I haven’t done a lot of original writing in the past few months. I’ve mostly edited my hopeful novel (still a work in progress) and continued revisions of “Shadow of Nosferatu”. I love Shadow and hope to get it published somewhere, someday. It’s got a cub reporter, vampires, and Nazis. Who could ask for anything more? If anyone wants to beta read it, just let me know. I’ve joined a local writers group (with actual published authors) and got some useful feedback on the first 1,000 words. I was talking about it in an online “writers lounge” and an editor I’d had passing words with asked to see the opening. He also gave me some good advice. He also said he’d love to ask for more, but he’s mired in editing two books at the moment. But words like that give me hope that I’m not just spitting into the wind. Also having 35 pieces (and counting) accepted for publication doesn’t hurt.
Speaking of…
I have 3 stories coming out so far in 2024. A very short piece, “The Session” (1600 words), will come out this month in TPT (Text, Power, Telling) magazine’s winter issue. It’s an online only wellness magazine. Their focus is healing from abuse. “The Session” is semi-autobiographical, based on my session with a counselor when I came face to face with my own sexual abuse as a child. It was a difficult piece to write and even more difficult to share. I’ve gotten better about saying it out loud to others when necessary. I’m also in a wonderful online support group.
In May, Black Sheep magazine will run my story “Worlds Away” (2600 words). It’s just a little story I dashed off one night while thinking about the possibilities of a multiverse. Apparently the Webb telescope has followed up on some of Hawking’s experiments and determined that an infinite number of universes is possible. The recent MCU installment, “Dr. Strange and the Multiverse of Madness” also takes off on it. I didn’t think my story was all that special, but Black Sheep snapped it up as soon as I sent it around.
Later this year “The Stick Men” (2790 words) will be out in From the Yonder 5. I’ve reworked the story a number of times trying to get it just right. It’s a very dark horror piece that came from a story my Mom told me. She said she saw the stick men when she was a girl. She was adamant it was real and said she was going to write about it. I don’t think she ever did, since I couldn’t find anything about it in her things after she died. It’s a pity. I would love to have had that as a reference for the story. I’m not sure exactly when From the Yonder will be out, but FTY3 and FTY4 came out in successive Junes, so I’m guessing June 2024.
Anyone who knows me knows that I love ocean cruises. More specifically, dance ocean cruises. It’s a hobby of mine. I’ve been on twenty, mostly to the Caribbean, once to Bermuda. At this point, one palm tree looks like the next, but I don’t go for the island. I go for the experience. I’m not the typical tourist frantic to have fun at all costs. I appreciate the serenity of the quiet on my private balcony; the timeless calm of the Admiral’s club in the morning; never having to cook or clean up, but having food available 24/7. Dinner conversation with newfound friends is always fascinating, like how many of the women at our table carried pistols daily (nearly all of them!). Or that the ship’s version of key lime pie turned out to be a neon green mousse. Always an adventure.
The add on of dancing is the extra draw. I have loved ballroom dancing for over forty years. The opportunity to do it every night is hard to resist.
So, the upshot is I endeavor to plan at least one cruise per year. I missed a couple of years during the pandemic shutdown, but we’re back in business now. My most recent cruise was planned to depart on the Sunday after Thanksgiving last year.
I jump about among the cruise lines, depending on whatever variable pops up. This past cruise was on Queen Mary 2, I think it was my fourth one with Cunard. It was scheduled for departure on Sunday, November 26, the busiest air traffic day of the year. My travel partner and I were to fly from our local airport (RDU in North Carolina) to LaGuardia in NY and catch a transfer to the ship. We were originally scheduled to fly out at 9:30, land at 11, embark at 2, and sail away at 5. It didn’t work out that way.
We got to our departure gate at the airport the recommended two hours early. As the departure time neared, a “delayed” notice went up. It was just an hour delay for mechanical problems. No big deal. Then the hour delay became two, then three. By then I was becoming alarmed. My proactive travel partner contacted our travel agent, who talked with Cunard and American Airlines. As negotiations went on, the posted arrival time in NY was moved to 6:30 pm, well after the ship was set to leave. Obviously, Cunard couldn’t hold the ship for two people. We were seeking other flights, but American maintained there were no available seats to NY that day. I was dejected, seeing as my vacation was being scrubbed, but consoled myself that since we were not at fault, and I had Cunard insurance, my funds would be returned. But wait!
I’m not sure who suggested it, but a plan came together that American would fly the two of us to Miami that evening, and the next morning fly us to St. Kitts, where the ship was scheduled to dock in four days. We could join the cruise there. I jumped at the chance to salvage my cruise. Four days in St. Kitts. What was the downside?
Some people may say the downside was missing the cruise experience – no games, no activities, no whatever. But the alternative was no cruise. And as I mentioned above, I’m not about the games and activities. I want pleasant surroundings, good food, and an opportunity to dance.
So we agreed to the seven pm flight to Miami. Which was delayed. We finally got out late and into Miami around 11. Since we’d only be there overnight we just grabbed the Miami Airport Hotel – kind of a dump. We got disconnected from our luggage but they found it for us in short order.
Up the next morning for our flight to St. Kitts. Which was, wait for it, delayed. But we eventually departed and by the afternoon were looking down on the inviting emerald island of St. Kitts.
After a lengthy immigration process we were off to our hotel. In my conversation with Cunard Care insurance they said to pick a hotel and keep up with my meal receipts and they’d reimburse me. I foolishly believed them. I asked about parameters for the hotel. The lady on the phone said just to keep it within reason, nothing extravagant. So we looked for something within reason, not extravagant. We came up with the Koi Resort. It was listed as four star, which I guessed to be about three star in the US. It was a nice place, nothing too problematic. The online ad said it had a nightclub attached, but that turned out to be misleading. The hotel restaurant bar was open late and they played the radio. I guess that was the nightclub.
