Not Like It Used To Be

As I’ve gotten older, my love for the Christmas season has dwindled significantly. This is terribly sad. Sad, I say. I guess that happens to a lot of folks when they realize the magic of the season fades as you get older. No, it doesn’t fade for everyone, but most. There is still a certain joy at points during the Christmas season, but for me it doesn’t carry that sense of awe like it used to. Yes, sad…

I guess it is the commercialism which lends to seeing Christmas stuff up in stores in August (yes, there was a store here in South Carolina that actually had their trees and lights and decorations up in August) and the Black Friday sales, Cyber Monday sales and all the insane traffic around any store for months in advance of Christmas.

There is a part in A Charlie Brown Christmas that I’ve always enjoyed. Good old Chuck has just been laughed out of the auditorium because of the Christmas tree he picked out. Charlie Brown then wonders about the true meaning of Christmas, and Linus obliges an answer by telling the story of the birth of Jesus. Now, that’s not the part I am talking about. The part I like is right after that as Charlie Brown is looking up at the sky to the North Star that shines bright, he smiles and says:

Linus is right. I won’t let all this commercialism ruin my Christmas.

Linus is right.

Still, Christmas just isn’t like it used to be. And that is the basis of today’s story. I hope you enjoy.

Not Like It Used To Be
By A.J. Brown

Families line the streets. Kids are bundled in coats, hats, gloves and blankets. Adults stand or sit in folding chairs, hands in pockets or laps, their excitement matching the children’s. A chill hugs each person tight. Teeth clatter, legs shake and dance; people trying to stay warm. Hot chocolate and coffee work for a while, but fade, leaving shivers along spines.

“How much longer, Momma?” they asks, young eyes and hearts waiting, hoping to catch a glimpse of an elf or reindeer or even Santa Clause. Maybe some candy will get tossed their way.

“Not much longer,” mothers and fathers announce, some happily, others with a chagrin that sits in their stomachs like heavy rocks. Christmas isn’t like it was when they were kids, back when December meant presents and eggnog and feasts, parties and family get-togethers, Christmas lights and holiday specials on television. Snow-filled streets meant sledding and snowmen, snow angels and snow ball fights.

There’s no snow this year; streets are covered in dust and dirt, debris from crumbling buildings, worn by time, weather and the passing wars. Few trees have stood the test of bombs and bullets. Fewer windows remain intact.

A breeze blows along Main Street, lifting grit and trash into the air. Many cover their faces, kids cry out from the sting of sand in eyes; some adults shake their heads and wonder why others choose not to wear protective goggles.

“Here they come,” a kid shouts. Others echo his words. Eyes open wide in anticipation and little ones squirm in their seats; blankets come off as they stomp their feet, kicking up clouds of dust.

Down the street a truck appears, adorned in reds and greens, its lights shining. The driver honks and waves a meaty hand as he passes through the crowd of onlookers. Three fingers are missing. A pinky and thumb form an odd L shape. “Merry Christmas,” he bellows. It comes out “Mare-wee Cwis-moss.”

The next vehicle inches along, yellow and orange lights cling to its exterior. The top of the car is missing, shorn off pieces of metal still jut out where the top use to be. A real beauty sits on the trunk, her feet inside the car. Her blond hair is singed at the ends, her once youthful face scarred on one side, an eye drooping, the eyebrow gone. A rusty crown sits atop her head. An unraveling sash across her faded blue dress reads Miss WW III 2038. She smiles. Her teeth are missing.

A marching band follows, horribly out of sync, no rhythm, none of them marching in unison with the ones in front, behind or beside them. Damaged horns squeak and squeal, bells clatter, hollow drums are rapped on with broken sticks from fallen trees, all forming a cacophony of noise that no amount of rehearsing could fix. Some of them are missing limbs, a foot here, an arm there, both legs over there, being pulled along in a wheel chair by a man with no arms and a limp, a rope tied around his waist. Distorted faces and twisted torsos make the rag tag orchestra a crowd favorite. Several other bands would follow, strategically placed along the length of the parade, but none quite as spectacularly grotesque.

A semi pulling a trailer creeps up the street. Women dressed in red and white striped bathing suits dance along poles to ancient Christmas Carols that few of the children have ever heard. Adults sing along to Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer and Holly Jolly Christmas. Few even notice the women. The new wave of freaks stare out at nothing as they dance, cringing with fear at those gawking at them. Tears fill their crystal blue, green and brown eyes.

Cars proclaiming the holiday season inch along, large men behind the wheels, motorcycle riders doing wheelies and criss-crossing figure eights careen about, almost going into the crowds, but pulling back at the last moment, much to the dismay of the thousands of onlookers. It is rumored that once a year a bike goes off course, taking out several spectators to the delight of those who are fortunate enough to take in the carnage. Smoke billows from rusty mufflers, engines growl, spit and sputter during turns, but none of the bikes slide out of control, maiming or killing folks along the streets. Children poke out their lips. The pain would be worth not being like the freaks dancing on poles for men and women alike to ogle and insult, to abuse as they see fit when the parade is over.

The first hour pushes well into the second one. As the end draws near a burnt orange fire truck looms in the distance, its tires dirty, ladder crusted in grime and rust. A wooden chair sits at the back, elevated. A large man with blush red cheeks and flowing white and gray hair, a beard down to his stomach and a red jump suit sits on the throne. A hole is in one knee, no black belt at the waist. His black boots are scuffed and his red cap is missing the dangly white ball that should be attached to its tip. At his feet sit several packages and bags, wrapped in newsprint and tied with twine.

The children scream, “It’s Santa Clause.” They laugh and cheer and clap; some of the adults cry. Santa didn’t look like this when they were kids. He wasn’t a scraggly old man whose rosy cheeks came from drinking a pint of illegal liquor before the Christmas parade. He wasn’t a man with a sack not full of goodies, but something much worse. He wasn’t this vision of insanity that the younger people know and somehow love.

The fire truck stops. Santa stands, reaches behind his throne, hefting a gray bag onto his shoulders. He waves a black glove at the crowd as he turns in a circle, a toothless smile noticeable even with the thick tufts of gray and white that cover most of his face from ears down. His eyes fall on a group of people huddling around a metal barrel, flames licking up from it. They warm their hands and roast marshmallows; the perfect picture of happiness.

Santa points. “Onward, Rudolph.”

The fire truck veers to the left as the driver mashes the gas. The engine revs, the truck lurches forward, black smoke spills from the exhaust. Bodies scatter as the grill and bumper strikes the crowd. A brilliant flash of orange, yellow and red emits from Santa Clause’s bag of gifts. The explosion follows, ripping the back of the fire truck apart. Santa evaporates in a spray of metal, flesh and shredded wrapping paper. The front of the truck smashes into a dilapidated building. It collapses, brick, metal and glass tumbling to the ground, taking with it several more people and kicking up a large dust cloud. Fire engulfs the truck, the building and many onlookers. Others scramble about, searching for body parts, tossing pieces aside, frantically looking for…

“I found it,” a woman yells and lifts Santa’s head from a pile of rubble. His jaw is missing, along with one ear. An eye dangles from an empty socket. Her family and friends pat her on the back, congratulating her, some grudgingly, others with the genuine sincerity only offered by loved ones.

A collective groan emits from those seeking the Christmas prize. People gather their blankets and meager belongings. Kids shuffle with parents back to their cold homes, devoid of windows and heat, misery greeting them at their doorways.

A green car pulls alongside the woman, the back door opens but no one gets out. The woman hugs her family, tears streaming from her eyes.

“I’ll miss you all,” she says and steps toward the car.

“We love you, Mommy,” one little girl says and hugs her leg tight. She lets go, steps back. “You’ll be the best Santa ever.”

“You bet I will,” she says and lifts Santa’s head high in the air before stepping into the car. It speeds off, leaving the family waving. The little girl bends down, picks up Santa’s stocking cap, turns it over in her hands, places it on her head.

“Daddy, do you think I’ll ever be Santa Clause?”

Her dad kneels, puts both hands on her shoulders. “Anything’s possible, sweetheart. Anything’s possible.”

The family leaves, father and daughter holding hands. They chatter about the parade, the fireworks and wonder about the body count. Still, some parents, some adults stand, shocked, dismayed by the events. Christmas wasn’t like this when they were kids…

With the recent events in Connecticut, I took one story out of the mix for my Happy Horrordays postings. I had to think about whether I wanted to post a horror themed story today or write about the events that unfolded yesterday. I chose to go with the story—so many others have written on the tragedy and my commentary wouldn’t be much different than most.

Still, I am a horror writer (by definition, I reckon), and my stories have a decided slant toward the darker things. I hope you enjoy the story, this one written in 2009 and originally published in Estronomicon.

