Zombies Just Want to Have Fun….Part II

Hold on, read no further. This is not the beginning. To truly appreciate this tale, you need to begin at the beginning (hence Part II). So please, if you would, click here. If you’ve read Part I, then by all means, carry on…

Sucking wind and banged up a bit, we jogged through the woods. Others had raced on ahead, some half jogged, half shambled in time with us. The first zombie exposure had been a shock. People wore the kind of expression normally reserved for moments like when you open the front door only to be sprayed in the face by a soured ricotta cheese spewing skunk. You know, part surprise, part disgust.

The trail wasn’t wide and it was chock full of tangle roots, mud, and toe-stubbers. The sun slanting through the heavy forest canopy was beautiful. Lichen covered fallen trees and fern growth provided the perfect backdrop to a Rob Zombie/Norman Rockwell painting. There they were, blood and gore crusted zombies in the path. These were the under achievers, the zombies without any desire to get ahead in life. They served as shuffling scenery, making feeble attempts to reach out for flags as you danced past them.

The trail brought us to an inverted “V” cargo net where zombies waited underneath and on the other side. We crossed this with ease and hit the short tunnels (about 2 foot high and 10 feet long solid pipes/tunnels). After scampering through, we’d have to cross a clearing before entering the woods again. The zombie waiting must have been a NFL cornerback in life. I waited until I thought he was distracted and dashed for the woods. He was quick, I slipped in the mud, and my first flag was gone.

The next series of obstacles would find our party decimated. I was to be the only one of the three of us with any chance of survival. We hit an uphill series of bleachers, having to jump from plank to plank. Upon landing, we had to make it through the field of sprinting, savage zombies. I wish I’d had a camera on my head because it was madness. Pure and simple madness. There were bodies everywhere; zombies, runners, victims and monsters. Somehow we made it through and hitched for breath. However, that had only been half of the obstacle.

Death waited in the form of a hay bale maze. The walls were three or four bails high, the ground a churning mess of muddy water and inside…swarming with zombies. While people contemplated vomiting, fighting cramps and wondering what the hell they’d gotten themselves into, someone began to organize the survivors.

“We have to go as a group,” said the take charge survivor, somehow with enough breath to form words over his vocal chords. “Let’s put the dead people out front, as bait.”

That quote is verbatim. I mean, there’s a no-nonsense, tell it like it is, action Jackson. We knew he was right though and we staggered up to join the throng. To try to do it alone would be flag suicide. At his command, we surged forward, punching forward like a desperate picket charge. Ray went down hard, like push-ups in the mud hard. Face first, six-foot mud spray hard. He made it through with one flag left, looking like a walking Tootsie Roll. I hadn’t been hit, still two flags. The next part happened so quickly that we didn’t realize Jimbo was not with us. There was a third part to this series of chaos and the group was ready to roll through en masse.

It was a downhill run through a field of the undead. There was no time to think, the mob went and we went with it. I shot forward, bee-lining for two zombies, hoping a direct charge at full speed would throw off their decayed brains. I zipped left out of the reach of a zombie who came in from nowhere and then hit the two with a leaping scissor kick, clearing their outstretched claws like a flying squirrel-deer. Just imagine that for a moment. The rest was downhill, literally. I made it through again, with my two flags. Ray was not so lucky. His “crotch-clutch” tactic backfired. He’d placed his last flag squarely above his…um, manhood, hoping that one of the zombies might think twice before snatching at his junk. To begin with, zombies don’t think. Secondly, the wedding dress zombie was not shy in the least. She came in grabbing and though Ray died on the hill, at least he died happy.

We collected ourselves at the bottom of the hill and realized Jimbo was not with us. We waited a bit and still no sign of him. We assumed that maybe he had gone a different route and decided that we’d have to get moving. It was too dangerous to linger any longer. What we did not know was that Jim had never made it into the hay maze with us. He’d been left behind and that mistake would prove tragic. Jim never made it through the maze alive and we would not see him again until after the race was over and he arrived, infected.

We moved on. Ray was now the walking dead, it was only a matter of time before the virus spread and I’d have to put him down. But, for now, he offered to act as a shield, hoping that maybe I’d survive and live to tell this tale….