There were only a few other residents so it was quiet and relaxing. The rooms were large and comfortable with one odd feature. Entering the room, to the immediate right was the bathroom. Then came the main bedroom. The wall between the bedroom and the bathroom was a large window. You could sit in the large garden tub in the bathroom and wave to people in the main room. Or brush your teeth while others watched. The toilet was in a little separate room with a door, all made of clear glass. So you could sit on the toilet but not miss whatever might be going on in the bedroom. There was also a shower stall, all glass. I’m not especially bashful, but during my marriage, my wife and I haven’t made it a habit of watching each other’s personal hygiene rituals. At least there was a little window shade you could pull down if you wanted privacy while in the bathroom. (Disclosure: I was traveling with a partner, not my wife. We had separate rooms.)
My third-floor balcony looked out over palm trees to the beautiful Caribbean Sea. And that night, a full moon cast a lovely glow, leaving a stream of silver across the water.
Next day we walked about town, and the following day booked a snorkeling expedition (basically the same one we had planned to take the day the ship was docked in St. Kitts.)
Then our ship came in. We showed up at the dock with our luggage and boarding passes and within minutes where whisked onto the ship and into our rooms. No muss, no fuss.
I thoroughly enjoyed my four days in St. Kitts. No hurry, just exist in the beauty and warmth of the tropics. We heard from others that it was raining and cold in NY when they boarded and the rain and cold continued for several days. In the meantime, we basked in the sun.
My partner was a bit put out that we missed the dancing on the ship. We tried to create our own dance one evening. There was a wooden terrace between the restaurant and the pool. I tried to play music on my ipod to dance, but my speakers wouldn’t cooperate. In the end, I put the ipod in my shirt pocket and we danced. No one else could hear, not the couple making out in the dark corner of the pool, not the restaurant wait staff who all congregated at the windows watching (and applauding).
The rest of the cruise was uneventful but fun. When we got back to reality, I filed with Cunard Care’s insurance arm, Aon. My four days on St. Kitts came to just over $1500 (you can’t find a decent hotel under $200 on a resort island). Ironically, four days was exactly one third of my cruise, which divided out came to just over $1400, so not much different. Aon came back that their limit was $1000. When I appealed, they just re-sent the statement that their limit was $1000.
My appeal mentioned that the ship owed me at least $1400 for the unused portion of my passage. And I question the $1000 limit. Last year I was also on the QM2 when I contracted covid. I was quarantined to my room for the last three days of the cruise. I watched TV, basked on my balcony and had all my meals delivered. When I filed for insurance the company stated I had missed the full use of the ship for three days and awarded me $500 per day. I got a check for $1500. No mention was made then of any $1000 limit.
I considered continuing to fight it, but couldn’t find a way. There is no route I could see to actually contact anyone at the insurance company. They are all hidden behind impenetrable menus. I also complained to my travel agent, but got no response, which was surprising. She’s usually helpful with contacting the big corporations. So I just consider it a lesson learned. I’ll avoid Cunard for a while. My next cruise is on Norwegian Cruise Lines.
Just a quick review of last night on DWTS. Not much of note happened.
There were two standout dances. Xochitl was excellent in her salsa. Full of energy, excitement, exuberance, yet precise. Just as we expect from Val. He’s got a good one this year. And Mraz brought one of the better rumbas in recent history. Full of steam and sensuality. That arm line halfway through sent chills up my spine, the first chill bumps of the season. I felt like I needed a cigarette when it was done. These two are definite contenders.
For the most part the other dancers who scored well last week either lost a point or held steady and the ones who scored poorly gained a point or two or held steady. Except Mauricio. He should have been bumped. Even not factoring in his gaff, he just wasn’t getting it. At one point he did some double step mess that reminded me of Billy Ray Cyrus at his worst.
The best dance of the evening, however, was Alan’s cha cha. It was hard to take my eyes off him. He threw down and let it all fly. As Scotty said in Shall We Dance, “Slick Willie was working it.” Unfortunately, he left his partner behind. While he was strutting his stuff, Jamie Lynn looked like the cleaning lady who had stumbled onto the set. Bad form to upstage your partner like that.
Other items of note:
Was that Mark Ballas in the audience voguing the Tiny Tim hairdo?
Bruno’s comment, “I’ve never been in the closet, baby.” So true.
Mira and Gleb had to salsa to Enrique’s Bailamos. Unfortunately the song is a samba. There IS a difference. I thought the band might have arranged it differently to accommodate being used for salsa, but they didn’t. Played it as a straight samba. And Mira struggled.
Creepiest moment of the night:
Bruno wanted to see more skin in Harry Jowsey’s dance.
Harry slipped his open shirt aside, “Here’s a nipple for you, Bruno.”
Bruno, “I want to see more than a nipple.”
Looking forward, I see that the last DWTS in October falls on Halloween. It should be entertaining. They always go all out on the costuming. Some of my favorite routines have been from the Halloween episodes.
As predictable as a swarm of locusts, that time of season is upon us again. Dancing With The Stars has returned, and this time, not just on Disney. Now that the dust has settled from the first night out, I thought I’d take a look at the mix of misbegotten miscreants they’ve assembled for this go round – a veritable motley crew of who’s who and who the hell are you?
Alfonso is okay, Julianne is very nice to look at, and oh, I have missed Bruno. He is just so deliciously dementedly disturbed.
