.

Laurita's fiction has a style that is uniquely hers. It is evocative, and rich with imagery.  She is adept at spinning a reader into a wonderful, homey sense of comfort, and then depositing them squarely on their ass with a surgical twist of the plot.

Settle in. 

The music is gone for the week. I want you to be alone with these stories, and the thoughts they give you.

It gives me great pleasure to introduce Laurita's story, "Paranoia".

Paranoia 

Laurita Miller

It was moving.

He could hear it, the soft shuffling, the creaking of the floorboards.

Creak. Creak.

He scratched his ear, turned back to the fire, and poked at the logs until the sparks flew out onto the rug. The warmth felt good. The fire was good.

He tapped the poker against the floor. Tap, tap. He stopped, listened. It was moving. Still moving.

Creak. Creak.

Did he lock the door? Yes, it was locked. Locked in. Tap, tap. It couldn’t get out. The door was locked.

Was it?

He walked across the room, using the poker as a walking stick, and stopped at the bottom of the stairs.  He heard it shuffle to the door. His heart pounded.

Did he lock the door?

Above, the doorknob rattled violently, the sound echoed down the stairs. He scratched his ear and scuttled back to the fireplace, to the light. He smiled.

Yes, it was locked. Locked in.

***

It was moving.

She crouched in the shadows, knees pulled close to her chest, eyes on the door. She was safe in the dark. The dark was good.

She could hear it pacing the floor, waiting.

Tap, tap.

She rocked faster, focused on the creaking of the old floorboards. It couldn’t get in. Couldn’t get in. Creak, creak. The door was locked.

Was the door locked?

She listened. It was moving. She heard it move.

Tap, tap. Tap, tap.

Heard it stop at the stairs.

She scrambled across the room and grabbed the door knob. She shook it with all her strength, the sound echoed down the stairs. Locked. Still locked.

She listened for footsteps, listened to the stairs. They said nothing. Then tap, tap. Back across the room.

She scurried into the darkness, hugged her knees to her chest, and rocked. She smiled.

Yes, it was locked. Locked out.

Laurita Miller lives on a rocky island in the North Atlantic. To survive it, you’d need to be mad. Which luckily, she is. 

Laurita can be found online at her recently revamped blog, Calling Shotgun.

Let the Madness begin...

2011-03-12T08:05:00.001-05:00

See you at Midnight.

Madness in March - Starts March 13.

2011-03-09T21:39:00.000-05:00

Get ready for a killer week of stories, starting MARCH 13. (not April 13 as previously stated.)

Countdown to Madness continues...

2011-03-02T21:27:00.000-05:00

Found one creepier.

The Madness is coming.

2011-03-01T22:13:00.001-05:00

I've been getting some seriously unsettling stories for "Madness in March", it's going to be great.

... and it all begins soon.

In the meantime, here's the creepiest video I've ever seen.

(Note: there's weird strobe-y stuff in it, so heads-up if you're sensitive to that kind of thing.)

The Leaky Pencil

Stories in / Stories out

Stream of Consciousness That Runs into the New Year, Written While Imbibing Red Wine in Winnipeg

Season's Greetings

How do you top Eight Days of Madness?

Greatest Hits (Maybe?)

Focus - Must FOCUS

Thank You

The Moustache: The Short Story

What's My Motivation?

Raising the funds. Putting on the "Mo."

Hands off the Tinsel!!

Tricks and Treats!

A little piece of pie.

Of Monkeys and Fish

I don't know poetry... but it's never stopped me before

Snow and Froth

monster

Say Something!

WIPs and the Uncanny Valley

Alive and updating

untitled

Kind of a Funny Situation

A Year of Friday Flash

The New Flesh: Year Two (or: "It's been a pretty good week")

You Can't Write if You don't Read.

Blog Award!

What Colour is Your Story?

Clarity of Night - "Elements" Contest *Update* Results are in!

"Lessons" and Lily's Friday Prediction

Quick Writes

What's the World's Oldest Part of Speech?

"Until Dead, Dead, Dead."

Eight Days of Madness - 200 Downloads! (and a "What's Happening" update)

Lights, Camera... Gah...my pen ran out of ink... why does this always happen when...

Back to our regularly scheduled #Fridayflash

One more Monday Motivator

excuse the mess...

Monday Motivation

Blowing the Publicity Horn

#amwriting - Endings and Beginnings and Icon-ic disappointment

Storm

The Man Behind FFO - David Barber Speaks! (Well.)

Feel my pain...

Some Quick News - A Review and an EDOM update

It's Oh So Quiet

"Eight Days of Madness" is now available at SMASHWORDS

50 Followers? Wow.

The Madness has Passed.

Madness in March - The End, The Winner, and a ...Bonus story?

Patient #110319: Lily Childs

Patient #110318: Erin Cole

Patient #110317: Sean Patrick Reardon

Patient #110316: Benjamin Sobieck

Patient #110315: Angel Zapata

Patient #110314 Richard Godwin

Patient #110313: Laurita Miller

Let the Madness begin...

Madness in March - Starts March 13.

Countdown to Madness continues...

The Madness is coming.

Clarity of Night - "Elements" Contest Update Results are in!