Grandma Haygoode and the Devil In Me
By A.J. Brown

My initial reaction to seeing her dead on the floor was shock, tempered with joy. Grandma Haygoode had always been so loving, doting on Charles and Winnie, showing compassion to dumb George, feeding stray animals and taking in the homeless. Yeah, she was a caring old woman for certain.

Except when it came to me. For some reason or other, Grandma didn’t like me much. She would swat my head if I spoke out of turn; spank my bottom if I came home late from school. I got kicked out the house at fifteen. Dumb George got my room and the vagrant that slept in the empty corner lot near the Holiness Church got George’s basement quarters. It was like we all traded spaces, with me getting the cardboard box. It was filthy and stank of crap and urine and body odor. I don’t even want to know what the stains along the box’s walls were.

Right up until just before I turned eighteen I roamed the streets, begging for food or a bit of spare change. The looks folks gave me—you’d think they would want to help a poor teenager in need, kicked out of the home his parents had owned before their deaths. That wasn’t the case. Many shunned me, others chased me. Preacher Hollings lectured me every few days about doing right by the Creator and begging for forgiveness, not just from a higher being but from Grandma Haygoode as well.

“Reckon a feller like yourself done did something mighty bad to fall out of her good graces,” he would say while wagging a crooked finger at me. “Confess your sins, boy and make things right with her.”

You’d think that Grandma Haygoode was akin to being the Creator that Hollings preached about. When he spoke of her his face would light up, his breath would hitch like he had himself a good orgasm and his bottom lip would glisten with saliva. The first few times I heard him talk of her I thought he would cry, or maybe he had been in my shoes at one time, put out by the Saint of All That is Good in the World. Not the case, though I do think he secretly fantasized about getting between her wrinkled thighs. Just thinking about that makes me shudder and my stomach lurch.

Charles visited me in the back alley one evening, said Grandma Haygoode wanted to see me. Sick with the fever and chills, I shrugged, staggered home for the first time in nearly three years. Being Christmas, I thought maybe she had forgiven me for the nonsense of eating one too many slices of bread at dinnertime. Yeah, that was the sin that got me put out at fifteen. The house was all decorated in bright greens and reds, a tree sat in the corner, dozens of presents under and around it. Stockings—too many of them—hung from hooks along the room and on the mantle piece. She waited in the kitchen, her blue apron on, cinnamon rolls baking in the oven. When she turned to me I had to hold myself still. She had changed.

Her face was lined with deep grooves—not just wrinkles, like they used to be, but valleys that bore right down into her very being. The skin around her eyes and mouth sagged. I thought for a moment that she looked like one of them bulldogs that Old Man Harper has—they are some ferocious animals that would rather rip your leg off than lick your hand if given a chance. She had lost weight—about a person, if you ask me. But what startled me the most was that she smiled when she saw me.

Rarely did she smile at me. Everyone else she loved, smiled at, but for me it was a scowl and a snarl, like I was the devil or something. Maybe she thought I was. Preacher Hollings sure made it a point of telling me how the devil had hold of my soul and that I need to break free from his treacherous grip. Yeah, that’s the words he used: “treacherous grip.”

I‘m getting away from my thoughts here. You see, Grandma Haygoode, well, she went and smiled at me, exposing her yellowed teeth. A few of them were missing that weren’t before, but the one in the front, I’ll never forget that one. It was bright white, not yellow like the rest of them. I wasn’t too certain it was real or fake, like some of them folks who have those dentures the tooth doctors make for them.

Something was wrong though. The tooth, well, it seemed to glitter and all, like it could have been some small light instead of a tooth. I stared at it for a moment, not sure I was awake and standing in the kitchen or still asleep in my cardboard box, the one that used to belong to the bum that sleeps down in the basement now.

The trance was broken when she closed her lips, concealing the tooth from me. I shook my head, trying to force the cobwebs away. Dazed and disoriented, I stumbled back until I bumped the wall. My head pounded, eyes hurt.

“Marty, it’s been a while. You look like the devil done got hold of you.” she said and shuffled toward me. Her voice was like glass breaking against rock. I guessed age had caught up to her. She motioned with one knobby-knuckled hand. “Have a seat. Let’s talk a spell.”

At that, I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there like a knot on the log, dumbfounded, my head humming a tune of pure pain. “I need to go—I ain’t feelin’ all that good.”

She smiled again, showing off that tooth, repeated her request for me to sit. Without thought, my legs moved on their own and I found myself sitting in the chair across from her.

All the energy drained out of my body and I slumped in the chair, vision blurred, sweat spilling down my face. My head swooned.

Never before did I want to run away from my own home, but at that moment, in the kitchen with Grandma Haygoode, my head swirling and the fever biting down hard, I wanted to scream, to run away and never come back. I just didn’t have the strength to push myself out the door and down the steps. Even if I did manage to get out the house I didn’t think I could make it much further than the front walk without collapsing.

Doubt surfaced, like so many times before in my life, but different this time. At that moment I thought I would never be able to leave the kitchen, to free myself of Grandma’s ancient eyes. It’s like she had her claws sunk deep in my skin and she was reeling me in for the kill. And all I wanted to do was escape, go back to the empty lot by the church and hide myself away from the world. If I was lucky, I would die and it would all be over. No more Grandma Haygoode, no more Preacher Hollings, no more worry of the devil getting me.

“How about you tell me what ails you, Marty.”

All I could see were blinding white dots dancing in my vision. Half of her face had been blotted out by these moving white lights, but her tooth remained, sparkling, shining. My thoughts became muddled and the fever overcame me. Nausea swept through my body and I dropped from the chair to my hands and knees. Very little came from my stomach, mostly stomach acid and a few half digested pieces of bread I found in one of the trash cans on the other side of town.

“Poor child,” she said and stood. Her ice-cold hand touched the back of my neck. Shivers trailed up and down my spine. I held onto my fading world, trying not to pass out. I bit down hard on my lip, drawing blood and fresh pain. The world came back, no longer washed away in confusion and lightheadedness.

“Please,” I said, grabbed the edge of the table and pulled myself onto my knees.

“You want me to help you?” she asked, the smile never wavering.

“No,” I said, refusing to look up at her. “Stop smiling.”

“Everyone loves my smile, Marty,” she said in that broken glass voice of hers. Her hand tightened on the back of my neck, nails piercing skin. I felt the warmth of blood trickle from new wounds.

With my strength waning, I swung a fist up, catching the bottom of her chin. Her few teeth clattered and she fell back. Crawling, I tried to get to the door, but it was so far away. Exhausted, I reached it, and then looked back at Grandma. She lay on the floor, her head to one side, blood spilling from her open mouth. The tooth lay beside her, part of her gum still attached to it.

Yellow voids appeared in the corners of my vision, faded to brown, then black. I awoke some time later, head cloudy, neck hurting. Sitting up, the pressure eased on my skull, neck and shoulders. Grandma Haygoode still lay on the floor, her eyes turned to the ceiling, mouth open, tooth by her head. Blood crusted along the side of her face and had soaked her white hair. The smell of burnt cinnamon rolls hung in the air.

Early evening peeked in through the windows and I wondered where everyone was. Then I remembered, Grandma had a standing rule. If you lived with her, you spent the Christmas holidays taking care of the things she couldn’t. I guessed most of them were out doing her bidding. But with the coming of night they would all get home sooner rather than later and what would they do when they found Grandma dead in her kitchen?

As I crawled toward her, I kept an eye on the tooth, but it no longer sparkled. I picked it up. It was just a regular tooth, chipped where her bottom teeth had clipped it when I punched her, a flap of dry gum hanging from it. My fever must have made it appear special, like folks thought Grandma Haygoode was. Was. I nudged her to be certain she was dead.

Running wasn’t gonna do me much good. Once the law found out Grandma was dead and that she had been talking to me when it happened, well, I would get strung up right there in the yard, no trial, just a bunch of pissed off executioners. And, I guess the devil certainly would have had me then, now wouldn’t he.

To tell you the truth, which is I guess what I have been doing all this time, though Grandma’s tooth wasn’t a light stuck down in her gums, it did kind of look like one, but without the bulb. I went into the front room where the logs in the fireplace crackled and all the pretty decorations were hung.

On the tree were lights strung around. Their bright yellows, reds, greens, oranges and blues flicked on and off every few seconds. My heart ached and I longed for Momma and Papa, to be with them in the grave instead of alive and despised by all in our little town just North of Hell.

Anger filled me, and all the years of hate that I had suppressed for Grandma and Charles and Winnie and that old bum who slept in the basement surfaced. And for Dumb George, too, who wasn’t so dumb after all—he just liked to play stupid so folks would feel sorry for him. I rolled that tooth in my palm with my fingers, and I stared at that Christmas tree wishing I had decorated it with my mom and dad. That Devil, well, he did get hold of me then.