To be continued in Part III…….Come back to read the conclusion to this tale of life, death, mud and madness…and maybe the odd squirrel-deer or crotch clutch.

Please visit http://runforyourlives.com/ for pure awesomeness or visit their Run For Your Lives Facebook page. Great time, great people. Check it out. And don’t forget to look for Part III, coming soon…

Zombies Just Want To Have Fun..Part I

You should know that I am infected. There, disclosure. Now we can trust each other.

I mean, it may be any day. These could be my last words as a human and tomorrow I may be on your lawn, clawing at your door, wanting nothing more than to gnaw at your grey matter. That’s right, I was “bitten” by a “zombie.”

Hold the phone, don’t call the CDC. Put the shotgun down. These zombies were human volunteers in make up and costume and my brains were red flags. It was all part of the FIRST EVER “Run For Your Lives” 5K, zombie-infested, obstacle course race. Thousands of victims, I mean runners, descended on Darlington, Maryland to participate in an event that has already grown to 9 annual events from Baltimore to Texas, from Boston to Seattle. Nine crazy weekends in nine cities. Unofficial reports have the number of attendees at 10,000. Probably not far off.

This race/obstacle course/zombie nightmare…let’s just call it “The Event”, was sponsored by WARWEAR and Subaru and counted the American Red Cross as a charitable partner. The company mission: “To prepare you for a zombie apocalypse, and let you party like it’s the end of the world.”

Mission successful.

While nervous runners passed military garbed race officials on their way into the dark starter’s tunnel, while mud-covered, wet and ragged remnants of human civilization crossed the chain link fence finish line, and while campers set up their tents and campsites, music, food and beer did the rest. Fifteen bands jammed all afternoon and into the evening. Food vendors offered Pit beef, pulled pork, warm sandwiches and other delicacies at reasonable prices. Deli slicers worked incessantly, providing fresh meat from the on site smokers/grills. The taps rarely stopped as beer became the medicine for aches and cramps, chills and laughs. This was like nothing I’d ever done before, not even when I was in the Army.

Now, this was organized as a legitimate race event. Runners wore a “bib” pinned to their chest, with a number. We had electronic chip timers in our shoes and times were posted after the race (not that many people were interested in their pace or overall time). The flags were important. This was your life. You started with three and if you finished with even one intact, you were a survivor. All others were doomed. Figuratively. Everyone walked away with a medal. Everyone walked away with bragging rights, having successfully navigated a course that sent runners and zombies alike to the hospital with everything from dislocated fingers to broken legs. Hence the pre race waiver.

I took the starting tunnel with my brother, Jimmy and our friend Ray. We were in the 1:30 p.m. wave, lined up and stretching. We talked about pacing and strategy, how we were going to stick together and how best to fend off the zombies. None of it would matter, it would all go to hell over the next hour.

It should be mentioned that the flags are exactly like flag football flags and there is to be no purposeful contact with the zombies. You can’t hit, kick, push, prod, shove or shiv the zombies. No weapons, no animals, only your legs and your wits.

The gate opened. No turning back.

The weather was beautiful and Darlington might have been lifted off a post card from a New England farming community. An eldritch forest bore witness to nervous runners chancing upon their first zombies on the root-riddled and muddy woodland trail. These were the slow ones, the groaners. They shuffled and groaned (hence the name, original, right?), and casually reached for flags. No worries, screen to the outside, use other bodies as an obstacle. Just keep moving. If only it had all been that easy.

There were twelve obstacles throughout the course. Some were more challenging than others, but combined they left you wet, muddy, sucking wind and at the mercy of the undead.

The first obstacle left me with a knee that looked like I’d been attacked by a badger. It’s still healing. We emerged from the woods into an open field. Hay bails had been arranged in a broad, tall, step-like pyramid. We picked our spots, ran up the one side and then descended into hell.

A sea of zombies awaited the wave of runners. They came at us like flesh hungry jackals, clawing for our flags, grabbing and chasing. The woodline was the only sanctuary. Once we reached that, they’d stop coming after us, content to wait for stragglers or the next wave. If you didn’t come with the main body of runners, you were doomed. Survival depended on collective navigation.

