F.E.B.C.A.K

There are sometimes when you get to feel a whole lot dumber than normal. This is one of those times.

I have been working on a novel for months. I write a little bit in it here and there but I also keep writing short stories. I enjoy the shorts and would like to start seeing a little bit of trickle income from them. A few have royalties attached to the contracts so it is possible that I might see a stocking stuffer before the end of the year.

So, I got an idea and decided to write my first classic fantasy. It is the tale of a maiden who is offered up for sacrifice to a dragon, but is rescued by a magical knight.

Then, I find an anthology that is looking for the tale of the sacrificed. The publisher wants a fantasy story where the girl gets away and is more than just an offering to the monster.

I have about half of the story already. They want longer work than most but I decided I could add to it. So, I spent quite a bit of time editing and re-writing this piece. After a couple of my beta readers complained about the back and forth nature of my flashbacks I re-organized the story to be linear. I spent a lot of time getting this piece ready.

So, the day before it is due, I have edited all I can and it is time to format the piece. Each publisher wants something a little bit different. Some of them go with traditional manuscript formatting, but so far I haven’t seen anyone that sticks to that alone. This one was the furthest from traditional that I have found so far.

My wife is tired and heads to bed. I am back on the website re-reading the requirements before hitting send. The rest of my family is asleep. That is the moment, that one moment when I re-read the listing and see…..

That the romantic pairing must be lesbian.

My knight ain’t a woman.

I just totally screwed the pooch when it comes to this submission. So I didn’t hit send. I just tucked the story away and decided to start looking for markets for a 11,500ish word fantasy.

This just left me feeling plain, old, stupid.

On to a slightly more optimistic note; I also discovered the Drabblecast last week. This is another podcast that also does one hundred word stories. I have written a few of those, most of them are posted on this site, so I will have to read through their submission policies to see if they accept reprints. If not, I will just be writing new flash pieces in this size range.

The other thing I found was, “The Rejected Quarterly”, a magazine for fiction that has received at least five rejections. I have at least three pieces that are near this range. So, I will soon be submitting there as well.

Oh well, time to send out some stories and get back to work on the novel. As far as that goes, I just broke 46K words. Wish me luck.

L. E. White

Dear Editor

Rejection sucks.

I know; you are probably thinking that that is what everyone thinks. Nobody likes to be rejected. What makes me so special?

I don’t know what makes me so special. In my own opinion I don’t stand out from everyone else. I am working on everything that I want just like everyone else. I struggle and sweat and worry. As far as I can tell there is really only one thing that sets me apart. I am willing to go farther to make myself heard.

So try to remember that while I peel your skin off.

Damned Editors.

 

 

 

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So much to do and so little time

Private issues keep me from saying much about life at the moment. Things just are.

I am working on a story for submission. The piece is in editing and is currently just a bit short of 12K words. It is also my first true fantasy in the classic sense. I will post more on it as I can.

Due to the short nature of this post I have decided to share a longer story. This is one that I intended to submit some more but changed my mind. This is my modern telling of a classic fairy tale. I hope you enjoy it.

L. E. White

Grandma’s Boy

It was just like every other day that he came here. Dillon’s mother would make him go to playground. She would tell him that he needed fresh air and exercise. Then she would drop him off and leave to go get groceries.

After she was gone, that is when everything went bad. The other boys would pick on him. He got punched. Balls would get bounced off of his head. He would even get wedgies.

Dillon hated the park. It is always hard when you are shy. It was hard to watch them playing when you didn’t have other kids to play with. It was even harder when the others made fun of you. They called him, “Fatty” and “Lard Ball”. They called him other things that were worse.

So when his mother dropped him off Dillon would go to the swings by the mothers and wait. He had tried sitting there the entire time but that didn’t work. Sooner or later the others boys would play close by. Then the ball would bounce off his head. It was hard to move around without anyone noticing but he tried. He was careful. He had to be if he wanted to be left alone.

The other problem with going to the playground was that he couldn’t go to the bathroom. The one time he had tried to use the restrooms some older boys had shoved his head into the toilet. He couldn’t tell his mother about it. She would have frowned and shook her head but she wouldn’t have done anything else. He couldn’t have told his father either. He would have told him to stand up for himself. Worse, he might have started trying to teach him to box again. All that ever did was given his dad a chance to hit him without calling it abuse. So he had cleaned up as best he could and then sat crying all night in his room.