Lying about it will do me no good now. There was an axe on the back stoop—sharp enough to cut through firewood, sharper still to cut through flesh. I sat and waited at the front door, listening for the others. One by one they came home, their faces weary from a hard day’s work. Too tired to fight me, they were easy to take. Charles first, the bum next; it was a little harder on my heart taking out Winnie—deep inside she was always a good person, but influenced but Grandma Haygoode, well, I guess even the best folks can think bad about someone when encouraged enough. I took their teeth with a pair of plyers that had been beneath the kitchen sink.

Laying in the dark, hidden by the door, I wait for Dumb George. He should come in soon and when he does, his teeth will join the others along a strand of lights, ornament hooks twisted around them and holding them in place. They look nice around the Christmas tree, all glowing and glittery with the glare of the colored lights shining off of them. Then I’ll call Preacher Hollings, invite him over for a while. And he’ll come. He’ll come because I’m at Grandma Haygoode’s and he’ll want to rejoice with her and me and everyone else because the Devil, he don’t have me in his clutches no more. Like the rest of them, he’ll be wrong…

***

Until we meet again, my friends… stay safe and love one another.

O Christmas Tree–Free Seasonal Fiction

It’s the time of year where folks are supposed to be joyous and merry and cheerful and… yeah, whatever. Christmas is not what Christmas used to be. There’s really no need to pretend. Most folks just don’t get into the Christmas spirit and plenty of them have forgotten the reason Christmas is even celebrated.

I must be honest, I’m not a big fan of this season, but not because Christmas isn’t a joyous time of year, but because of all of the commercialism that Christmas has become. It wasn’t like this when I was a kid—or at least, I didn’t notice it being this way.

Since there are only 16 days left until Christmas, I’m polishing off the Christmas stories and writing a couple of new ones to post in the next two plus weeks. Hopefully, you will enjoy them. Please, feel free to comment or share with others. And try and have a wonderful Christmas season.

O Christmas Tree
By A.J. Brown

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” Cory sang as he climbed down from the attic. In one hand was a small white box. The other held tight to the railing. He folded the ladder, locked it in place and closed the drop door to the attic. “With the kids jingle belling, and everyone yelling—”

He paused, his song not sounding quite right. Ad the lyrics ran through his head, he tried to recall how the song really went.

“It’s not ‘yelling’ you dense fool,” he said to himself and began singing again. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year. With the kids jingle belling and everyone telling you ‘Be of good cheer.’ It’s the most wonderful time of the year.”

Nodding in satisfaction, Cory walked into his living room and set the box down on the coffee table. He looked around at the other boxes that held lights, ornaments, tinsel and other little knick-knacks. There was a Santa Claus doll and a train, complete with tracks and a smokestack that blew out real smoke, thanks to a sliver of dry ice and a dab of water. There were several houses in little red boxes, a town he liked to put together around the tree, places for the train to pass by as it went along its merry way.

“I love this time of year,” he said and clasped his hands together. “Don’t you, Charles?”

Charles looked up at him from his mat on the floor, his muddy brown eyes holding that forlorn look that all basset hounds seemed to have. His tail lifted off the floor and flopped back down—his best attempt at a wag.

“I knew you did,” Cory said and opened the box labeled LIGHTS. He pulled out several groups of green-chorded bulbs, bundled together and tied neatly with twine. Setting each strand aside, he thought of what he wanted on his tree this year. White lights? Multi-colored lights? The big ones or little ones? Bubble lights or maybe the little twinkly ones? Cory’s eyes lit up when he saw the blue lights. “I haven’t used these in years.”

As he untied the twine around the chord, Cory began singing again.

“Have a holly, jolly Christmas.
It’s the best time of the year.
I don’t know if there’ll be snow, but have a cup of cheer.”

Cory plugged the lights in and smiled when they came to life. “Blue it is this year.”

Carefully, he began to string the lights onto his tree. Though it held only two branches and was bare of leaves and that wonderful pine smell, it would still serve its purpose, even if it was unconventional. Cory shrugged at the unconventional thought. Most new-agers weren’t into all the Christmas tradition, but Cory was, so not having his normal lush green pine tugged at his heart a little.

With only the two branches near the top, Cory had to put hooks all along its trunk. Occasionally a little fluid seeped out where the hooks were, but Cory didn’t seem to mind. Charles always cleaned it up. For some reason, the old dog liked the way it tasted.

As he strung the lights, he sang again, changing a couple of words to reflect his own tree.

“I’ll have a blue Christmas without you.
I’ll be so blue thinking about you.
Decorations of blue on a white Christmas tree,
Won’t mean a thing if you’re not here with me.”

After the lights, he pulled out a long strand of garish yellow garland. He strung it a little more haphazardly, but tried to make sure it didn’t clash with the lights.

“I’m loving it,” Cory said to himself and opened a box of ornaments.

He was searching through them, trying to find the right ones when he heard a soft moan. Cory’s head jerked up and he turned around. A smile creased his face. “Awake so soon, my dear?”

The lady in the corner said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes.

“Oh, don’t be afraid,” Cory said. “They’re only Christmas decorations.”

Another moan escaped the blonde’s throat, this one coming out much louder than the first one.

“Please, don’t fuss, sweetheart. It’s Christmas remember? The holidays?”

A third, louder moan that would have been a scream if she could have opened her mouth.

Cory shook his head in disappointment. “I knew you wouldn’t be in the holiday spirit,” he said. “Well, maybe when I’m done, you’ll change your mind.”

Turning away from her, Cory picked up two ornaments, both bright purple with white sequins forming a curly-queue pattern on them. He attached a metal loop on each one and then walked back over to his tree—to the lovely blond who had been less than vigorously ringing the bell outside the department store earlier in the evening. She hadn’t been too cheerful at all and she made it obvious when Cory dropped his change in the bucket. Cory thought it was because of the charity hour she had to donate to the cause of the homeless.

“Have a nice Christmas,” he had said and listened as the coins rattled in the bright red kettle.

“Yeah, right,” she murmured under her breath.

Cory didn’t think he was supposed to hear the comment but he had, and it bothered him. He stopped and looked at the woman, her green eyes underneath eyebrows that were furrowed down, making her look angry. She wasn’t the most appealing woman in the world but there was a certain prettiness even through her cold demeanor.

“Ma’am, would you like to have dinner with me?” he asked.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m serious. You seem like you’re not too much into the Christmas spirit and I would like to help change that.”

“No,” she said, flatly.

“Suit yourself,” Cory said and walked off.

By the time he reached his car, Cory was distraught over her reaction to him. “I must change her mind,” he said.

Patiently, he waited until her shift was over and she made her way to her car, a couple of parking spots down from his own. With her back to him she wasn’t able to see him until his reflection appeared in her window. Her eyes grew wide as she spun around to defend herself. Cory grabbed her face and smashed her head backwards into the driver’s side window. The window cracked into tiny outstretched lines, like a spider’s web, as a smear of blood rolled down it.

“You’re a mean one, Mrs. Grinch,” he sang as he lifted her to her feet and helped her to his car. “You really are a heel. You’re as cuddly as a cactus. You’re as charming as an eel, Mrs. Griiiiinnnnnch. You’re a bad banana with a greasy black peeeeeel.”

“Aren’t these lovely?” he said and held the ornaments in front of her. “I think they’ll look great on you.”

He went to hang the two ornaments on the hooks he hard carefully screwed into her flesh. She struggled to move her arms and legs, but the wooden cross she hung on held her arms out and her legs together, making it impossible for her to do anything but shiver and shake. He placed the ornaments, one at each elbow, and went back for more. Again he sung a song as he decorated her body with ornaments of all different shapes and sizes.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas everywhere you go. There’s a tree in the Grand Hotel, one in the park as well; the sturdy kind that doesn’t mind the snow. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, soon the bells will start. And the thing that will make them ring is the carol that you sing right within your heart.”

He looked up at the tears tracing down his blond tree’s face. Wiping them away, he frowned. “This isn’t working, is it?”

She screamed the best she could, but with her lips sewn shut with green thread it came out muffled.

“That’s okay,” Cory said and pulled the Santa Clause from its box. Lifting it up, he brushed off a year’s worth of dust that somehow got into the box and set it at her feet. It matched her red toenails.

The houses that normally went around the tree, went along the mantle above the fire place, set up in a precise manner that had the town’s small Christmas tree in the center. Santa Claus was on one roof, about to set foot in a chimney. All the while, Cory sang Christmas carols, sometimes stopping to put his hands in the air, dramatizing each movement and word he belted out.

“All that’s left is to plug in the lights,” Cory said, happily.

Carefully, he plugged all of the lights into surge protectors and turned off the overhead lamp. The lights came alive when he flipped a switch on the main power chord and the room became a glow of blues and yellows and whites. Santa Clause danced at the foot of the tree and Charles even sat up for a moment, his tail smacking hard on the floor a couple of times.