To start with, three of the guys stunk up the ballroom on Tuesday night. In order from bad to worst they were Tyson with one OMG, Matt with two OMGs and Harry with a records setting three OMFGs.
Tyson is pretty enough and has a great body, but that goes along with being a model and a stripper. Which is part of what puzzles me. I’ve never seen the Chippendales perform, but I did see Magic Mike. There is an art to getting nekkid, a combination of sultry, slinky, sinuous and sinful moves much akin to dancing. Whitney even incorporated it into one of her routines. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WG_QH4R1DA4
So what happened? He’s a total dud.
As for Matt, I thought grandpa had game. It made me smile. That’s what a comic does.
And as for Harry, that was so freaking bad. Possibly the worst dancer since Master P or Sean Spicer. He’s pretty, got a good bod and I like the English accent, but it takes a lot more than that. I liked Bruno’s comment that whenever Rylee let go he wandered around like a tourist looking for Times Square. And I’m still not sure what his notoriety is. Guess I’m outta touch with the 2020s.
Barry Williams and Alyson Hannagan fell into the category of “Whatever happened to…?”
I was never a Greg fan, I had more of a thing for Marcia. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. He surprised me, but I think age will limit him. And I remembered Alyson from American Pie. She still resembles her younger self (she was 25 when she made the move; now she’s 49, so basically half her life ago). Loved the faces she made, but her dance lacked energy.
Adrian. Football player.
Then there were Legs 1, Legs 2, and Legs 3. Lele gets the crown for the best legs. The top of her legs were at Alfonso’s navel. She looks kinda scary, though. Something about the makeup. But I loved the song and attitude. And Mira – those legs. Couldn’t take my eyes off them. The old gal can really work it.
Legs 3 is also a Bachelorette. Is there some franchise thing that every Bachelorette has to be on DWTS? They just show up like a bad penny. And for me, their crass commercialization of what’s supposed to be personal between two people has done more to damage marriage than any supposed issues with the LGBTQ+ population.
Mauricio says he’s from Real Housewives of some city. It’s just a hunch, but I don’t think he plays a housewife. And what’s that about anyway? A show about doing the dishes, making the beds, laundry and cooking dinner? That’s what a real housewife does. Doesn’t sound that interesting to me. And he looks kinda shady.
I found it interesting that not a word was said about Britney when little sis was on. The producers couldn’t find an overgrown kid from the CW network fresh out of rehab so they got the next best thing. Maybe they were hoping she’d spontaneously combust like her sister. That would be a ratings bonanza. Her dance was tentative, but not awful. I believe she said she was basically trying not to vomit, so it was a win. Gotta love that attitude.
Who expected Jason Mraz to kill it? Musicians have historically done really well (Nicole Scherzinger) or really bad (Billy Ray Cyrus, Michael Bolton). Looks like he may make the former category.
I gotta say one of my favorites is Xochitl. You gotta have moxie to have a name like that and she’s so excitable. She’s young, unbreakable, and will do as she’s told. Val can win it with a burlap bag, so he’s bound to take her to the finals.
But the biggest and best surprise of the night was the show stopping finale. I have no idea what Vanderpump Rules is or why a person’s personal tragedy is fodder for those cretins. Personal should be private. But she went with it and had her life detonate in real time. But she seems to be taking Kelly Clarkson’s “What Doesn’t Kill You” to heart and came back swinging. And she hit it out of the park. The piece rated one loud “Dayum!” from me. A stellar performance. And I loved Pasha’s red jacket. But he forgot the shirt.
Predictions. The final will be Val and Xochitl, Pasha and Ariana, one or two of the Legs, and Jason Mraz.
Well, I guess it had to happen sometime. I’ve been cancelled. My story, Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, was accepted for a horror anthology called December Tales II. Then this week I got this very nicely worded note that I’m cancelled.
My sincere apologies. I really do enjoy your story, but as I’m editing the stories I’ve selected for the collection, deciding which fits best where, it has finally dawned on me that yours is much more graphic in its violence than the others. I’ve gone back and forth several times, but I’ve decided it’s too much of an outlier. I am sincerely sorry if I’m disappointing you, but I’ve decided against including “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep,” since it doesn’t fit in well with the others. I do ask that you keep the payment to help make up for the hassle I’ve given you, and you are, of course, free to submit the story elsewhere.
Nice, but it still stings. I never set out to be a horror writer, but sometimes I really can’t control what comes out of my fingers when I’m typing. I just go with the flow. I must be doing something right, in re horror, because those are my best-selling stories. But now I’ve gone too far? Ironically, I made the acquaintance of a teacher in Gibraltar last year who was looking for stories for her middle grade students. I sent her Now I Lay Me Down and she said her students (aged 11-14) absolutely loved it. If the story is tame enough for middle school children, but is too over the top for December Tales, it must be a very tame anthology. I may see if I can get a copy when it comes out to compare. And if you need any reminders of Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, just poke around this blog. There’s a link somewhere.
Some of my earlier posts had wandered away so I collected them all and deposited them in the Other Writing file.
I got a rejection today that said, “Sorry but we don’t print YA fiction.” Ok, my characters were all teenagers, but the story was horror, not YA. There is a difference. But whatever. You may ask how I know what to send where. Or not. When I began this, I had no idea how it worked. I still may lack knowledge, but I’ve figured out some of it. Over the past five years I’ve picked up sources to find out what magazines and anthologies are actively seeking stories. I don’t usually tailor my stories for them, I write what I want and then when submissions open, I look around for something that matches. Some magazines will take just about anything, but if you pay attention you will find the type of story they prefer. Some sites are more specific. You’re not going to be successful sending a young adult romance to a horror magazine. Nor a slasher story to a magazine that prints literary fiction.