I hit the grass and spun away from a zombie, shot left and used two more runners as screens, darting in between a couple more of the living dead. Then, he saw me. His dead eyes locked on me and he sprinted at me. SPRINTED. This worm bait was quick! I threw it into extreme high gear and bolted. Right into some girl. We both hit the ground, hard. I don’t know if she made it, I couldn’t know. I was rolling as he came, grabbing tufts of grass where my flags had just been. No idea where the others had gone. I gained my feet and shot towards the woods. He was right behind me. I juked right and my feet tangled over one another, pitching me to the ground again. This time it was a rolling launch and I was up and running before he was able to gain any more ground. This was not a 5k race. There was no pacing. This was extreme wind sprints with apocalyptic complications.

I hit the woods with a flying leap, passing an undead gatekeeper and making it to momentary safety with all flags accounted for. Jim and Ray were waiting, wide-eyed and smiling. One obstacle down, all flags accounted for and enough energy burned to have run half the race already.

Too bad we had eleven more obstacles to go….

(To be continued in Part II)

Pictures reprinted from Run For Your Lives Facebook page. Please visit and “Like.” They don’t bite…often.

What Scoundrels We Fiction Writers Are.

Scoundrels. That’s right. Rogues and villains. Desperadoes. We fiction writers (notice I say we) are all of the above.

Don’t pretend it isn’t true and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Any proper fiction writer can’t help but find themselves in the company of likewise shady characters. Think about it, we lie. We steal. Why, we even commit murder. Sometimes before breakfast and especially when short on coffee. We wage wars and level cities. We do terrible things all in the name of fiction.

Of course I am speaking figuratively (my lawyer told me I had to state this), but we do these things in our writing. We have to do these things in our writing. The very essence of fiction is fabrication. In other words we. are. lying. We create a lie and announce it to the world. We lie and sell those lies. We are paid (if fortunate enough) to lie. It’s storytelling, sure. It’s make-believe, but it all falls into the same basket. Not truth = lying (or insert synonym here if it makes you feel more warm and cuddly). But it’s ok. People want us to lie. They want to hear the falsehoods we create, because they know you’re just spinning a yarn. And for the time they are immersed in our lies, they are entertained; on vacation from the labors of reality.

Lying. That’s the jaywalking of the fiction writer’s world. Let’s move on to bigger fish. We steal. No, I’m not talking about your neighbor’s antique silver flatware, or that sweet corvette you saw in the parking lot. I’m talking about a bigger commodity, a more abstract and invaluable resource. We steal dialogue and names, clothing and hairstyles, memories, experiences, places and events. To be painfully clear, I am not, in any sense talking about the MORTAL SIN of PLAGIARISM. I am talking about observing and recording. Listen to people speak, to their dialect and speech patterns, the topics of conversation and the slang that they use. Write it down, file it away. Sit in a park, the mall, a bus stop, and watch people. Notice that guy checking his watch every 30 seconds? Why? There’s a story. Where’s he going? What or who is he waiting for? Practice studying people and details. You never know when a habit, personality quirk, or article of jewelry or clothing may pop into a story. Write these things down, but also develop your mind to retain these scraps of worldly currency.

I’m always practicing this. I got my haircut the other day, the first time in 90 weeks, and I happened to have the same hairdresser as the last time I was there. I noticed that she had a new tattoo on her wrist and that her nose was pierced. Not that I was stalking her (hadn’t seen her in 90 weeks), but I remembered that she didn’t have those things before. When I commented on her new additions since I’d been in last, she was very surprised that I’d noticed. We are writers. We notice details.

But we don’t stop there, oh no. We murder people on the page. We take unsuspecting characters and BAM. We kill them. That’s just the way it goes. Fiction requires conflict. Conflict often comes at the cost of one or more character’s lives. We make our characters suffer. We make them struggle through seemingly impossible odds to get what they want. We knock them down to their lowest points and then step on their heads. Does this sound like the act of a wholesome creator? No. It sounds like the act of a successful fiction writer.