“Something is wrong, Charles,” Cory said as he stared hard at his beautiful tree. “What is missing?”

Charles only glanced up before lying back down on his mat, closing his eyes, as if to try and forget what his master was doing.

“A-ha,” Cory shouted in elation. “There is no star on top of the tree.”

Cory knelt down and rummaged through several of the boxes. Standing up, he walked over to where the little box he had pulled down from the attic was. Opening it, he took out a silver star.

“I thought I cleaned this, last year,” he said and began to wipe the crusted red flakes from its sharp steel tip. Underneath the flakes was rust that had set in and wasn’t coming off easily. “Oh, well, I guess she’ll be the last one that gets to wear this star, Charles. It gets tossed out with the tree this year.”

Cory stood and walked back to the tree, singing.

“O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, how steadfast are your branches!
Your boughs are green in summer’s clime
And through the snows of wintertime.
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, how steadfast are your branches!”

“You’re going to be so beautiful,” Cory said and stepped onto a step stool.

Charles sat up, his tail wagging faster than it had in a long while.

“O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, what happiness befalls me
When oft at joyous Christmas-time
Your form inspires my song and rhyme.
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, what happiness befalls me.”

The woman let out a loud muffled scream that tore part of the green stitching away from her lips just before Cory drove the star into her skull. It cracked and then gave way under the tip’s pressure. Blood trickled from around the star and dripped down her face. Her body convulsed, violently at first, slowed and then ceased moving altogether.

Cory stepped back and wiped a speck of blood from his brow. “I almost toppled the tree this year, Charles,” he said. “That would have been a terrible thing, don’t you think?”

Charles stood and walked over to Cory, his eyes fixed on the small puddle of blood underneath the woman. He lowered his head and started lapping at the puddle.

Looking up at his work of art—the woman with no Christmas spirit—Cory began to sing once more as tears brimmed in his eyes.

“O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, your boughs can teach a lesson
That constant faith and hope sublime,
Lend strength and comfort through all time.
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, your boughs can teach a lesson.”

***

I hope you enjoyed O Christmas Tree, and for anyone who knows me, then you know I like telling folks where story ideas came from.

O Christmas Tree is a product of the blond-haired woman portrayed in the story. One evening in 2006 (when this story was written) I exited the local Wal-Mart with a bag in hand and in a bit of a festive mood. The woman stood outside the front doors, bundled up and barely ringing the little hand bell that comes with the hour long commitment to The Salvation Army charity that happens all along the country. This ‘commitment’ is voluntary—unless of course, a business sponsors it for a day or week, then the workers get ‘volunteered’ to do it, which I suspect is what happened in this case. None-the-less, if you are going ring the bell for an hour, the least you can do is appear that you want to be there. I generally give to those who are singing and saying Merry Christmas and are smiling and saying thank you and all that good stuff. It’s harder to give to those who just stand there like our Mrs. Grinch.

I placed a dollar in coins in the bucket, said ‘Merry Christmas,’ and proceeded to walk away.

‘Whatever,’ came mumbling from her lips. I honestly don’t believe I was supposed to hear the comment, but I did. I turned and looked at her. She glared back at me, as if daring me to say something. I smiled, though my head was shaking from side to side and my lips were somewhat tucked in against my teeth. ‘That’s sad,’ I said and walked off.

I would love to say I brushed this off and forgot about it, but I didn’t. I was disappointed in the attitude of the volunteer and just couldn’t let it go. I started to go back and say something when I noticed someone was standing beside her. She handed the bell to an older black man, and then walked away, her hands shoved into her pockets, her head down and a somewhat relieved, yet angry expression on her face.

There was no need to say anything to her. She struck me as an unhappy person who would just argue anything I—or anyone else, for that matter—would have to say. Instead, I walked off, reached my car and went to get in. That’s when I noticed her car was only a few spots away from mine. No, I didn’t go over to her and smash her head against the window, but right then the story came to me and I knew that one of my favorite character’s, a guy named Cory, would make another appearance in a short story. I went home that night and wrote O Christmas Tree.

I hope you enjoyed the read, and until we meet again, my friends…

Time… Please, Don’t Waste It

Recently I had to take my daughter to the doctor. The creeping crud got hold of her and it was time for her to either get the antibiotics (again) or the liquid gold, aka, the shot. While there, a parent of two children sat beside me in the lab waiting room. She made a comment that reminded me of a story I heard a couple years ago.

The comment: “I love this place. They are so fast and never keep you waiting. I wish doctors for adults were that way.”

Don’t we all?

This reminded me of the story of an attorney who went to see the doctor. He arrived on time, signed in and took a seat. And he waited. The time for his scheduled appointment came and went and kept on going. The office wasn’t particularly busy on that day, but still the attorney waited almost an hour before his name was called and he was taken back to the examination room, where he waited for another half an hour before the doctor came in to see him.

The attorney was not happy. Since he was at the doctor’s office in what was supposed to be a routine check-up, he was not at his office working for his clients, which meant he could not bill them. He lost an hour and a half worth of his time that he could have been making money.

The rest of the story is fairly simplistic. The attorney informed the doctor about his dissatisfaction, and then billed him for the hour and a half he sat in the waiting and exam rooms. The fact was clear in the attorney’s mind: his time was valuable and the doctor didn’t respect it.

Not that it matters for the story, but the doctor ended up paying the bill.

Let’s take a step back, zoom in with our motion picture hands to our faces.

What is the point to the story? Ah, that’s right, that everyone’s time is valuable to them.

Your time is important to you. How you spend your time is important to you. And for someone to waste your time—YOUR, being the operative word here—is disrespectful and rude and insensitive.

Wait. What’s that? I’m getting a little carried away? Am I? I don’t think so, and I’ll try and explain this the best I can.

Have you ever watched a movie or listened to a speaker or spent time with someone you really don’t like and came away thinking, ‘I’ll never get that time back.’ A show of hands, how many people have had that very thing happen? Wow, almost all of you.

Would you say in those instances that you could have been doing something better or more productive with your time? If you can, then that event or person to which you ‘will never get that time back’ from wasted your time. Pretty logical deduction, if you ask me.

A few years ago I went to a family reunion. No, it wasn’t my family. It was boring. The few folks I talked to were self-serving and self-centered. Yet, I spent three hours there—three hours I will never EVER get back. I wasn’t the only one who thought that, either.

My time was wasted.

Now, to get to the point.

Dear Writers (myself included),

You have an obligation to the readers. Make your work interesting. Make the readers fall in love or hate your characters. Give them something to hold onto. Don’t just write meaningless action or sex or gore just because you can, but make those things matter in the readers’ minds. Remember, just because it is in your head, it doesn’t mean the readers can see it. You have to help them visualize it. You have to help them feel it.

Remember, Dear Writers, that just because you ‘get it’ doesn’t mean the readers will. Make sure you’re not confusing. Make sure that your words make sense. Make sure your adjectives and verbs fit the situation. Make sure the dialogue is as realistic as in real life.

Enjoy the process and never get ahead of yourself. Remember, if you skim over your work when editing, the readers will skim over it when reading.

Confidence shows in the words you write, so believe in yourselves.

It is your job, not only write the stories that the readers will read, but to entertain them and to not waste their time. When that reader puts your book down or finishes your short story, then they need to feel as if it was time well spent. A reader should never come away saying, ‘that’s time I’ll never get back.’

Remember, their time is valuable and if you waste it with crappy words, then you may never get another minute of their time again.

Sincerely,

A writer and a reader all rolled up in one.

But wait. I’m not quite done.

Dear Readers,

Thank you for taking the time to pick up our books, to spend a little bit of your hard earned money for a little entertainment that may be unknown to you. For all you know, you are getting a Jack-In-the-Box with a demon clown’s head attached to the spring load. Thank you for your willingness to sit down in your favorite chair or in the coffee shop or tucked beneath the covers at home with one of our books. We, the writers, hope (and pray) that you enjoy our books and will be willing to purchase another on down the road.

If you enjoyed our books, then please, feel free to share that with your friends. A simple, ‘hey, you gotta read this’ will go a long way to helping us achieve our goals of getting our stories in front of every possible reader we can. If you enjoyed the books and have a blog or website or Amazon account (especially if you purchased it on Amazon), then would you consider leaving a review? That helps us as well. I know it will take a moment of your time, but it will be well spent time.

And, Dear Readers, if you did not enjoy our books, we are sorry. Truly, we are. If you didn’t enjoy them, then we failed you and wasted your time. For that, we apologize and hope you will give us another chance.

But also, Dear Readers, if you didn’t like our books, please be honest about it. Don’t be mean and hateful if you take the time to review the book. Be honest and insightful—that helps both the other readers and us writers. We learn from what you say.