Dillon’s mom had just driven around the corner. He was looking around to see where he might be able to hide when he saw a new boy. This kid looked like he might be about the same age. It was hard to tell how old Dillon was because of his size. The new boy had the same problem. The new guy was sitting under a tree not too far from the mother’s benches so he had also found a pretty good place.

The other thing was that this new kid had food with him. Dillon saw him raise his hand to his mouth. It had looked like a cookie.

Dillon started walking that direction. He had to get out of the parking lot before anyone really noticed him. The new kid was close to the safer parts so it made sense to go there. The truth however, was that Dillon desperately wanted to see if the new kid would share. His mother had  put him on a diet over a year ago but it wasn’t helping. There hadn’t been anything from the store that wasn’t sugar free, fat free and low carb for that year. She had stopped baking and insisted that both Dillon and his father eat more vegetables.

When Dillon got close to the swings where he usually started and ended his playground excursion the new kid looked up and smiled. It was a re-assuring thing to see. The other kid didn’t get up and move away, he didn’t hide the bag, a whole bag, of cookies that he had brought with him. He didn’t even glare at Dillon to keep him back. He actually smiled.

So, based on that tiny gesture of kindness Dillon walked over to the tree. “Hi.” He said

“Hi.” The other boy replied, wiping crumbs off his hands before extending his hand up towards Dillon, “My name is Harry. What’s yours?”

“I’m Dillon.”

Harry nodded and looked over at the basketball court. “You know many of the kids out here?”

“No.” Dillon said. He shifted around and sat beside Harry with his back to the tree. “There aren’t very many nice people at this park. You have to move around a little or they come up and start picking on you.”

“That sucks.” Harry said. He reached into the bag and pulled out another cookie. It looked like chocolate chip but Dillon was sure he could smell something else to. “How old are you anyway?”

“I turn ten in a few weeks.” Dillon said, “What about you?”

“I just turned ten.” Harry answered. He finished the cookie in about three bites and then reached into the bag again. Dillon was having trouble not looking into the bag to see if there were more. He wanted to ask for one to but he had always been told that it was rude.

Harry must have noticed because he picked up the bag and leaned it towards Dillon. “You want one? My grandma made them. They are chocolate chip and toffee.”

“Thanks.” Dillon said. He took a cookie out of the bag and took a small bite. He groaned as he slowly chewed the bite. The first real cookie in almost a year and it was pure heaven.

“That good huh?” Harry asked before biting into another cookie. “You sound like you haven’t had a cookie in weeks.”

“I haven’t.” Dillon said around a mouthful of baked happiness. He finished the cookie before telling Harry about the diet.

“That sucks. Why don’t you just get something at school?”

“I am home schooled.” Dillon said, “My mom is my teacher. This park is the only place we ever go where she leaves me alone. There isn’t a vending machine anywhere near by.”

Harry turned to look at him for a second before offering him another cookie. “My grandma bakes all the time.” He said, “You can have as many as you want.”

“My mom never bakes.” Dillon said as he helped himself to more cookies, “The only thing she makes all the time is salad.”

Harry laughed before he popped another cookie into his mouth. This continued until the boys had finished the bag. They talked about all sorts of things and before Dillon knew it his mother was there to pick him up. For the first time he hadn’t been picked on. Nobody had hit him with the ball. Today had been a good day to be at the park.

“I’ll see you again.” Harry said.

“I hope so.”

***

It was two days later when Dillon’s mother took him back to the park. He had been dreaming of the cookies, but he had also been thinking that it would be nice to invite Harry over to play video games.

The boys had talked about comic books and action figures. Dillon had a lot in common with Harry. It would be nice to see him again and as soon as his mother dropped him off Dillon had started looking for Harry. He didn’t find him in any of the safe spots. He didn’t know if Harry was there and in trouble or if he was going to come to the park at all. Dillon sat down in one of the swings and started slowly turning in little half circles. He wanted to find Harry but didn’t actually know if he was going to come to the park today or not.

Dillon stood up and started to head out to look for him. If Harry was in trouble nobody else would help him. He was to the edge of the pea gravel that marked out the safest part of the playground when he heard someone behind him call out his name. He turned around and saw Harry walking up the street.