Sometimes a magazine or anthology will have a theme. They want all the stories to be about a certain idea, like the environment, or to have a specific item show up. Then there are the first line and last line types. There is a magazine site called The First Line. Each season they set up the first line for a story and everyone takes it from there. One I remember was “That afternoon we had to decide what to do with the body.” There is another place where they give you the last line of a story. I found that’s a little harder to work with. I find taking off from a writing prompt easier than starting cold and having to end up at a specific spot. But I did it.
Yellow Piece of Paper came from two different calls for submissions. An old-fashioned group called Thema put out this open call.
We’re reading submissions on three themes currently: To the Pond (deadline 1 March 2022); The Crumpled Yellow Paper (deadline 1 July 2022); and So THAT’s Why (deadline 1 November 2022). The premise (target theme) must be an integral part of the plot, not necessarily the central theme but not merely incidental.
I say old-fashioned because they didn’t accept emailed manuscripts. You had to actually send them a paper copy. I believe they are the only place I have ever sent a hard copy of a story.
At the same time, another site called The Last Line wanted submissions of stories with this last line: “The shredder roared to life, grinding the paper into tiny pieces of confetti”. I had written a story on the crumpled yellow paper theme and realized this line would be an appropriate end to my story. I tacked it on and sent it in. I figured whoever contacted me first would get it, unless of course, both places rejected it.
Thema liked it so I contacted The Last Line to withdraw my submission. The anthology came out in June of this year. Unfortunately, it is available in hard copy only and only through their printing company. I asked could it be made available through Amazon but, alas, no.
I received my complimentary author’s copy and enjoyed reading other people’s take on a crumpled yellow piece of paper.
As an aside, shortly after writing this story, I was skiing and found a cell phone in the snow. I picked it up and my short story popped into my head, nearly causing me to have a panic attack. I kept it together long enough to get down to the base and gave it to the first liftie (chair lift operator) I saw. I couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. Once you read my story, you’ll understand why. Anyway, since I guess few of you will go through the time and expense of ordering a book from Thema, and since I retained the rights, I’m publishing it here. It’s one of my favorite stories. I had a blast writing it. I hope you enjoy it.
Yellow Piece of Paper
It was just lying there in the greenery. I almost walked by it. In fact, I would have if not for the crumpled piece of yellow paper. I was out enjoying a warm Tuesday afternoon in the local national forest and almost missed it. In hindsight, I wish I had.
It was innocent enough. Only a piece of trash just off the main trail. A little part of my mind self-righteously harrumphed at the unknown slob who had left his trash in our park. But then my better nature decided it was left accidentally, not as malicious litter.
I bent to pick it up, like a good citizen, when an errant beam of light filtered through the trees at that moment and gleamed at me from a clump of pink lady slipper wild orchids. Something shimmery was lying among the emerald leaves. A cell phone, sleek and black, hidden in the green. Without thinking, I stuffed the paper in my pocket and then picked up the phone. It was still shiny, so I knew it hadn’t been out there long. It was very modern looking, with a rigid plastic case and glass cover. A minimalist piece of work, I decided it was a man’s phone. My friend Julie would smack my arm and call me a patriarchal pig if I said it around her.
Picking it up had brought the screen to life. The little bars showed it had a connection even out in the national forest. My ancient model, little better than a flip phone, and had no reception there. The time and date came up, with a grid of nine dots and instructions to draw the unlock pattern. It showed 32% power. I guessed it had been lost for a day or so, not much longer. I stuck the phone in my other pocket and continued my hike.
When I got back to the parking lot, I looked around to see if there were others. I thought I could ask if they had lost a phone, even though it may have been there overnight. There were a few cars, but the only people I saw were two ladies ignoring each other and looking at their phones. I wasn’t sure what the lost and found procedure was and didn’t see any place to post a note. I remembered the piece of paper and pulled it out to throw in the trash bin. It was just a little folded over Post It note, grimy from the path. It looked like someone may have stepped on it.
Cretins. Why didn’t they pick it up? People have no sense of pride in this beautiful forest.
Out of curiosity, I unfolded the paper. It had numbers written on it, but I could make no sense of them.
35.874570, -78.752838
Did the phone and numbers go together? They weren’t phone numbers and would be a hell of a passcode. I unlocked my car and sat sideways in the seat, feet on the pavement, studying the piece of yellow paper. Maybe the web, I thought, but one look at my phone showed “no service”. Of course. Damn cheap phone. I brought up the calculator and added the numbers.
-42.878268
That told me nothing. I stuffed the paper back in my pocket. I was intrigued enough to pursue it later.
On the way home, I had a flash of brilliance. Coordinates! Longitude and latitude. Those were probably the location of something valuable. I might have a treasure map on my hands. But someone else was also looking for it. Either they lost it on their way into the woods, or more likely, they went there, found nothing, and lost the paper on the way out. I could really use a buried treasure. Between student loans, rent, and bills, some months I had to choose whether to feed me or feed my car.
My tiny third-floor apartment was stifling when I returned. I had to use the air conditioning sparingly. I loved my job working with handicapped kids and with my part-time library job it almost paid the bills. Mom helped by paying my cell phone bill and occasionally covering an unexpected expense. She always said we’d look back on this time someday and laugh. I was ready for that someday to come. I wanted to be able to afford nice things, like the cool phone I found.
I cranked on the A/C and sat on my sofa, cradling the phone in my hands. So cool and sleek, it just screamed expensive. Whoever lost it was probably frantic, or at least really pissed. I was pleased I’d be able to brighten their day once I figured out who the phone belonged to.