You see, those folks who write the stories spend a lot of their time doing so. They work hard (well, most of them do) to create the stories that are put out for the masses to read, the masses that we have a hard time attracting. We worry over the characters and scenes and dialogue and plot (oh yes, there is always the plot). If it takes you a week to read a novel, you can guarantee it took a lot longer for the writer to pen it.

We understand if you don’t like a book, but be fair and honest, not vengeful.

Once again, Dear Readers, we thank you for your willingness to take a chance on those of us you may never have heard of. We hope we have not let you down.

Sincerely,

A reader and writer all rolled up in one.

Did you really think I was done already? Just another couple of minutes of your (very valuable) time and I’ll be done.

Time. It’s the one thing you can never get back. Once it’s gone, it’s gone forever. With that in mind, this writer who is a reader as well, ask that Writers, remember your readers’ time is important to them. Please, don’t waste it. And Readers, a writer’s time is important as well—respect their work and them. Honestly, if not for readers, writers wouldn’t have an audience, and if not for writers, readers would have nothing to read. We need each other—our time is valuable. To each of us, don’t disrespect each other by not respecting their time, and just how important it is.

Until we meet again, my friends…

It’s Not Bragging, Kiddo

The one thing I hate about writing is promoting. It’s true. I hate promoting myself. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, it feels too much like bragging. I’m not one to brag. Never have been.

You’ve heard the saying, It’s not bragging if you can back it up, kid.

Okay, the kid part isn’t in there, but that’s how I hear it in my head, maybe with a bit of Humphrey Bogart behind it.

It seems to me, and I could be wrong, but a great many people who brag are either very confident in themselves and their abilities or full of some smelly stuff. Maybe it’s half and half.

When I was a kid, I heard a story about Pistol Pete Maravich. For those of you who don’t know who Pistol Pete was, he was one of the greatest scorers in the history of college basketball (he scored 3667 points in his college career, averaging 44.2 points a game). He went on to play in the pros, though his career was cut short, thanks to those little things called injuries. Interesting enough, most people don’t remember Maravich for his scoring, but for his creative passes. He is, essentially, one of the pioneers of the passing guards that we know today, but I’m not going to go into that here.

At any rate, the story goes that Wilt Chamberlain asked Maravich how high he could shoot the basketball. Maravich asked, “How high can you reach?”

Chamberlain then showed him how high he could reach while jumping.

Maravich (most likely with a slight smile on his face) said, “I can shoot one inch above that.”

Arrogance? No, I think not. Maravich was confident in his abilities. Maybe he was bragging a little? But he sure could back it up, kid

Bragging and confidence seem to go together. They are like birds of a feather. They are like peas in a pod. They are like any other cheesy cliché I wish to throw out there.

Confidence and ability can take you far, but it can only take you so far if you aren’t willing to take a few risks and put yourself out there, put your abilities out there. This is where I struggle: putting myself out there.

It just feels like bragging.

But maybe that’s what I need to do. Brag a little. Show some confidence.

Okay. Here goes.

Henceforth, some bragging will occur.

You have been warned.

There’s no turning back once I get started.

Here we go.

Are you ready for this?

I’m stalling, right?

Yeah, I thought so.

No more stalling.

Read the following words and believe them.

I am a good writer. I am a very good writer. No, I am not your typical fast paced all action all the time type of writer, but most of my stories are really good (especially the ones over the last two or so years).

If you don’t believe me, then read one of my collections. Consider it a challenge to the naysayers. Yes, I said naysayers.

I’ve spent a good chunk of my life with very few people who believed in me or my abilities. I’ve constantly had to prove myself, and in many respects, that is why I don’t particularly care to socialize outside of work and the few friends I have. Let me tell you, when it comes to writing, I’ve worked and worked and worked and with each story, my abilities get better. It’s just a fact that I have seen over the years.

I had one editor tell me to quit writing, that I would never be good at it. Umm… dear Mr. Editor Dude, you were wrong, and from what I hear, you went out of business, probably because of the way you treated the writers that made your magazine.

(Oh, sorry. A little bit of soapbox standing for a minute there).

I work hard at writing and I stay true to myself. I enjoy creating characters and scenery and situations for my characters to be in. I also love letting those characters decide how the stories will end and how long they will be.

I’ll tell you one thing you won’t find with my stories: all action and no development. I hate those types of stories and I refuse to write them. Does that mean some of my stories are a little wordy? Absolutely. As Stephen King once said about his work, “sometimes my stories become elephantine.” I’m okay with that. Thankfully, my stories only become little elephants, not 1500 page mammoths. The thing to remember is they are good. Good, I say.

I may be a nobody at the bottom of the totem pole right now, but I won’t be forever. There will come a day when things will break the right way for my writing career and I will take off.

It’s not bragging, kid. Not if you can back it up.

Let me let you in on a little secret. Just in case you haven’t heard: I’m a good writer. Read it again. I’m a good writer. And you will like my work.

That’s not bragging. That’s confidence. It’s not arrogance. It’s learning to believe in myself, in my abilities. It is something I have struggled my entire life with: the confidence to believe in myself.

You tell me: Is it bragging? Is it confidence?

One other thing I need to do is get back to blogging regularly, a couple of times a week. It is the one thing I need to take the time to do. I know I’ve been neglectful of Type AJ Negative at times, and for that, I apologize. But stick with me. I have some things I am working on that you may find interesting (you’re darn right you’ll find it interesting, and don’t you forget it).

If, by chance, I have piqued your interest in one of my two collections (or both of them), here are links to them. Along the Splintered Path came out in January and was released by Dark Continents Publishing. Southern Bones was released in October and was put out by CMB Publishing. Don’t bother looking the name up—it’s my own label.

Here’s a little game for you: What does the CMB stand for? No, a certain wife of mine cannot play.

The links follow, but for now, be safe, keep reading and until we meet again, my friends…

Southern Bones E-Book

Southern Bones Print Version

Along the Splintered Path Print Version

Along the Splintered Path E-book

Quick Shots with Paula R. Stiles

Lights. Camera. Action.

Welcome to Type AJ Negative’s Quick Shots, where needles rule and bloodletting occurs if you pull that needle out too soon.

Our guest today is a talented young lady whose novel, The Mighty Quinn was recently released by Dark Continents Publishing. She is no amateur to the publishing world—or in life, for that matter. Her bio reads like a person who has done a lot of interesting things during her lifetime. Check it out for yourself:

Possessing a quixotic fondness for difficult careers, Paula R. Stiles has driven ambulances, taught fish farming for the Peace Corps in West Africa, and earned a Scottish PhD in medieval history, studying Templars and non-Christians in Spain. Currently Editor in Chief and Copy Editor of Lovecraft/Mythos ‘zine Innsmouth Free Press , Paula Stiles has also published 40 science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories, and a supernatural mystery novel, Fraterfamilias, co-written with Judith Doloughan . Its sequel, Confraternitas, is due out next year.”

She’s also co-edited three Lovecraftian/Gothic anthologies with Silvia Moreno-Garcia for Innsmouth Free Press, grew up in Vermont, has lived in Vancouver (the latter two being relevant to The Mighty Quinn), and currently lives in eastern North Carolina.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I feel I am not worthy to host the lovely Paula R. Stiles. Give her a round of applause everyone.

Paula, this will hurt for just a second, and then Herbie will asks you a handful of questions and… there we go. Drip line in… and go.

Herbie: Paula, tell us a little about yourself.

I’m just a random citizen of the world. I’ve ridden horses, driven ambulances, farmed fish and ridden motorcycles in Africa for the Peace Corps, studied Spanish Templars for a PhD in Scotland (It made sense at the time, really), and been a Census worker. Most recently, I worked the polls for early voting and the 2012 election. Which was busy. I’ve lived in four countries on three continents. I love swimming. I do it for an hour four times per week.

Really, I’m pretty boring.

Herbie: Boring, eh? We all have different reasons for writing. Mine is to free the insane characters from my mind. Why do you write?

Money. Fame. To tell stories. To clean out the garbage in my head. Because it’s the one thing I’m really pretty good at. Oh, and money.

Herbie: Tell us about The Mighty Quinn.

It’s about a guy who is “gifted” with a special, extraordinary and extraordinarily dangerous power. He flees Vancouver after a growop raid, lands in Vermont, and encounters most of the folkloric fauna there. And very bad weather.

Herbie: I am one of those readers who enjoy learning about where story ideas came from. Can you tell us where the idea for The Mighty Quinn originated?

It came from a few things. First of all, Quinn Bolcan started out life as the narrator of a short story called “Icebergs and Butterflies [http://theopinionguy.com/OG18.pdf].” I got the inspiration for that from a Canadian indie film called “Lola.” Ian Tracey’s nameless plumber in that film was the original inspiration for Quinn. I had trouble selling the story, but editors kept telling me they’d totally read a book about Quinn. The mythology I researched from growing up in Vermont and local folklore books by Joe Citro. And I got the idea for Nan Carreira from a friend who was married to a Cape Verdean guy and Klea Scott’s character in the Canadian TV series, Intelligence (in which Tracey also appeared). I was living in Vancouver when I wrote the rough draft for The Mighty Quinn.