Point is, don’t deny your true nature. Don’t be afraid to get dirty. Our readers expect it of us. Our craft demands it. And damn it, sometimes it’s just fun. ;]

So get out there, you rogue. You are a card-carrying scoundrel with a license for abstract villainy, all in the name of fiction.

Diabolical laughter is optional but encouraged.

Time Heals Owl Wounds

No, I am not referring to wounds suffered in owl attacks, although I am sure the same principle applies. And odds are, if you’ve been attacked by an owl, you probably deserved it.

I am referring to, in a purely Potterical analogy, communication. Specifically, those forms of communication that we, as writers, dread. The communication that smacks us back out of the ego-swelling dreams of multimillion dollar advances and movie rights. The rejection.

Whether it come in a letter (a what? a letter. a what? never mind), an email, an owl or a smoke signal, rejections suck. But we all know rejections are part of the game and rejections tell you that you are doing what you are supposed to. You are in the game. You’re creating and sending your children out into the world like mischievous little goblins to tweak the literary ear of the world, to whisper your name to agents and editors while they sleep.

But sometimes, no matter how much armor we wear, rejections get to us. This is especially true for a larger project. Sometimes doubts creep in and while constructive feedback is certainly worth looking into (especially from professionals in the industry), it does not always mean that an entire overhaul is necessary.

After receiving a very constructive, very precise rejection letter on a story that I had every confidence in, I couldn’t help but be bummed. There may have been a bit of moping, some niggling self-doubt. There may have been (and I can neither confirm nor deny this) a momentarily lapse of reason in which I streaked through the neighborhood, singing Lady Gaga and eating tapioca pudding until my run became a bloated, melancholy shuffle and I was picked up by the police. But that’s not important right now.

What I discovered this morning, is that there is a band-aid. Put the piece away and work on something else. I’ve since started another project ( a couple really) and figured I’d come back to the rejected piece after I’d finished the new stuff. But this morning, while reading The Writer magazine and walking on the treadmill (sans pudding and WITH clothes), I started thinking about that first story. The one that had recently been rejected. I thought about the points discussed in the letter and the product I’d turned out. And I thought, I have a good story. And the rejection letter I received (for which I am extremely thankful, given the constructive advice offered) did not say it wasn’t. That thought was my own inner consciousness pouting. Some of the points discussed were minor and some were subjective but overall, it was not that far from going back out again. It needed to go back out again. It had just needed time.

Time separated from my expectation, reaction and attention. Time heals. Time applies a healing balm to that sting and allows us, as writers, to approach our projects with a new sense of appreciation and understanding. It’s like Yoda, riding on the Dalai Lama’s back while he’s water skiing on the backs of dolphins. Who doesn’t want that feeling?

So don’t get discouraged. Take some time and come back to it. Might be a few days, might be a week, might be a month. Focus elsewhere and listen, you’ll know when to come back. Unless you hear a screech-owl. Then I suggest staying the hell away. Time might heal owl wounds but they probably hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

Tell Me a Story About Leprechaun Love

I’ve watched writers gripping their pen with what could only be construed as a focused debate on whether or not to drive said pencil through their eyeball, thus ending their misery. I mean come on, Mrs. Applebottom’s caramel-colored cat in chapter three is an obvious metaphor for capitalist society infringing on the demands of children brought up bottle-fed instead of smothered against their mother’s breast. And what about a third person, omniscient narrator with occasional amnesia? I know, I’ll write a zombie prom story. Zombie’s are hot, right? No, not any more? What about leprechauns? A leprechaun love story? I’ll go all new media and write it as Facebook status updates. No, I’ll use Post-it notes. And it has to be perfect, NOW. That’s why I am editing the first page again. Yes, it’s the 684th time I’ve rewritten it.

To all of you who write, myself included, I say this: RELAX. Am I being facetious? Yes. But the idea isn’t that far off the mark. We writers are a worrisome lot. We have a lot of tools, dynamics and “moving parts” to contend with in order to produce a quality and entertaining product. However, it seems that the more we write and the more we immerse ourselves in the craft of writing (and don’t ever think for once that writing is not a craft), we forget the most basic and fundamental building block of all. Tell a story.