Once he was there the boys had sat down under the same tree again. They talked about games and what had happened on their favorite cartoons while eating another bag of cookies that Harry’s grandmother had sent him to the park with.

“I wish my mom would make cookies like this for me.” Dillon said.

“Why don’t you ask her to?” Harry asked.

“Because I already know she will say no.” Dillon said. He looked into the empty bag with a sad expression. “She used to cook a lot but when the doctor said that I had high cholesterol she started the diet. My dad has it to and she said she won’t buy anymore junk food.”

“But have you ever asked her to bake you cookies?” Harry asked. “If she hasn’t said no then you don’t know if she will or not.”

Dillon looked at him for a minute before he nodded and said. “I wish I could just get your grandma to make me some cookies. Those are great.”

“Those are nothing.” Harry said. He had a big smile as he proudly told Dillon all about the dinners that his grandmother made. The food sounded fantastic after last night’s veggie pizza. But the thing that really made Dillon’s mouth water was the cake.

“I love cake.” Dillon said. “I miss eating cake at the coffee shop my mom always went to on the way home from work.”

“My grandma won’t let me take cake out of the house.” Harry said. “But maybe one day you can come over.”

“I would love to but I don’t think my mom will let me.”

Harry nodded and sat there quietly for a minute. He frowned when Dillon’s mom pulled into the parking lot and honked. He looked at Dillon as he stood up and said, “I don’t live that far away from here. If you wanted to we could probably go to my house for a little while and come back before your mom came to pick you up.”

“I don’t know.” Dillon said

“Don’t worry about it. We can talk again the next time. See you later.”

* * *

The next time Dillon went to the park Harry was nowhere to be found. He waited and walked around looking for him but he didn’t find him.

Walking around the playground alone was bad. When he had been with Harry the last two times Dillon hadn’t been picked on at all. Now though, he was alone. In less than twenty minutes he had been called at least a dozen names and hit in the back with a basketball and in the face with a football.

He was standing in front of the bathrooms trying to decide if he should risk going in to check for Harry when Dillon heard someone call his name. Harry was waving at him as he walked between the football and soccer fields. Dillon nearly jumped for joy as he hurried away from the restrooms.

When they met Dillon was a little out of breath but he was smiling from ear to ear. “I was worried that something had happened to you.” He told Harry as they both turned to head to the swings.

“Nope, I was just busy helping Grandma.” Harry said. “She just got back from the store and I helped carry in the groceries. I put them up while she started baking.”

“What is she making?” Dillon asked.

“A chocolate cheese cake.” Harry replied

“That sounds really good.” Dillon said

“So come over and get a piece. It should be done by the time we get there.” Harry said. He didn’t stop walking when he got to the swings but kept going towards the gate to the park.

Dillon kept pace beside him as he said, “I don’t know, if my mom gets back and I’m not here she is gonna freak out.”

“She isn’t gonna get back before we do.” Harry said, “It isn’t very far and you haven’t been here that long have you?”

“No.” Dillon said.

Harry didn’t say anything else; he just walked out of the park. Dillon hesitated at the gate for a moment before he hurried to catch up with Harry.

They walked a few blocks before coming to a little house tucked in between two much larger buildings. It had a white picket fence and flowers growing along the walk. Dillon thought it looked odd between the big brick homes but he could smell food from the sidewalk. Harry’s bike was leaning against the garage and an old toy truck was lying underneath the swing on the porch.

When they went to the door Harry opened it and yelled in, “Grandma, I’m home and I brought a friend.”

The boys walked towards the kitchen. The smell of chocolate filled the air and Dillon’s stomach rumbled so loudly the Harry laughed as he led him through the kitchen doorway.

Standing beside a big table was a little old woman who was nearly as round as she was tall. Her hair was so gray that it looked blue and she had thick glasses. “Hello dear.” She said as Harry walked around the table and gave her a hug. “Who is your friend.”

“This is Dillon,” Harry said, “I met him at the park and told him about how great a cook you are and he wanted to try something.”

She looked at Dillon through her glasses for a second before smiling as she said, “Well that’s nice. Now Dillon, tell me about yourself while I cut you a piece of the cheese cake I just made.”