Herbie: Interesting. The publishing process. Do you find it easy or difficult? Or somewhere in the middle?

Hard. The writing is the easiest part. And the better I get at it, the more I seem to suck at it.

Herbie: Let’s go with a few one to two hundred word answer questions: Favorite writer?

Lois McMaster Bujold. I want to be her when I grow up.

Herbie: Favorite fictional character?

Huckleberry Finn.

Herbie: Favorite place to write?

Anywhere.

Herbie: Favorite character you’ve created?

Mmm, that’s a toughie. Probably Alan Kedward from Fraterfamilias. He’s fun to write because he’s so unpredictable and has a flexible grasp on reality.

Herbie: Okay, enough of the really quick shots. Paula, tell us a little about Quinn, the character.

Quinn’s the kind of guy you meet in a honkytonk bar—nice guy you can count on in a bad situation, but kind of nondescript and always somehow makes the wrong choices in life.

Back in the 80s, when I was captain of a rescue squad, I used to hang out with a friend who was a former captain and member of a biker organization. She and I frequented this local biker bar, (long-since defunct) called “The Sheik,” that was kitty corner to a wild western-themed college bar called “The Chicken Bone.” Ironically, the Bone is still running, I think.

One night, we had a mayoral election and I was chatting with this biker over a Bud when the winning candidate, for whatever reason, came in with some friends to celebrate (Vermont’s the kind of state where the largest city’s new mayor goes to a biker bar at midnight to a victory-party. At least, it was in the 80s). The guy I was talking to immediately got up and went to the other side of the room. I followed him and asked him politely if perhaps my deodorant had failed. He matter-of-factly admitted that nothing of the sort had occurred. It was just that he had a record (minor roughneck kind of stuff) and he was concerned about being too close to the mayor and being accused of something. Our conversation then amicably resumed.

Quinn’s that kind of guy.

Herbie: Where can we find The Mighty Quinn?

You can find it in all sorts of places, in both print and ebook:

The publisher: Dark Continents Publishing

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

Goodreads

DriveThru Fiction

Herbie: Paula, where can we find you and more of your work?

You can find me at: thesnowleopard.net

I also edit a zine/micropress of Lovecraft/weird fiction, Innsmouth Free Press.

And you can check my Amazon page for my novels and some of my short stories here

Paula Stiles, thank you for appearing on Quick Shots, here at Type AJ Negative. Easy when you stand up. Before you leave, make sure and grab a cookie and some orange juice.

Everybody, give another round of applause for Paula R. Stiles. Don’t forget, you can pick up a copy of The Mighty Quinn.

The Coffin Hop Day Five and a Short Story To Boot

The Coffin Hop is in day five now. Twice I have teased folks with excerpts from Southern Bones. Let me make this up to those who have read those excerpts. The following story is one I considered placing in the collection—it made it through a couple of rounds, managing to not get cut until the next to last round of decisions. It’s a very short piece—less than 1900 words.

Being that this is The Coffin Hop, I would be remiss if I didn’t make sure and mention the link to all of the other hoppers. Please, check them out—there are over 100 authors and artists participating in the Hop. You will find something for every taste out there. Go here and hop, hop, hop along.

Before you leave, enjoy this little piece titled, Like Gravel Under Foot And when you’re done, hop on over to Amazon as well and check out my newly released collection, Southern Bones, which can be found here. Also, would you mind liking the Amazon page and consider leaving a review? This writer would appreciate it.

Without further adieu, here is Like Gravel Under Foot.

Not where I wanted to be. Not where I wanted to go. The car sat on the side of the road. Beth and a guy that used to be a friend were behind me in a town that used to be home. I kicked the fender as smoke billowed up from the engine.

“Piece of crap.”

I laid my head on the top of the car, fought back tears that threatened to spill, and took several long breaths. My mind scrambled for reasons things ended the way they did, but found none worth believing. Could it have been my fault? Maybe I just didn’t provide Beth with enough love or money or… or… maybe she just wanted someone else. It didn’t necessarily have to be my fault, did it?

The constant wind-whip of speeding vehicles rocked me the car. Some idiot honked his horn as he passed. I looked up, flipped him the long finger. The afternoon stretched out before me. The sun, though still high, couldn’t send the chill of the late fall day into hiding.

There wasn’t much in the car I wanted, but still I reached for the lock, pushed it down and slammed the door, taking only a back pack and a coat I feared I would need if I didn’t find somewhere to hunker down before night fell. It was laughable, locking the door of a car with a blown engine, one that would sit by the interstate until it was tagged and towed away to some impound where it would rot forever.

I hunkered my shoulders against the passing cars and their passing draft and walked on. Gravel crunched underneath boots, and though they weren’t the loudest sounds the world has ever known, I felt I understood it better than anything else at that time. The cracking, popping of small rocks against one another, ground into sand over time by cars, weather… or boots, it’s much like the heart when a man finds a friend in bed with his wife. There’s the crack and crunch and then the pop of dreams, hopes, desires, all within seconds of seeing two bodies intertwined together that should never have known that type of intimacy. There’s the grounding to dust of a heart underneath the weight of betrayal and pain. Yeah, I understood those rocks, and at the time, I felt as sorry for them as I did for myself.

The horn of the truck pulled me from my thoughts. I scampered further off the side of the road, onto the grass, my heart thumping, body shaking with adrenaline of almost being ran down by a semi. The truck slowed and coasted to the shoulder, as if trucks really coast. The brakes let out a loud, long hiss and the driver hopped out.

“Damn, son,” he said in a thick southern accent. “I’m sorry ‘bout that—you was walkin’ in the road and all. It was all I could think to do.”

I stood my ground, not knowing what to say or do and wishing like Hell that old rig would have hit me and ended this sack of crap life of mine. The burly guy walked up to me, his graying beard hanging down his chest, his blue eyes like two round marbles inside deep sockets. The hair on his head was as scraggly as his beard and an unbuttoned red and black checked flannel shirt hung off his shoulders, showing a grease stained white T beneath it.

“Boy, I really am sorry ‘bout that,” the trucker said when he reached me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

We stared each other down for a moment, my heart rate slowing and the rush of blood in my ears no longer sounding like waves along the beach.

“Can I give you a ride somewhere?” he asked, a bit on edge I guess.

“If you don’t mind. The next town would be fine.”

He nodded and clapped me on the shoulder. “Sure. No problem, buddy. Cleveland is about thirty miles on down the road. It’s on the way to Chattanooga.”

“Ohio?”

“Awe, hell no—we’re a good ways from that. It’s another Cleveland, right along this here interstate. Good, friendly folks.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Most of the ride was kept in an uneasy silence, the driver cutting his eyes at me every few seconds as if he expected me to whip out a knife and slit his throat. I got the feeling he regretted making the offer the moment I accepted.

“So, why are you walking on the interstate?”

“Car broke down. Had to foot it.”

He nodded. “That red thing on the side of the road a couple miles back? Is that one yours?”

“That would be the one.”

More silence followed. I liked it that way.

Don’t talk much, do you?”

“Don’t have much to say.”

“So, where are you coming from?”

All the questions were irritating. I glanced at the guy. He had been staring at me, but then looked straight at the road in front of him. He tapped his pork-link thick fingers on the steering wheel and licked his bottom lip with a fat tongue. I wanted to laugh—he outweighed me by nearly a hundred pounds and he was nervous.

“If it matters,” I said. “I left behind a cheating wife and a not so loyal friend. As far as the name of the town—I’d just as soon forget it all together.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.”

Silence sat with us the remainder of the trip. I stared out the dusty windshield as the truck ate up mile after mile of interstate. We turned into a grungy looking truck stop a half an hour later than I thought we would.

“I gotta piss,” he said and then pointed to my right. “Just down that road about a mile is Cleveland. You should be able to get you a room for the night. Cheap hotels ‘round there and, if you’re lucky, a piece of tale will be walking around the parking area.”

He opened the door and hopped down. I unzipped my bag, pulled out a wallet and fingered out some cash. A moment later, bag zipped and back on my shoulder, I slid out the truck and walked around to the front. Holding out the money, I thanked the man.

“I can’t take that, son. It’s the least I could do after damn near killing you.”

I nodded, pocketed the money. “Thanks again for the ride.”

He shuffled away and into the diner, a bell ringing as the door opened and closed. I followed the road into town, my bag a little lighter and my burdens, well, they were somewhat lighter as well.

Cleveland’s a small town with only about a dozen real businesses in it. The one I wanted was the hotel and it sat near the end of the main street, beyond the small one car police department. Inside the parking area was a homely looking girl with long legs and wearing an outfit that said if she bent over she would show the world all her goods, both front and back. I thought of getting to know her better, but then scrapped the idea. I hoped not to be there too long.

