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Resolutions Revisited

The first major leg in the American holiday season is over and my family survived. Food was cooked, family joined us for a meal and we were able to spend time with our loved ones. I am not much of a fan of the holidays but I think this one went rather well.

So now that this is out of the way, it is time to get back to writing and to share some good news.

January is normally the time where we review our New Year’s resolutions and see how we did. I can’t wait that long. I am too excited.

I had four goals for 2012. I posted them so that if I failed to complete them everyone could ridicule me. A little bit of pressure always helps your motivation, after all. In case you don’t remember, here they are again.

1. I want to be published by someone else, magazine, anthology or traditional publishing. Just so long as they selected my work instead of me publishing it.

2. I want to write a novel length book.

3. I want to find or build a peer review and critique group in my area.

4. I want to be paid for a piece of fiction.

This may not have been a big list to accomplish, but I thought they were goals that could be achieved while still setting a bar above where I was. At the point where I selected those four items, I had been writing for four months. I had nothing to show for those four months besides a few stories that nobody had accepted and a self published novella, I wouldn’t call that more than a start.

Now, I am proud to say that after eleven months, I have checked off every one of those items. I finished the first draft of my first novel, tentatively titled “Double Occupancy”, and it is in the drawer waiting for me to begin the second draft. I have mentioned the variety of stories that I have had selected for publication over the last year as they happened and I have found a critique group on-line as well as one that meets monthly near my home. Finally, I have been paid by one of the collections that I have been included in.

Now, I have a month to figure out what to shoot for next year.

L. E. White

Home Sweet Home

People always say silly things about inanimate objects. For example, “if these walls could talk” or “the walls have ears” or things like that.

Boy wouldn’t those people freak out if they knew that the walls don’t need ears to ear. Those same people would shit plaid kittens if they knew that the walls can talk.

Walls, you see, are something that was created. Everything that is created has a soul of its own, a little spark of the divine that was put there by the hands that created it. That is the real reason why people claim that there are haunted houses. That little bit of soul got charged enough to be seen by regular, normal people.

I hated my father. He was an arrogant, stupid prick that liked to bully his family and take advantage of other people. After my mother passed away, he got drunk and had sex with my girlfriend at my graduation party. Sure, she was a whore to have done it but he was my dad, and I think that makes what he did worse than what she did.

My father built our house. He was always proud of that fact, maybe because it was a cute little house and maybe because it was the only thing that he ever did right in his life. I don’t know and I don’t care. The important thing is that he built it, which means that a little piece of his soul is in the walls.

That is why I still live here. That is why I make sure and do all the terrible things that he hated in this house. I want to be sure that every drop of blood and every ounce of pain that I cause, he gets to experience in some way. I never watch football, I only play music he hated, the walls are painted in bright pastel colors, I let my queer friends have sex parties in the upstairs and I let a doctor who lost his license perform illegal abortions in the basement. I even bury the bodies of my victims in the flowerbeds.

I guess I could just burn the house down. Put an end to him and the last remaining piece of his spirit that I could find, but the truth is that I don’t want to.

I prefer knowing that I get to torture him a little bit more every day.

Eventually, these walls will talk, they will have finally taken as much as the house’s soul can take and they will begin to tell people what I have done here. When they do, I will set the house on fire and stand outside, listening to it scream.

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Categories: Flash Fiction, Horror, Writing
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