There ought to be an app that says, “this phone belongs to Joe Schmo, and this is how you find him.” I didn’t think there was such an app, though I could be wrong.
I tapped the phone, and the screen lit up again with the locked screen pattern. I thought for a minute and then ran my finger down the left side of the grid and then across the bottom in an L pattern. With a ping, the phone populated with dozens of colorful apps. Sweet. I would bet most people used that simple pattern to lock their phones. I swiped on the phone icon and found the owner’s contacts. Meaningless names. I could call them at random, asking if they knew anyone who’d lost a phone. But since the guy lost his phone, he might not have been able to let his friends know. I scrolled through the contacts to the I section but found no ICE or In Case of Emergency number. Then I tried the M section. There it was–Mom. Mom might not know which child had lost a phone, but she could narrow my search down considerably.
Smiling at my ingenuity, I pressed the icon to make the call. On the third ring, a deep yet gentle voice answered the call.
“Robbie, I see you’ve found your phone.”
“Um, no ma’am. My name is Chad Harris. I found this phone out in the national forest. Can you help me return it?”
“Oh, dear me. I’m sorry. I just assumed. Robbie’s been so upset he lost it. It’s quite an expensive phone.”
“Yeah, looks like it.”
“Let me give you his email address and you can contact him. He’ll be so glad.” She rattled off his Gmail account. “It’s so kind of you to do this. I fear many people wouldn’t. Thank you.”
“Yes, ma’am. People can be mean. I’ll email him right now. Bye.”
Once I’d hung up, I went and fired up my old laptop, which was soon to be another victim of planned obsolescence. Windows had notified me they were no longer supporting my version of operating system. Just another attempt to wring more money from poor people like me.
After opening my browser, I drafted an email to Robert Brennan. I put “I HAVE YOUR PHONE” in the subject line, figuring that would grab his attention. I sent it off and then began working through my emails. Most of it was spam; amazing how many ways there are to enlarge my penis or get money from Nigeria. Just as I deleted the promise of a way to lose twenty pounds in two days, my computer clicked to alert me I had a new email. It was from Robert Brennan.
The guy said he was so relieved I’d found his phone and would like to pick it up as soon as possible. I responded with my address and told him I’d be there the rest of the day. He quickly replied that he lived about fifteen minutes away and was coming right over. Great. Good deed done.
Since I was on the web, I decided to see if the mystery numbers I’d found were coordinates. I entered a search for “longitude and latitude” and clicked on an app that would show the location of coordinates. Once my numbers were entered the app said the spot was in my local national forest. Bingo! They were coordinates, after all. I clicked on view and got an aerial shot of a rugged path I’d never been on. Should I go looking for whatever was at the coordinates? Why would someone hide something in the forest? Maybe it was mob money. Or drugs. I wondered if the area had booby traps or was under electronic surveillance. The more I thought about it, the surer I became that I would have to go, out of curiosity if nothing else. I just had to know.
Mom always said idle hands were the devil’s playground and those words were so true with me. With fifteen minutes to kill, I looked at the sleek phone sitting on my desk and felt my curiosity rise. I wondered what Robert Brennan looked like, what he found interesting, maybe what music he liked. A cell phone is like a private dossier on the personality, peculiarities, and peccadilloes of its owner. With only a slight twinge of guilt, I picked up the phone and swiped Gallery.
Robert Brennan must be a fan of nature, I decided. There was a group of pictures taken in a forested area. I recognized some of the landscape from the national forest just outside town. There were pictures of blooming trees and bushes, azaleas, a small group of pink lady slippers, that kind of thing. I swiped again and found what must have been a selfie. Robert was a young guy like me, not yet thirty. He had black hair and deep-set eyes. It looked like he hadn’t shaved in several days. On some guys it looks stylish and on some it just looks like a bum coming off a three-day bender. Robert was the former, although the smile on his face wasn’t reflected in his bright blue eyes. For some reason, his eyes disturbed me. A bit too intense.
Swipe, swipe. More trees. Does this guy have no friends? I packed my dinky little phone full of pictures of me and my friends doing fun stuff. We didn’t have much money, but we knew how to live it up on the cheap. It looked like Robert just hung out in the woods.
Another swipe and I found a lady. A beautiful honey blond in shorts and a tee. She was slender, but with nice padding in all the right places. She reminded me of a sweet girl I knew in college. I smiled at the memory. There were several shots of her perusing a bodega I recognized as being downtown. There was something odd about the photos, though. Then it hit me. She wasn’t looking at the camera and these were full body shots taken from a distance. She didn’t know he was photographing her. Heat swept across my face at the realization. I wasn’t sure if I was embarrassed for her or angry at him. I swiped through and found more pictures of her window shopping downtown, in the same clothes, so it was the same day. All were from a distance. He had followed her. Crap. He’s a stalker. That was probably why he was so eager to get his phone back. Didn’t want anyone to find out he’s a pervert. My ears started burning, a sure sign I was mad. I was tempted to erase the pictures, but I could tell from the selfie that Robert was a big guy, and I didn’t want to tangle with him. I ignored the slight feeling of fear that this awful person was coming to my apartment. I’ll just give him the phone and get rid of him as soon as possible. I should have stopped there. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Famous last words.
I swiped again, and my eyes almost popped out of my head. Miss Honey Blond was lying on a floor, gagged, with her arms tied behind her, and her feet bound.
Oh my God! He’s got her tied up somewhere.