Inside the hotel room the bed was hard, but a welcome reprieve from the day just passed. I closed my eyes, dozed and woke an hour or so later. The shower of hot water on tense muscles relaxed and rejuvenated me. I thought of taking a nap, maybe spending the night. Then I thought better of it. I had a job to finish. I took my bag and coat and made my way to the small diner near the center of town. The food was greasy and the coffee thick—and better than anything any of those fast food joints can come up with.

“You gotta phone I can use?” I asked the elderly, blue haired waitress after paying my bill.

“Round the corner by the men’s room.”

I nodded my thanks and walked back to the bathrooms. I hadn’t seen a payphone in years. Honestly, it made me smile. I dropped several quarters into the slot, dialed and waited.

“Briarsville Police Department, how can I help you?” the pleasant voice on the other end said. She sounded young and beautiful, like my Beth.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I started. “I was just riding with this guy in a light blue Peterbuilt rig—got a ride after he damn near ran me down. He was acting all nervous and jittery. We talked for a while before he let me out at Ruth’s Truck Stop off 95. When I was climbing down from the truck I noticed some pictures and a bloody knife under the seat. There was also a torn pair of bloodied panties. I glanced at the pictures when he went to the bathroom—the photos looked like a couple of folks had been sliced up pretty bad. I’m almost certain they were dead.”

“Sir, where did you say this was?”

“Just off 95 at Ruth’s Truck Stop.”

“Where is the driver now?”

“I don’t know—I got the hell out of there as soon as I saw the pictures. If he’s capable of doing that type of work on two people, I didn’t want to know what he could do to me.”

“Do you know where he was heading?”

“He said something about Chattanooga.”

“And what did—“

The phone went back on its cradle. The dispatcher had all she needed to know, and if I was lucky I would be long gone before they got anyone with half a brain to track down the trucker. I walked out of the diner, leaving a tip on the table. I lit a cigarette and took a long drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs and lighten my head. Twenty minutes later I was back at the interstate and the sun was going down.

I smiled as I reflected on the day. I had taken pictures after I finished off my wife. I made her watch, you know, as I took out her love—and my long time friend. I didn’t bother with torturing her—she would have begged me if I had given her a chance. I may not have been able to finish things then. But there was one particular picture of Beth and her sex toy, their bodies cut to ribbons, their heads on the pillows of the bed she and I once shared. Yeah, that was a good snapshot. I had tossed one it in the restroom on the backside of the diner and made my way to the road. I didn’t know how many men had pissed there since my ride had but it was just one more piece of evidence to link him to the murders. After all, somebody had made an anonymous phone call.

As night settled in for the long haul, I walked the interstate, shoulders hunkered against the wind as vehicles raced by me. I still felt sorry for the gravel beneath my boots, but I no longer felt the crushing pressure and pain of betrayal. In the distance sirens cut through the night.

On Book Reviews and The Coffin Hop Day 4

Book reviews. Ever heard of them? Sure you have. It’s really a dumb question, right?

[[Herbie: No question is a dumb question, A.J., or have you forgotten?]]

Okay, maybe it wasn’t a dumb question, but it feels like a dumb one. If you are a reader, I’m sure you have heard of book reviewing.

Let me ask you a question: When you read a book, do you review it?

Do you?

If we go by what some pundits say (and we’ll stick to e-book numbers for this little exercise), then only about 1-3% of the reading population actually do reviews. Let’s put it another way. If someone sells 100 books, then that means only 1 to 3 people will review it. Of course that is just a guess and I’m pretty much basing it off of numbers that I have seen from my own books. That and a bit of research over the last few months to go along with a few analytical types’ assessments.

Let’s just say 7-10% of the e-book reading population leaves a review, and I think I’m being pretty generous here, that that still leaves 83 to 90 (out of every 100) people who have read the book who did not leave a review. That’s a ton of folks who could say whether they liked or hated a book.

Do you talk about your favorite television shows? Do you tell your friends about them? How many of you tuned into The Walking Dead season premiere and then shared your thoughts with friends around the office or on Facebook or Twitter?

That’s what a book review is: sharing your thoughts with your friends, telling those friends about the wonderful, awful or average book you just finished reading. But not only are you sharing your thoughts with friends, you are sharing them with strangers who want to hear what you have to say about those books that you’ve read. You are helping them decide if a book is a good fit for them.

But wait, do you just tell your friends that you liked a television show? No. Of course you don’t. You tell them why you like that show. Come on, we all know that when something strikes us in a show or movie or a sporting event, we tell the why and the what, and we are either passionate about it or angry about it or indifferent. You just don’t say ‘I hated that’ and leave it alone. You tell why you hated it. And if you don’t, one of your friends will ask you ‘So, why did you hate it so much?’ They will ask such an open-ended question that it will require you to say something besides a yes or a no. You don’t just say ‘that was a great movie,’ you tell your friends why it was so great.

Why?

WHY?

WHY????

There is a method of madness when it comes to book reviews, but first, let me give you a glimpse of a few real book reviews that I pulled from that big e-book publishing machine on the Interweb (these are direct quotes, not altered at all by myself):

This was an ok short story not to exciting but worth the quick read! was hoping for a little more thrill.

I enjoyed this short story.

If you seen the movie Little Shop of Horrors Growing up this is that movie in writing. Movie is better, but teens would enjoy this.

Clever story about unwanted and unexpected house guests of the psychopathic kind. Very disturbing short story, well written and very twisted.

Ms. XXXXXXX’s collection of short stories brings us a look into some dark topics but they were well written and certainly draw a reader in. Each one will bring you different emotions and from different views. This title is certainly worth a read but it isn’t for the faint of heart.

I truly enjoyed this quick little read, it’s mildly creepy but not too much. I could see these stories being read on a stormy winter day, by a fireplace.
Just a little compilation of a few short stories, of true life happenings the author has experienced.

Predictable, Boring, etc. The reviews must come from friends.

I love short horror stories. However, this book lacked what I was looking for. The stories unfortunately left a lot to be desired. While it was not terrible it was not one of the better books I have read recently.

Now, before continuing on, some of these could be considered a good review, and not by the standard of stars, but by the standard of what the reader said. But go back and look at them a little closer. Honestly, ‘I enjoyed this short story,’ is not a review of the book/story. Sure, it’s nice that the reader said that, and as a writer, I like when readers say, ‘hey, A.J., I enjoyed your story.’

However, as a writer, I want to know why someone liked or disliked something I—or any other writer, for that matter—wrote. I want to know if the writing was good or bad, if the stories held your attention or you skimmed over sections, if you liked or disliked the characters, if I made you laugh, cry or want to punch me in the face. If the story is bad, I want to know what was so bad about it. If the story was great, don’t just say it was great, but tell me why it was great.

Writers constantly hear ‘show, don’t tell.’ We are constantly told readers want us to show how a person feels, not just say he is sick or in love or hurt or angry or dying. No, saying he had an angry look on his face doesn’t really show anything, does it? However, saying, ‘his brows were arched, the edges pointing down toward the nose, and his lips were pulled down into a sneer,’ gives us the actual angry look.

Reviews should be similar, but not in that ‘show, don’t tell’ philosophy. It should be something like, oh I don’t know, ‘don’t just tell, but tell why.’ I don’t expect every reader out there to do a review like a writer would, but give the readers and authors more of an understanding behind your thought processes.

‘This book sucked, don’t waste your money,’ tells the reader absolutely nothing and that one star that is given with the review is not really validated, but it still hurts a writer’s overall numbers. It also hurts their sells. If you’re going to write something like that, then please, tell us why the book sucked.

And before you go thinking that all reviews have to be long to be good, that just isn’t true. Not everyone has the time or the desire to write long, in depth reviews. However, a little information about the book and the reasoning to why you love or hate it goes a long way with both the readers and the writers.

Okay, for those who like The Walking Dead, let me give you an example (oh and there could be some spoilers in this).

I love The Walking Dead.

Why?

I love zombies and I think the make up is fantastic and the way they are portrayed in TWD as relentless, flesh eating monsters makes them come alive.

What else?

It is character driven. You either love or hate the show because of the characters. I loved Dale, and when he got killed I was mad, because I wanted him to live. He was endearing and a voice of reason in a world gone mad. I wanted them to kill off Lori—my goodness she is annoying, and why doesn’t she know where her son is at all times?

And Shane was awesome before he went all jealous and angry at Rick, who has morphed into the Ricktator, which is a good thing.

Anything else?

Yeah, the suspense. You never know what is around the corner or who is going to get offed next.

So, is there anything you don’t like about it?

Umm… yeah.

What?