It’s that easy. Just tell a damn story. At its most basic level, at the core of everything we have learned and will learned, we must never forget the heart of it all: Tell a story.

Of course we need our writers’ tool box. We need to pay attention to technique and style, voice and fundamental dynamics. But these are the things applied to and over the heart of the idea, the story. We have nothing if we have no story. Well, maybe we have a grocery list or a collection of random thoughts about what’s actually buried in the very back of my pantry (and if you know, please tell me). But we need a story. It starts with a story and if you remember that, if you get excited about that, you’ll be alright.

Just…tell me a story.

Now grab that pen, hammer that keyboard, and write that leprechaun love story. Don’t forget Mrs. Applebottom’s caramel-colored cat.

Hey, if you are so inclined (and damn crazy enough), write the story as a flash fiction. 500 words and post it on your blog or website. Put the title to your story and a link to it in a comment below so that we can all appreciate your craziness, I mean creativity. Let’s hear your stories!

Tell us a story!

Anthologies: The Whizzing Monkey of the Short Story World

Anthologies kick ass. There, I said it.

They’re like one of those cool beer samplers at the pub. You order up a tray of sample sizes and start throwing them back. Who the hell knows what you’ll find. What was that caramel colored stout? That was good! Whizzing monkey? And that third one we tried, the one with the long name? Too hoppy, no thanks. The cherry wheat was a surprise…

Yeah, yeah. I could have used a chocolate sampler but you know what? I like beer. You can have the chocolates. Besides, it would have been too Forrest Gumpy had I brought in the box of chocolates.

The point here is how cool anthologies are. Some of you may know this already and I may just be the lone weirdo finally appreciating their value. If not, well then, I suggest you read on. If you already know this…well then, I suggest you read on. What? Nothing. Just go with it.

So, I’ve been reading Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files series and being the obsessive, information order reader that I am, I had to do everything in precise sequence. Everything. This meant tracking down the side stories he wrote and reading them in turn. For example, “Something Borrowed” comes between books #7 and #8. This required the acquisition of My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding (edited by P.N. Elrod, St. Martin’s Griffin: New York, 2006. ISBN-13: 978-0-312-34360-6).

The cool thing about anthologies is that you find one with a topic you are interested in, something that strikes your fancy, and you indulge. Zombies? No problem. Transgender circus clowns? Quite possibly. This particular anthology (My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding) contained nine short stories written about or around a wedding with each tale steeped in paranormal roots. So, you’re going into a place you’re already comfortable with. Besides that, you may have been drawn in by a “friend”. For example, I followed Jim Butcher in. If all hell broke loose and things got ugly, I knew he had my back. Point is, you might see a familiar author or two in the credits and trust them enough to spend the cash for a sampling.

Because that’s what it is, a sampling. I read this last anthology knowing only three of the nine authors. Of those three, I hadn’t been too thrilled with one of them. Charlaine Harris. Damn, why’d you make me name names? I started her first Sookie Stackhouse book and couldn’t finish it. But her short story, “Tacky”? Loved it. Loved it enough to give her another chance. In case you’re interested, it’s a story about a vampire/werewolf wedding and it was pretty cool. So there’s one plus, you get to see another side of a writer you may have written off.

But that’s not all you’ll get! Act now and you’ll also get……this set of inside information. That’s right, for the cost of reading the anthology, you’ll be privy to novel info nuggets that might otherwise have you scratching your head. Jim Butcher, in his short story “Something Borrowed”, spins a tale in which he not only propels information forward, but the guy kills a side character. IN A SERVICE ROAD SHORT STORY! And the info is not something that makes the following novel unreadable, or even confusing, but if you had read it, you’d have a whole different appreciation of the scene(s). Whew, that’s a lot to say. I need a Whizzing Monkey. No, not…damn it, take this thing away please. Now my shoes are wet.