Her face was wet with tears and there was grime or bruising on her arms and forehead. She was looking at the camera, fear bright in her eyes. My heart rate spiked, and I nearly dropped the phone. Swipe. More pictures of her. Next, her arms were bound to her feet, causing her to arch her body in a way that looked painful. This guy’s a sadist. I gotta do something about this. But what? I used my free hand to wipe the sweat off my face. The A/C had cooled the room, but I was drenched and panting like I’d just run a race.
Swipe.
Oh, mother of God, no!
It was another picture from the forest. The focus was on a trench about four feet deep. At the bottom lay Miss Honey Blond, still bound, curled in a fetal ball, eyes closed. The next picture showed her covered with dirt except for her face. The next two pictures showed the trench filled, dirt patted down and finally leaves and twigs strewn across it.
Sweet Jesus. He killed her.
Suddenly I knew what was at 35.874570, -78.752838.
I dropped the phone on the desk as a pain skewered my heart. Gasping, I clutched my chest. I’m too young to have a freaking heart attack. I tried deep breaths until I felt in control again.
Oh my God. He’s a murderer! I gotta do something. Tell somebody.
Snatching up the phone, I dialed 911.
“Nine one one,” the operator said. “Please state your emergency?”
Suddenly panic-stricken, I couldn’t form words. I struggled to say, “Grrglem.”
“Can you speak? What’s the nature of your emergency?” The voice had gone from bored to concerned.
“I got… I got… there’s a murderer coming to my house.”
“Someone’s in your house?”
“No, no. He’s not here yet. He’s coming. I have evidence he killed somebody, and he’s coming to get it.”
“Sir, if you believe you may be in danger, I recommend you leave the area immediately.”
“Good idea,” I muttered, wondering why I hadn’t thought of that.
Knock knock knock
“He’s here!” I said into the phone, gasping in alarm.
“Remain calm, sir. Is there a backdoor you can use to get out?”
“No! It’s a crappy apartment that’s not up to code and ought to be condemned.” I sprang up from my desk and backed up to the wall farthest from the door, eyes wide.
Knock knock knock
“I’ve already dispatched the police,” the operator said. “I have your location as 110 Hillcrest Street, correct? They should be there within five minutes.”
“A lot can happen in five minutes. I can get killed in five minutes.” I squeaked the last word as my throat closed off and I began wheezing. Asthmatic hyperventilation sucks.
“Sir, make sure the door is locked, and then barricade yourself in the most secure room. Something like locking yourself in your bedroom and then getting in the closet. The police should be there before he gets to you. Hurry.” I jumped at her insistence that I hurry.
Knock knock knock.
“Hey, dude. You home? I told you I was coming over. Open up.”
I looked back at the door and almost threw up. The button on the doorknob was sideways, meaning it wasn’t locked. I froze in place.
Knock knock knock.
“Hey, guy. Let me in.” The knob slowly turned, and the door opened. Robert Brennan called, “Anybody home?” before spotting me. “Dude, why didn’t you answer the door?”
I didn’t bother trying to answer. I just gaped in horror. He looked much like his selfie. Unshaven, jeans, tee, and hiking boots. And there was dirt on his hands.
Crap. Maybe he was moving the body, afraid his phone might lead someone to the grave. That means there’s a ready-made hole in the woods for me. Shit!
I heard the tinny rattle of the 911 operator continuing to talk, even though I had lowered my hands. Brennan must have heard it also, for his eyes lowered to his phone.
“Who you calling on my phone? You better not be running up my bill. Hand it over.” He approached me, his movement breaking the spell. With a squeak of terror, I bolted for my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
“What the hell, dude. Give me my phone.” He was at the door, trying to push it open. The freaking lock had never worked.
I heard a siren in the distance and prayed to a God I didn’t believe in for strength.
“Open the freaking door, man. Give me my goddamn phone.”
With a mighty shove, the door swung open, and I was thrown back against the far wall. Brennan was through in an instant and pounced on me. I rolled on the floor feeling like a bear was mauling me. I tried to curl into a ball, cuddling the phone against my belly. If he got it he would kill me and erase the pictures.
“Help!” I screamed, hearing footsteps in my living room. Brennan froze and began trembling as if having a seizure. I peeked over my shoulder and saw the wires leading from his back to the police officer’s taser.
***
The police tossed Brennan’s unconscious body into a patrol car and headed off to the county jail. They treated me with more decorum and asked me to come down to make a statement. I was embarrassed that I couldn’t stop trembling in front of all the posturing, macho patrol officers.
At the station I sat with detectives Garza and Carlyle. They offered me a soda and asked me to tell them what happened. I told them my story of finding the paper and the phone. When I showed them the pictures on the phone they became more interested. And even more so when I gave them the paper with the coordinates. Another detective wandered by and looked over Garza’s shoulder.
“Nice looking girl,” Garza said. “It’s a shame if something’s happened to her. So you think he buried her at these coordinates?”
I nodded my head vigorously. I had been afraid they wouldn’t believe me.
“I don’t think she’s dead,” the unnamed detective said. “Otherwise, that’s the best-looking zombie I’ve ever seen.” He nodded toward the door where Miss Honey Blonde had just entered and was holding her large purse in front of her chest like a shield. Her eyes were wide and glassy with unshed tears. There were no bruises on her face.
“Robbie called and said y’all arrested him. I want to bail him out. Who do I need to talk to?”
Maybe you can imagine my surprise, but if you can’t, well it was pretty epic. I inadvertently dropped a few F-bombs. It turned out she and Brennan were into weird bondage role playing. Kinky much?