The zombies seem pretty nimble on their feet for a bunch of shambling, mindless corpses. I mean, how in the world is a zombie going to walk down an embankment and not fall down, and a living man stumbles, then rolls down that same embankment? And how can zombies climb fences or on top of tanks or drop down to the ground and slide beneath cars then get right back up as if their bodies are agile and not rotting away?

What else?

Lori. I can’t stand her. She’s stupid and I don’t understand how she hasn’t been killed yet and other, more adept people have died.

Anything else?

Have I said I don’t like Lori? I have? Okay, well, I don’t get why they don’t just kill all the zombies at the prison fence. You have them right there, why not go ahead and drive something into their skulls before they can break down the gates? They’re just asking for them to bust down the fence and kill them all.

And I don’t like Lori.

Interesting. So, you love the show, right?

Absolutely.

Why?

Well, let me summarize it for you: It may have its flaws, but the action and suspense and characters make it edge of the seat good. I would highly recommend it to anyone who loves zombies or horror movies or even something that is character driven. It’s a gritty show with twist and turns in every episode, and there are just some scenes that leave you breathless and stunned.

I know that may be a little extreme and it is about a television show, and not necessarily the graphic novels the show is based on. However, this is what I do when I review a book. I ask myself those questions. Then I form my book reviews based on the answers. I give the good and the bad as I see it. I always try to end a review/critique on a positive note.

Sometimes a review has all positives, but that is rare. I try to be completely honest in my book reviews.

Here’s the thing: writers put themselves on the line every time they submit something to a publication or when they self-pub a book on their website or Amazon or Nook or anywhere for that matter. They are putting their hard work on the line for both praise and criticism.

More often than not, it is the criticism that is heard by other readers, not the praise. Stick with me for a little while longer here. How many times have you seen a ‘this book sucks’ review and thought, ‘maybe I shouldn’t get this book?’ However, what about when you read something like ‘I enjoyed this book,’ and that is the entire review? I’m willing to guess that most of the time readers think, ‘oh, that reviewer is just a friend of the writer.’

You see, the door doesn’t swing both ways evenly. The critical review is often taken with more weight, while what comes across as a superficial praise review is viewed less, and possibly even done by friends to help bolster the writer’s numbers. This is why I urge reviewers to give fair, honest reviews. If they have something negative to say, give us the justification for that. On the flip side, if you have something positive to say, tell us why.

I know. I know. ‘But I’m not good at giving reviews, A.J.’

You don’t have to be. I’ve been fortunate to have learned in workshops how to give critiques and I’ve had quite a few friends help me along the way with this educating of the mind. I’ve boiled them down to the three essentials:

The Positive, The Negative and The Summary.

Sounds like a Clint Eastwood movie.

Ask yourself what are the positives about this book? Then ask yourself what are the negatives about this book? Then summarize why you like or dislike the book. Even with those three essentials, The Why is the most important thing about a review. By having the positives and the negatives in mind, you can tell us The Why. It is what readers and writers alike are looking for.

You might disagree with me, and I’m okay with that. This is my opinion, based on what I have observed in the writing world.

How much weight does a single review carry? I don’t know. What I do know is that many readers do look at them before purchasing a book.

In closing, do you review? Are you one of the anywhere between 1 and 10% who actually review books? If so, thank you, not only from me, but from all of the writers out there. If not, then I urge you to consider reviewing the books you read, and don’t just say the book is good or bad, but tell us why you feel it is so.

Before I go, I would like to remind the masses that The Coffin Hop is under way and it is now Day 4. Visit this link to hop to any of the blogs of those participating. Leave comments and likes and all that good stuff. We greatly appreciate you stopping by.

Now, I must go for a while. I have some hopping and some sleeping and, hopefully some writing to do.

Until we meet again, my friends…

The Coffin Hop and a Teaser

The Coffin Hop is well under way and many folk are giving away prizes and such on their blogs. Make sure and check them out as you go along. You can check out all the links here. Since I’m giving away two Kindle versions of Southern Bones I figured I should at least give you a hint of what you could win.

The following excerpt is from one of the stories in the collection, titled, Beneath the Sycamore Tree. Enjoy.

***

I told Cassie I loved her as I pushed her on the swing that hung down from the tall sycamore at the edge of the field behind my parents’ house. There was a pond not too far away where fishing was good and swimming in the summertime was a rite of passage. It was the perfect scene for any kid growing up in the south.

“What?” she asked and brought the swing to an abrupt stop, her feet kicking up dust as they dragged the ground beneath her. She looked at me with her crystal blue eyes, her head cocked slightly to the side, her light brown ponytail dangling. “What did you say?”

A lump caught in my throat, my palms began to sweat and tears formed in my eyes. My chest swelled with fear. “I said I love you.”

She nodded as if satisfied, turned around, and placed both hands on the ropes of the swing. “Okay. You can push me again.”

I stood there for a moment, not sure what to do; not sure I liked or disliked her reaction. I had expected more. Like maybe Cassie hopping off the swing, hugging me, and saying she loved me. Leaning forward, I placed my hands on the small of her back and pushed.

I was eight. It was the first—and only—time in my life that I knew love and how strong it could be.

She left my house that afternoon, skipping the way she always did, that ponytail swishing from side to side. At the end of the driveway, she turned, cupped her hands to her mouth. “I love you, too, Joshua Turner.”

It was the single greatest moment of my life.

Three days later Cassie was dead, her mangled body found on the other side of our property, not far from Grover’s Pond. Momma told me someone had done something bad to her, but didn’t go into details. The truth is—and I found this out some time later—some pervert grabbed her on the way home from Mr. Hartnell’s grocery store the day after our conversation, and raped her. He couldn’t leave it at that—violating her and taking her innocence away. He stabbed her sixteen times. I won’t go into the details of where several of the wounds were. You can figure it out on your own.

Cassie—my Cassie—was gone forever.

***

Now that you have a taste of one of the pieces in Southern Bones, don’t you want more? Leave a comment on any of the blogs here at Type AJ Negative during the Coffin Hop and you are entered into the contest. Don’t forget to leave an e-mail address so I can contact you if you win.

Thank you for dropping by and happy hopping.

Until we meet again, my friends…

Let the Coffin Hopping Begin

Taptaptap

Hey, is this thing on? It is. Okay, here we go.

Welcome to Type AJ Negative…

Ow ow ow. Feedback. Hey, can we tune it down a little?

What’s that, Herbie? Oh, you want me to introduce you? Can’t you wait until I am done? I’m trying to get my first Coffin Hop post up. No, Herbie. Not right now. What’s that?

Ow ow ow… okay. Okay. Tune it down and I’ll introduce you to all the Hoppers out there.

Let’s try this again.

Welcome to Type AJ Negative, the official unofficial web presence of A.J. Brown. The imaginary guy controlling the sound system would be H. Herbie Himperwheel the third. Don’t ask me about Herbie one or two—I have no clue about them, or even where the third one came from, but he has been here since the beginnin. Herbie does the interviews. He likes poking people with needles. He is especially fond of the women. Ask Belinda, Myrrym and Michelle, they’ll tell you.

Better, Herbie? Can I get on with the Coffin Hop now? Thank you.

As I was trying to say before, Coffin Hop 2012 is under way and this is my first time being a part of it. The event last from October 24th through the 31st. Over 100 writers, artists and publishers are participating this year. You can check out more information here.

It appears that many of the participants are doing give aways. I’ve never done a give away or a contest. Of course, I’ve never had anything to ‘give away’ before. Ahhhh, but let’s change that. After chatting with my friend, Belinda—an awesome person, and a great writer—I learned that I can ‘gift’ one of my books to someone on Amazon by simply purchasing it and giving it to them.

Awesome idea, Belinda.

With that in mind, this is what I am going to do: I will give away a Kindle version of Southern Bones to two lucky people who comment on any of the post over the next seven days. I will put the names in a hat and let my daughter and son choose one name each. Make sure include an e-mail or Facebook link so I can get back in touch with you. Oh, one more thing, If someone comments on multiple blog posts, their name will go into the hat as many times as they comment. If you comment six times, your name goes in the hat six times. Fair enough?

What’s that, Herbie? What if someone doesn’t have a Kindle? Good question. Then I will send you a PDF version of Southern Bones that you can read on your computer.

The only thing I ask in return? Leave a review. Love it or hate it, leave a review. It’s one of those things that we authors rely on to help us get the word out there.

What now, Herbie? Why put a stipulation on giving away a free copy? Why not just give it away?

~Sigh~

Okay, if you want to leave a review, I would appreciate it, but you don’t have to. Just enjoy the book. That’s really what I want—that’s what all writers want. Oh, and come back. Browse around—there was a story posted just the other day—a freebie by any other name—and there will be another one posted in the next few days as part of The Coffin Hop.

So, what are you waiting for? Start commenting. And get to hop hop hopping along the Coffin Trail.

Until we meet again, my friends…

(And Herbie said C-Yah!)