But wait. There’s still more! You’ll also discover new authors that you’ll want to read. I’d never read any Susan Krinard, but was fascinated by her story “…Or Forever Hold Your Peace”. I’ve added her to my Nook wishlist. Now there are 9, 216, 542 books waiting to be read. By the same rationale, you’ll get a chance to discover writers that you may not be too fond of. It’s like test driving an author. Ok, maybe that sounds slightly invasive and perhaps not legal (except in Nevada).

So get out there and order up a sampler. Indulge in an anthology or two, you’re bound to find a few pleasant surprises. And if you order a Whizzing Monkey….don’t wear open-toed shoes.

Enjoy, friends!

Stepping Away to Leap Forward

I’ve had a bad few weeks. For months on end, I’d been a voracious sandstorm, scouring the pages and leaving bleached bones of words upon the storied sands. Word counts trembled. My MacBook turned itself on the instant I walked into the room. I measured sleep in minutes and marched steadily toward my goals, dreams and deadlines. Then the Scourge hit.

It wasn’t writer’s block. It wasn’t a “Wall”. It was an insidious and unnameable cloak of stagnation, descending upon me like a Stygian veil. The drive and focus were sucked from my body like I was Chupa Cabra’s last meal. I became a zombie, spending my time away from my computer and away from my projects. As the days passed, the separation between man and word grew larger. Not good.

The sky was not falling, it had fallen. Doom. DOOM! [cue thunder and dramatic rattling of loud rattle devices]

But then we went away. A family vacation to the beauty of the Poconos, Pennsylvania. Hickory Run State Park. I didn’t bring my laptop, or my Nook, not even my BlackBerry. My wife had hers in case of emergency. I wanted no technological poison to get in the way for I knew what I needed to do. I needed to recharge. I needed to embrace the energy permeating the rocks, roots, rivers and brambles of Mistress Nature.

“Dance freely with me, wild, Sylvan muse,

upon the lichen bed where lie my tired head.

Dance beneath the whispers of the world whose

ancient tongues breathe life into the dead.”

We hiked trails and climbed over and around rocks and boulders. We scampered over waterfalls and swam in forest streams. We skipped stones in rambling creeks and ate wild berries. It was relaxing. It was simple and damn it, it lifted the plague from my soul. It wasn’t planned, wasn’t even thought of. It just happened.

And now, I’m back in the game. I feel better and I’m back at the keyboard, raring to go. I have stories to tell and characters to share. I”m throwing my arms up and doing the wave. Ok, maybe not that far. Ah hell, yes. I JUST did the wave. Bam! That JUST happened. In other words: Void GONE.

I know we all, as writers, hit sinkholes and quicksand. We lay snares for ourselves or drop rusty old bear traps of stress just waiting to snap our ankles in half. We self-sabotage and distract and often we battle forward. But sometimes all that fighting drains the battery. No charge. Zip. Not even an attempt to defibrillate does anything. Because we’re trying too hard. Sometimes you just need to step away from everything.

A day. A weekend. A week. Get away and recharge. Do something besides writing and Tweeting, texting and blogging. Take a few days away from word counts and edits. Let life take your hand and you’ll find that by stepping away, you will leap forward.

The Best of Both Worlds

We seem to be a world that thrives on dichotomy. Pick a camp and stake your tent, damn it. One world or the other, there is no middle ground. Republican or Democrat. PC or Mac. Marvel or DC. Traditional publishing or independent, do it yourself.

But…wait for it, wait for it….wait. for. it…..

What about doing both? WHAT!? That’s crazy talk, that’s madness, that’s-that’s peanut butter in my chocolate. Uh-huh. See? It works. Hmmmm….peanut buttery goodness.

I just had a revelation, courtesy of freelance penmonkey Chuck Wendig. In a recent blog, he wrote about the death (or lack thereof) of the short story. While markets diminish and payouts decrease, the short story flounders for a home. However, ’tis not the end of the tale. Short story collections are beginning to grow AND they are doing it via self-publication. Writers are taking it upon themselves to put together their own compilations and market them. You can ePub for free and accomplish two things:

1) Get your work out there for others to read. Share those stories! What good are they withering away in your drawer, or in the limbo zone of your hard drive? Let us read them! Showcase your writing, your imagination.