Understandably, Brennan was unhappy with me; said I overreacted. The next thing I know he said he was charging me with holding stolen goods. What the fuck? I didn’t steal his phone. I was trying to return it. Things were getting out of hand, so I called Mom’s attorney friend. Friend is a relative term at two hundred fifty an hour. He told me not to worry. I could counter sue with trespassing and battery. He talked with Brennan’s guy. Five hundred dollars later everything was dropped, and we could all walk away. Just pile it on top of my student loans. I’ll be paying off my debts until the day I die.
***
Monday morning found me at my school’s admin area, hoping to see the principal. Without an appointment I’d probably have to slap a student to get an audience. But only the principal could okay an advance on my salary. I needed it to make a down payment to my attorney. Or maybe just take it and head west and never look back. That sounded like a more pleasant approach.
Emma, the secretary had always been friendly with me and told me to hang out and she’d get me in. I slouched onto a sofa, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. I shoved my hands in my pockets prepared to sulk for however long it took to see the principal. My right hand felt a piece of paper in my pocket. Maybe an errant dollar I’d forgotten about. No, too small. I pulled it out and found the damn piece of yellow paper that got me into this mess. I glared at it, baring my teeth in ferocious anger. Looking around, I spied the shredder in the corner. With a measure of satisfaction in my eye I marched over to it, pressed the button and shoved in the offending piece of yellow. The shredder roared to life, grinding the paper into tiny pieces of confetti.
I recently made another sale. Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep was picked up by the anthology December Tales II. Horror stories for Christmas, I guess. That makes Now I Lay Me my most popular story. It has been selected four times (Noise of a Quiet House, Terror House Press, The Chamber, December Tales II) plus got an enthusiastic thumbs up from a middle school class in Gibraltar (the rock).
So far that makes thirty-two (32) success stories. Not thirty-two separate stories because some have doubled up, e.g. Now I Lay Me with four acceptances, Inna Gadda da Vida with three, Johnny’s Got a Gun, Little Green Men and Welcome to Hell with two each. And Somewhere in Iowa is the gift that keeps on giving. I posted it on Amazon’s Vela and assumed it would be stuck in a corner somewhere and forgotten. Maybe it is, but every quarter I get a little addition to my bank account from Amazon.
But it was never about the money. Good thing, because I’m not making much (although Little Green Men brought in a nice check in the low three figures). I just love writing. The revising and editing…not so much. Kind of tedious. I’m more about the adventure of finding out what happens rather than ironing out the wrinkles. That being said, I still spend much time revising and editing my existing work; sometimes even the ones that have been published (in case of reprints). I was pleasantly surprised recently when my Muse struck and left two stories in my head. One is a speculative tale concerning crossed wires in the multiverse. I’ve been excited about the possibility of the multiverse since some of Hawkings theories have been confirmed by the Webb space telescope. The cosmos is probably weirder than we ever imagined.
The other story is just a reworking of some raw data. A few years ago, some relatives of mine (we all have those kinds of relatives) had an explosive break up, broadcast live on Facebook. It was bizarre, to say the least. It also had lots of melodrama so I made a screen grab of the entire conversation. Now I’ve used that data to create what I call an epistolary short story. It’s much condensed from the original manuscript and the names and some events have been changed. I’ve titled it Romie & Jules 2020. The characters have names similar to Shakespeare’s most famous play. It’s only about 2000 words so it’s a quick read. I’ve sent it to a few places but no bites yet. One editor responded that he found the idea of a Facebook drama “really quite clever”. I always like nice comments like that. It lets me know they’re paying attention.
The hard copies of my book came this week. Little Green Men is available in hard copy or Kindle on Amazon or at my author page: https://www.amazon.com/author/curtisbooks
The Kindle download is only 99¢. It’s about madness and mayhem on Mars. Give it a try. You might like it. And if you do, please leave a review.
I’ve been a big SF fan since way back. I remember in elementary school going to the school library and looking for books about spaceships and exploring strange worlds. Anderson, Silverberg, Bradbury, Asimov – these were my idols. I once read a book called Virgin Planet about a civilization of women who didn’t need men. I got in trouble for giving a book report on the book. I guess virgin is a word eighth graders weren’t supposed to use.
In video media my first love was Star Trek. I’m old enough to have seen some of TOS on their first run. I think it was Tuesday nights. I didn’t see many, though. I didn’t control what shows we watched. I mostly picked them up when it went into syndication and showed up after school on weekdays. It came on after Dark Shadows, a different guilty pleasure for a different time.
Unfortunately, none of the Star Trek spinoffs captured my heart like the original. And the newer stuff is showing up on different streaming platforms that I don’t subscribe to so I can’t keep up. I have enjoyed the recent movies, though. I can see Chris Pine as a Kirk wannabe. I love Nimoy’s comedic take on himself vis a vis Quinto’s stick up his ass Spock. All the other characters are wrong, but enjoyable just the same.
When I walked out of Star Wars back in 1977 all I could think was that I wanted one of those little flying machines. I stuck with the franchise through all 9 of the original cycle, although only the first three (IV-VI) were any good. They’ve also gone off on so many tangents that I got lost. From what I could tell, Rogue One was just a retelling of IV from a PC perspective. A coming of age story of a young girl instead of a boy, and a black sidekick instead of a white one. Same story line. Aside from that one, diversity was pretty non-existent in that particular galaxy. There were plenty of gray, green, red and purple people, but hardly any black ones. Except one of the best ever – Lando Calrissian. One of the best Star Wars characters ever. Equal parts ally and enemy, lovable rogue and deadly foe. I definitely would want him on my team, but never turn my back to him.