Dillon talked as he watched her carve a big slice of the cheese cake. Harry’s grandmother then poured a glass of milk to go with it and sat them down in front of him. She smiled at him and pinched his cheek a little before turning back and cutting another piece of cheese cake for Harry.

The boys sat there eating. Dillon didn’t say much as he inhaled the food. Harry’s grandmother just watched as they ate. “Now don’t forget to drink your milk Dillon.” She said when he used his finger to wipe up the last smear of the chocolate syrup from the plate.

Dillon didn’t have to be told twice. He tipped the glass back and emptied it. He smiled at Harry as he looked at his empty plate. “Don’t you like milk?” He asked.

Harry looked down at his plate. “I never drink the milk.” He said.

“Why not?” Dillon asked, trying to keep from yawning in between the words.

“Because Dear,” the old woman said, “that is where I put the poison.”

Dillon looked at her while fighting to keep his eyes open. “What?”

“I put something in the milk so that you will sleep.” She said. She then walked over to the table and picked up a big cleaver. “That way you won’t run away or scream.”

Dillon looked at Harry. He opened his mouth to say something but couldn’t get the words to come out. His mouth and eyes both opened and closed a few times before settling down. Dillon slumped down in his chair and slid to the floor.

The little old women let out a cackling laugh before she glared at Harry. “Get him up on the table so I can get started.”

While Harry huffed and pulled Dillon up onto the table the women took off the glasses. She went to the butcher block and collected a number of different blades before she walked back and laid them out on the table beside of Dillon.

“You had better hurry up and go find another one.” She said without looking away from Dillon. “If you had taken any longer in bringing him to me I would have been forced to put your sister in the pot. After all these years, I would think you would be better at this. ”

He wiped his eyes as he headed out the door; only pausing long enough to grab another bag of cookies off the counter.

 

 

I have been accepted into the Cthulhu Haiku collection

I submitted a bunch of haiku and Sijo to Popcorn Press for their upcoming poetry collection, “Cthulhu Haiku” and they have selected six of my poems to be included in the collection.

I love haiku and all of the related forms of the 17 syllable poem. It is so much fun to write. Sijo is a Korean form that has three lines of 14 to 15 syllables. I learned about it by following the link that was included from the description of the anthology. I am glad I did, this is a great way to put an idea on paper.

Poetry, for me, is a fun way to approach a single idea. I am by no means a scholar of it and I couldn’t identify very many of the forms. However, I would say that writing poetry is a very good exercise. Following rules about rhyming, structure or syllable counts forces you to dig into your vocabulary and search for the way to say what you want.  It forces you to find the way to fit an idea into a different container than what you might have tried otherwise.

For me, it makes me write outside the box.

Here are the sijo that were not accepted. I look forward to being able to provide a link to the collection.

L. E. White

Sijo

We sat in velvet chairs. Sipping brandy and smoking cigars.

While reading ancient books and practicing forbidden arts.

But when you search for something in the dark, the dark finds you.

************************************************************

I thought I knocked on the doors of heaven when I spoke the words.

Given to me by a man who I thought holy and inspired.

After saying the words, after seeing, I was wholly mad.

************************************************************

The wind whipped over mountain stones to whistle around my ears.

As I flew on wings of imagination made real by dreams.

Without knowing the horizon I sought was made of nightmare.

************************************************************

I sit at my keys and write down the ideas that pass my mind

Each one, a fleeting image as if I look at passing birds

Yet some ideas will only soar in the darkness of my night

That Halloween Time of Year

Ah, October is here and for my family it should be the best time of the year.

It isn’t. It should be, but it isn’t.

With people sick and feeling down. Animals that are sick and therefore must be taken care of, things are not as festive as they have been in many previous years.

Here is hoping that is picks up in the middle and ends with a bang. It is the Halloween season after all.

I am working on submissions to multiple anthologies at the moment as well as working on my novel in progress. I broke 40K last week and hope to keep the words flowing.

Of course, if I would just stop writing other things that would be easier. How in the world do other authors write on story of novel length without stopping to write half a dozen others along the way? I just don’t get it.

I have also recently heard a number of stories that were from the older British era of fiction. Think of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for the voice and style. I love the way it sounds, so I am going to play with that a bit today. I hope you like it.

Oh well, time to get writing.