2) Make more money than you would selling to a magazine. You are not going to get rich off your short story collection, but you DO stand a good chance of making more money than what the magazines will give you. Magazines are paying a pittance for your stories, if they take them at all. And it may not be that your writing is no good, or the story sucks. It may just be that there are less magazines, with less money, publishing less stories from an increasing army of writers.

So, if you believe in your work, if you think your stories are awesome and deserve to be heard, do something about it!! Pick up your harp, go to the inn and start singing your ballads!! Figuratively, please. Ballads and harps at the bar might lead you to getting your ass kicked, or at the very least, a beer poured on you.

I have had some success with short stories, but I’ve had my fair share of rejections. Most have come with invitations to submit something else to them, or with compliments coupled with one minute reason why that story didn’t work for them. I’m ok with that. I understand that and I’m not bitter, or losing sleep. It’s part of the business. BUT, I don’t have to keep playing that game. My novel, “Russell Sprout: Imagination Unleashed”, is being shopped the traditional route. I am seeking representation and traditional publishing. I believe that is the best way to seek the audience and market I want.

But with the short stories? They’re good, they’re fun, they need to be read. So, why not do that myself? And that’s what I am going to do! It seemed overwhelming at first, but it’s not that bad and there is a community of daring souls ready to help you along. The night I had the idea, I tweeted with some questions and got immediate answers and advice from Jane George and Steve Montano.

It CAN  be done. It can be fun and rewarding. There are people and resources to help you along. It might get you the attention you need to help go the traditional route on your novel. Writing is an adventure. It’s tearing down the fences and planting your flag.

So, look for my big, black tent in the muddy grounds between tradition and rebellion. While “Russell Sprout: Imagination Unleashed” makes its way through the publishing world, I’ll be standing out front on an old crate, peddling copies of “Rats in the Belfry” soon. Thirteen twisted tales. Thirteen stories I’m not content to let linger in the shadowy abyss.

Monkey Skull

More FREE flash fiction!! Sit back and enjoy Monkey Skull (900 words)…

MONKEY SKULL

   “What is it?” Lee asked.

“A skull,” the old man answered, without missing a beat.

“I know that,” said Lee. What he really wanted to say was ‘no shit’ but the old man was probably pushing ninety and Lee figured he’d at least earned a modicum of respect. “What kind of skull?”

“Obvious, ain’t it?” the old man said.

Lee sighed and repressed the urge to smack the old man in the head with the skull. “If it were, sir, I wouldn’t be asking. So, indulge me.”

“Monkey skull.”

Lee surveyed the two tables of assorted junk. Presumably all the old man had left in his life besides dentures and constipation.

The skull was heavy. Odd for an empty husk of bone. And smooth, seemingly polished from who knew how many years of age, weather, and handling. The teeth were still in place, probably glued. The canines looked pretty damned sharp. However, it wasn’t the weight or the teeth that captivated Lee. It was the eyes. The empty hollows of  bone-basked shadow bore into Lee’s own eyes, as if it were studying him.

The old man rapped his cane on the table, tearing Lee from his daydream.

“Well,” said the old man, “you want it or not? This is a yard sale, not a museum.”

Lee scratched the four-day-old stubble on his chin. “I don’t know. What am I going to do with a monkey skull?”

“What the hell am I going to do with it?” said the old man. “Now buck up or move on.”

“How much?”

“Five dollars.”

“For a monkey skull?” said Lee.

“Three for the skull, two for my pleasant disposition,” said the old man. “Five dollars.”

“Ok, ok,” said Lee. He fished a five out of his wallet and offered it to the old man. “Sold.”

The old man reached for the bill, but Lee snapped it back.

“First,” said Lee, “I want to know where you got it.”

The old man leaned across the table. His sickly yellow eyes locked on Lee’s face. “Now listen, you persistent pain in my ass, take the skull home. If you don’t find the answers you’re looking for by sunrise tomorrow, bring the skull back. I’ll give you your five dollars.”

There was something in the old man’s face, something in his eyes, that told Lee he wouldn’t see him, or his five dollars again. That he wouldn’t need to, because by sunrise tomorrow, he’d be well aware of what he’d bought from a roadside yard sale.