I’ve also been taken with Marvel’s MCU movies. Great myth-making, but as with the others, too much clutter on too many platforms. I’ll just wait for the blockbusters.
In the meantime, I’ve been reliving my youth streaming old SF thrillers on YouTube. I just recently watched (for the umpteenth time) Earth vs The Flying Saucers (colorized, no less). They’re fun, campy and require little to no thought. And they invariably have women doing stupid things or generally getting in the way. The writers seemed to truly have a grudge against women. I guess they were all nerds in school and were taking their revenge. Usually the woman is in some place she shouldn’t because she didn’t listen to the mansplaining she got. And they always try to run somewhere in high heels. And they always fall. The other night I watched a guy with a bullet in his shoulder and an old guy basically carry a woman up metal stairs because she couldn’t manage them in high heels and kept falling. And there’s always a scream.
SF movies from the 50s and 60s can’t be blamed for the science they didn’t know. I’ll grant them that. But I enjoy watching for the just plain stupid things they say and do. In Twelve to the Moon (1959) the spaceship inexplicably had gravity all the way there. And craters were emitting mist. And guess what? There’s breathable atmosphere on the moon! And one of the characters was carrying a reel to reel tape recorder on a moonwalk to record the trip. As he turned it on and off, he wasn’t wearing gloves. On the surface of the moon. I do give that movie credit for one thing. It was 1959 and they had a black character who was not a caricature. He was the pilot of the ship, held a doctorate in something and spoke intelligently and as an equal with the rest of the crew. Very forward thinking for 1959.
More than one movie involved pistols, and not the laser kind. I may not know all the science on this, but my guess is that firearms won’t work in the vacuum of space. No atmosphere for the explosion that propels the bullet. Still somehow, people got shot.
Many of the movies referenced Mars or Venus. Red Planet Mars had a lot of gibberish about the Martian canals. And Venus could easily support humans. And speaking of Venus, there was a truly stupid comment in Visitor from Venus (1954). The unnamed alien said he was from Venus. At some point, an otherwise intelligent person said the visitor travelled millions of light years to deliver the message. Millions of light years? At most Venus is never more than a dozen or so light minutes from earth. There’s no excuse for a line that stupid.
Another stupid comment, one of the stupidest in my estimation, is from Vena on the Star Trek episode The Menagerie. She pleads with Pike not to harm the Talosian. “They don’t mean to be evil.” Does anyone really MEAN to be evil? Does anyone wake up and say “Today I’ll be evil.”?
Comments seem to be what I remember most about movies that I liked or hated. They just seem to stick. It was in a Spider Man movie, I think it was Far From Home, that I heard what has become my favorite comment of all time. It was a bad guy saying it, although at the time, we didn’t know he was a bad guy. Mysterio was explaining that he came from Earth in an alternate dimension. Spider Man (basically Spider Boy) grabbed his comment and started geeking out on the implications of it and the multiverse. Everyone stopped talking and stared at him. He muttered, “Sorry,” looking guilty. Mysterio said, “Never apologize for being the smartest person in the room.” As a person who grew up frequently being the smartest person in the room and had to hide it, that line held special resonance for me. So thanks, Mysterio, for a line I’ll always love.
Maybe I’m just a poseur thinking I know what good writing is. I have a master’s degree, so I have to be able to express myself in writing, but there’s nothing to prove that what I write is readable. In fact, I’d hazard a guess that most master’s theses are tedious outside narrow audiences. I did take a couple of creative writing classes in college, but I don’t remember anything other than it was fun. During my current incarnation as a writer I’ve spent a few years on Scribophile where I’m required to critique the writing of others. Writing and reading critiques of others’ work and mine has been perhaps the most valuable education I’ve had on how to write. Hitching myself to ProWritingAid and Fictionary has allowed me to step it up a notch. Something must be working. Thirty editors of magazines and anthologies can’t all be wrong.
But then I pick up a book. I started reading a detective story today. Within the first two pages I’d encountered three lines with words dropped. Okay, that’s just poor editing, not the author’s fault. But during that same time I found three words used wrong. Not just throw away words, but words that were critical to the sentence. Definitely the author’s fault. And it seems every noun has an adjective, frequently repetitive. Adverbs run amok. And there is a whole lot of what I’d consider just poor writing. And misogynistic. The author is a woman, so it’s even worse. The publication date was 2013 so maybe our understanding of misogyny has grown.
So I thought, maybe this is a person who was just starting out. I know my writing has grown over the past five years. But I looked her up online and she has over twenty books, stretching back to the 2000s. She has a following.
The book has a promising premise: a detective who can tell what a person is feeling if she touches them. Pretty handy skill for a detective. I like a little supernatural in my stories. I’ve given it time to grab me since I like the setup, but five (short) chapters in, nothing has happened. Well, her house burned down, but that doesn’t seem to have bothered her. She’s mostly obsessing about whether to have sex with her best friend’s father. Eww. The affect, dialog, actions of the characters don’t really make a lot of sense. People say things that people don’t ever say out loud.
In recent memory I’ve only ditched two books that I considered unreadable. One was about Mary Magdalene, a historical character who intrigues me. But the prose was so purple I felt the need to wash if off my hands every few paragraphs. I finally had to put it down. Another was so poorly edited with misspellings, wrong words, and erratic punctuation that trying to make heads or tails of what was going on was a chore. I read for pleasure, not for work. There have been occasionally other stinkers which I’ve stuck with until the end. I’m afraid this book won’t be one of them. I’ll give it a few more chapters, but she needs to up her game and tone down the misogyny pretty quickly. And I’m not naming her. I don’t want to get sued. Or threatened by fans of bad writing.
Curtisstories 