L. E. White

A Review of the Events Leading Up to Last Night

There was something awful about waking up without being able to properly remember the events of the recent past. One would imagine that I had been drinking or perhaps I had taken some narcotic substance with which I had been incapacitated, but I assure you that this is not the case.

Yet, I must confess that I was indeed unsure as to the events of the past few hours. I could of course, clearly remember the events of the past few days. They were far clearer than was usual due to the effort with which I had been expending. I had been far more mentally active these past few days than was my want but desperate times do indeed call for desperate measures.

Over the last few days, I had been pouring over a tome of particularly odd vintage that had come into my possession due to the purchase of a lot from an estate sale. The sealed foot locker had been found in excellent condition and after I had drilled the locks I discovered a menagerie of odd items that all seemed to possess an arcane quality. Had my rational not exerted itself I might well have believed that I had purchased the working tools of a magician.

The old books were in a variety of languages, and not being a scholar of such things I could not make out even the titles. Jars of powder and dried plants along with a mortar and pestle further convinced me of the nature of the contents. It was the journal, written in a neat block print that I began to peruse.

My original intent upon opening the trunk was to sell the books and dispose of the powders, but after reading through the journal I found myself wanting to explore the contents of my new collection in greater detail.

In reading about the practices of those witches and wizards who now came into the public view, I learned that it is common practice to keep a journal of your activities and that was exactly what I had been reading. The writer signed his documents as Frater Mors. I consulted with a college of mine who I knew to have studied Latin in his school days translated this for me as “Brother Death”.

Reading his journal was an amazing flight of fancy. The things he claimed to have done bordered so far into the ridiculous that I dare not tell you of them, but must instead insist that you read them yourself. You will have found the journal on my night stand.

I was so taken by the good brother’s stories of using a talking board that I procured one and tried it myself. While I assumed that there would be no result, I also inquired with the gypsy owner of the establishment where I procured the item as to its proper use. I was informed that they were not to be used alone because only a group provided enough of the psychic power needed to allow a spirit to communicate through the board.

The good brother had not done this, so when I arrived home I endeavored to use the board in the same fashion that he had, while alone. Of course, nothing happened, so I put the board away and wrote it off. But that night, I was overcome with the idea of gathering a group together to attempt to use the board.

Last night, I succeeded in that endeavor. I invited a number of friends over from the pub and we talked and joked until well into the evening. I mentioned the board, and my interest in working with it. One young lady, a lovely girl by the name of Renee insisted that it was a foul pursuit and refused to have any part of it. When the others agreed to give it a go, Renee left our assemblage. That should have happened around Ten O’clock in the evening.

After we had the board out, the remainder of the guests and I, a group of six people, attempted to use the board.

Unfortunately, that is where my memory of the evening ends. The next thing I remember was you and your men removing me from my apartment.

No Officer, I cannot explain the blood in my home or on my clothing. I have no idea where my shoes are if not under the edge of my bed. How bloody footprints were found on the ceilings is a mystery as is the condition of any of my guests.

I do suppose that it wouldn’t be too much trouble or inconvenience to ask that I be able to wash myself in a basin. I am quite sticky from all of this and would greatly appreciate the opportunity. Especially considering the assumption that I will be in your company until this whole misunderstanding is cleared up.

Review of Cure by Belinda Frisch

I have been reading “Cure, A Strandville Zombie Novel” by Belinda Frisch and I have to say that this lady has the creepy figured out.

This is a zombie story. As soon as you hear that, you know some of what to expect; zombie killing, zombie killings and people doing stupid things. She does not disappoint in these areas. However, she has also done a good job of giving each character their own story. While some of the characters earn you dislike, it is easy to see how each is the hero of their own story. The cast is relate-able and interesting.

I was surprised by the level of cruelty that she wrote into the doctor. This story is a clear case where the worst monster in the book is not the monster you expected. She also gave some wonderfully sickening and disgusting descriptions of what was going on. If you have a weak stomach, you might not want to eat while reading.

I only really had one complaint. The people in the book actually let the zombies loose as a diversion. I just couldn’t suspend my disbelief that far. Nobody, and I really mean nobody, would do that. I just can’t get behind that.

Otherwise I was impressed with this bloody, macabre and horrible book. If you are a fan of the walking dead then you should give “Cure, A Strandville Zombie Novel” by Belinda Frisch a look.