He placed the five in the old man’s calloused hand and nodded. “Pleasure.”

Lee was a few steps from the table when the old man called out to him one last time. “And son, thank you.”

Lee woke up sweat soaked and trembling. It was still dark. He’d left the window open and the breeze teased the curtains, forcing them to sway in the moonlit beams.

He grabbed the alarm clock and brought it closer, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The digital red numbers told him it was 3:27 a.m. Lee dropped his head back onto the pillow and tried to slip back to sleep. It wasn’t working.

He’d had the strangest dream. In his dream, he was out, somewhere in the city. Somewhere with music and dancing and flashing lights that splashed across the bare backs of barely dressed young women. It was loud and pulsing, heavy with the musk of stale cigarettes and perspiration, reeking of alcohol and pungent with blood.

There was an alley. Rough brick and sewage and lips pressed, locked together and sweet perfume. Steam vent swirls that curled like translucent snakes around her stiletto heels. Burgundy lipstick and nails to match and her hips, supple curves under his grip.

His grip, tightening on her hair, on her wrists as she struggled to pull away. On her throat as her eyes registered fear. On her face, clamping over her mouth so she couldn’t scream. Her pulse hammered in her neck, blood rising. Warm blood rising as his teeth tore and savaged the soft flesh beneath.

Hot, coppery blood splashed the back of his throat, coated his tongue, ran in rivulets down his chin. He drank and chewed and ripped the life from her, punching through her chest to pull free her heart and offer it in primal sacrifice to the ancient and elder gods who once walked beneath the pale and ancient moon.

   Your offering pleases us, Lee Mason…

   Lee snapped upright, throwing the covers off. “Who’s there? Who said that?”

The curtains snapped and the shutters banged open. Lee leapt from his bed, twisting and sliding from the tangle of sheets. He ran to the open window, meaning to close and latch it. His bare feet met something wet and slippery on the floorboards.  Something dark.

He slipped before the windowsill, falling in the drying, now sticky blood. Blood, coating his hands and staining his knees. Blood caked under his fingernails. He clawed his way up and away from the horror, stumbling naked down the hall, clothed in blood and sweat. Her blood, his sweat. He knew that now.

He flipped the light on and dashed to the sink, gripping the porcelain. His own pulse thundered in his ears. His head ached, burned. He lifted his face to the mirror and stared at the reflection staring back.

Staring at those sickly, old yellow eyes.

Writing Can Be a Shard of Wood Under Your Toenail

I’ll preface this by saying that I will never EVER give up writing. Never. Why? Because it’s in my blood. It’s out of my hands. I have no choice.

This qualifies me to call myself a writer AND to be declared certifiably insane. Why? Because writing is NOT easy (usually). Writing is hard work. Sometimes it’s torture. Sometimes it’s a shard of wood shoved deep under your toenail.

I make this statement having experienced both. Last week, while wearing sandals, I drove a shard of wood so far under my toenail that the local torturer’s guild was a bit surprised. So, yes, I am fully aware of the analogy I am making. To say it hurt like hell is like saying that bacon is just kind of good.

Coincidentally, I had a week where the writing was just not even remotely easy. I had to bleed out every sentence, wrestle every single word to the paper. It was torture, it was work. But I didn’t stop. Why? Because I am a writer and sometimes that’s what writing is.

However, like physical wounds, writing wounds heal. You have to give them time and you have to take care of them. So, while the toe healed and the antibiotics fought off infection, I wrote through the agony. I wrote through the “block”, “wall”, “lack of inspiration”, “absent muse”, whatever you want to call it. Sure, word counts were low, but 100 words on the page is better than zero.

I wrote and I struggled and I wrote some more and by the end of the week…I discovered that I had written right through the chapter that was giving me such a hard time. I tell you this to share with new writers, to remind veteran writers, and to shed a light on the craft for those curious about writing.

Writing is hard. Writing is work. Writing can be torture at times. But, writing IS magic and no matter how many shards of wood anyone shoves under my toenails, I’ll never give it up.

Happy writing!!!!!

If you need further proof that writing is difficult, please learn from Don Music and Kermit the Frog..