I am not a fan of the five-star system. It doesn’t give enough variation. I would say this book is a little more than a seven out of ten. Well done and enjoyable.

L. E. White

Carving

Each time another of the group had been taken away, there was crying. Each time a person had been drug through the door, there had been yelling. Each time the door closed, there were panicked noises that were muffled after the door was closed.

Then, there was screaming. Screams that cut off suddenly and then came back louder. Screams that put the women in the creepy movie matinee to shame. Screams that made you want to piss yourself.

I didn’t know about the others, I didn’t care to ask, but I had no idea how I had ended up here. The last thing I remember was walking through the park on my way home from the gym. It was a blustery day, the wind whipping around me as I drug my tired limbs along towards home. It had been free weights day and I remember thinking that I could actually see some improvement.

The door opened, light streaming into the room and I looked up at whoever it was that kept dragging us out. There was a little light leaking in through gaps in the walls. It looked a lot like the inside of a barn in one of those slasher horror movies, streaks of gold in the gloom that just gave you enough to see who was trapped with you. Until the  door opened and the monster came in, just like our monster just had.

I am guessing it was a man because I doubt most women are strong enough to grab and drag a fat man out of the room the way that this person just did. He, because I think it is, shuffled in, feet moving through the straw that was scattered on the floor with a sound that reminded you of a kid walking through leaves after their dad finished raking the yard, and grabbed a fat man wearing a Jets coat. The man began cursing and trashing, though his hands and feet were still as tied as they had been while the last half-dozen people were drug out, trying to free himself so that he might not be drug to the screaming. Our captor was dressed like a scare crow, with a pumpkin on his head and a big hat on top of that. The pumpkin was painted like an old-fashioned jack-o-lantern. There were triangles for the eyes and nose and a wide, serrated grin that was white against the orange of the pumpkin. He even wore bib overalls.

Our fat friend was threatening the scarecrow. “You don’t wanna do this,” and “My family is gonna make you wish you was dead,” alternating between profanity and “If I get my hands on you I’m gonna twist your head off your shoulders and bake it inside that stupid pumpkin.”

His threats stopped the moment the door shut. The last couple of us, a short, round black woman; two valley girls in sorority t-shirts and running shorts; a security guard and me; all heard our cursing friend yell, “Oh sweet Jesus save me,” before the first of a string of blood curdling screams.

The silence that followed was terrible.

This is what continued for a few more hours. I was tossed against the back wall and was therefore the furthest from the door. Tall, thin and orange came back in again and again. He grabbed whoever was closest each time and each time, there would be more yelling and then more screaming.

Finally, it was down to just two of us. The black woman and I were staring at the door, knowing that it should open at any moment. She was crying and when the door opened, I started crying to. I waited to be grabbed but when I heard dragging I looked up to see that he had lifted her up. The poor woman’s eyes were closed and she just kept crying. I didn’t hear her yell or curse. She didn’t beg or anything, she just cried.

Until she screamed.

I was quiet when he came back for me. I knew that the rest of the yelling, begging and screaming didn’t help, so I tried to be quiet. I closed my eyes, squeezing them tight, but once I was in the air I couldn’t help it, I opened them.

I was facing my handler’s chest and I could see the stem of the pumpkin facing down. As I looked closer I realized that there were leaves around it as well, but that I couldn’t see the guy’s neck. I then looked down at my legs, where he had hands wearing green gloves holding on to me. The more I looked, the more I was sure that those were rolled leaves instead of gloves.

I turned my head to look around the room. I could see two others walking around. They had pumpkins in place of a head but there were no faces painted on them. No clothing covered the fact that their bodies were just twisted vines. I had been captured by the main ingredient in my favorite dessert.

When he turned toward the table, I could see the blood all over it. There was a bucket on the end that was filled to over-flowing with what looked like a mixture of dark and light rope. Across from the table, the other people were all propped up. Each one had their arms in the air and an eerie glow escaping from inside their heads. I could see the bright spot of a candle flame behind the fat mans missing nose. The others just glowed the same yellow and red that a child’s face does when they hold a flashlight under their face.

I could see the second candle that had been placed inside each stomach. The clothes cut open and a hollow place carved into the once human jack-o-lanterns. A plate had been shoved in to give the candle a flat place to sit.

When one of the walking pumpkins came towards me with a gore covered pair of pruning shears, I began to scream.