There’s a strange (to me at least) current that runs through the Twitter #WritingCommunity every once in a while, and that’s writers who proclaim that they don’t read, and further that they don’t need to be readers to write. This is an alien concept to me. I began to write, way back in junior high, because the books I was reading made me want to tell my own stories. I can’t imagine doing one without the other.
So yes, the best writing advice I know is to read. But, it’s more than that. It’s to read with an open and curious mind, and also with a critical eye, to try to see behind the curtain and understand how the magic happens. That’s not to say that reading should be homework. I frequently find myself lost in a good book, coming up for air hours later, a little dizzy, my heart full, my head in a different place than it was when I began reading. I’m saying, let yourself be carried away by excellent writing, but take notice, if you can, of what makes the writing excellent.
Further, in my experience at least, you can learn different things from different authors. Some examples: Seanan McGuire, Neil Gaiman, Angela Carter taught me that there is power in the deceptively simple language of fairy tales, beauty and terror as well. Speaking of terror, Shirley Jackson, Stephen King, Clive Barker, Paul Tremblay, Gabino Iglesias, Chuck Wendig, and countless others taught me that words can be deployed like a scalpel or a bludgeon, and that both will keep you up at night. Joe Lansdale, and Elmore Leonard before him, taught me that in the right hands, dialogue can sing or sting or make you erupt in laughter. In fact, it can carry a story all on its own. From Joe Abercrombie, and Joe Lansdale again, I learned that violence in general, and fight scenes in particular, whether hand to hand combat or clashing armies, can have a visceral, kinetic energy that carries the reader along. From authors as diverse as R.A. Lafferty, Ray Bradbury, Alix E. Harrow, V.E. Schwab, and Tamsyn Muir, I learned that language can be transfixing, breathtaking, even transformative.
I could go on and on. Great writers not only teach me, but give me something to aspire to. I’m not there yet, not even close, but I know in my heart that reading will make me a better writer. That’s the best advice I can give.
Heads and Tales: The Other Side of the Story is a new anthology of reimagined myths, legends, and fairytales, that I’m lucky enough to have a short story in. The stories in the anthology are presented in pairs, with each pair telling their tale from opposite sides—Theseus and the Minotaur, Hansel & Gretel and the witch, you get the idea—with sometimes wildly reimagined settings.
In my case, Canadian author Renée Gendron and I took the myth of the Wild Hunt—berserker warriors and their hounds from hell—and transposed it to the battle for Fort Detroit on the U.S./Canadian border during the War of 1812. Mine is a supernatural war story, Renée’s is a supernatural romance, and they work together in what turned out to be very cool ways. I’ve never collaborated like this before, but besides being an excellent writer, Renée was great fun to work with. All in all, an awesome project to be involved with.
This all came about because editor Chapel Orahamm had an idea back around the beginning of the year, and the Twitter #WritingCommunity coalesced around it. Working with the other talented writers, communicating with them, and learning from them, has been a uniquely worthwhile experience, one that’s made me eager to participate in other projects of this kind.
One other thing—I was also given the opportunity to design and illustrate the book cover as well, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I created the art using an Apple pencil and Procreate. The more I work with digital tools, the more I’m excited by the possibilities.
If you have an interest in folklore, mythology, fairytales, or just plain good fiction, give this one a try.
To top it all off, all proceeds from sales will go to support The Trevor Project.
Heads and Tales: The Other Side of the Story will be available in both paperback and e-book beginning July 1st, but is available for pre-order now on both Amazon.com and Barnesandnoble.com.
Maybe it’s my age (a little shy of 61), or maybe it’s because my youngest kid (hi, McKenna!) will be 21 in a couple of weeks. Maybe it’s the sense of overwhelming dread and mortality we’ve all been marinating in for the past year. Whatever the reason, I’m feeling introspective, and thought I’d take a ramble on back through my sort of, sometimes, writing life.
Before I started writing, I had to start reading, and that happened my first week in junior high, when I found I, Robot and Martian Chronicles on the top shelf of my school library’s small science fiction section. By eighth grade I had read all the books in that section (including, if I remember correctly, about 87 Andre Norton novels) and had graduated to my local public library. I had also decided to try my hand at writing, starting with poetry.
In ninth grade I wrote a 25 page collection of poetry, and starting branching out with short stories. In my senior year, my English teacher (hi, Mr. Belden!), who I’m still friends with on Facebook, created a special class for me, where I could spend one period per day in the library writing stories and receive credit for it. By the end of high school I had won a couple of Scholastic Writing Awards with those short stories, and it was pretty much decided. I was a writer, at least in my own mind, and I was going to keep on writing.
I kept writing through my late teens, both poetry and short stories, but I submitted only sporadically. This has been a running theme throughout my life. I hate the entire process of submitting, and I downright suck at it.
I spent the first couple years of my twenties in the U.S. Army, which you wouldn’t think would be conducive to writing. Luckily, Fort Carson, Colorado, where I was stationed, had a post newspaper with a circulation of 30,000, and when I arrived there they were in need of a cartoonist and journalist. I spent those two years happily drawing cartoons and illustrations, and writing movie reviews and feature stories. The paper’s civilian editors were damn good, and they taught me a lot.
Fast forward a bunch of years, where I was still writing but not submitting much at all. I started working for a small Cleveland ad agency as a graphic designer in 1983, got married in 1989 (hi, Carrie!), and my son Eric was born in 1993. That’s when I began writing for kids, something I love and still do to this day. In 1999 one of my children’s stories was a top ten finisher in Writer’s Digest’s annual writing contest. I felt like I was on to something.
I submitted a picture book manuscript to the 2000 contest and the jury, led by the amazing author Kelly Milner Halls, chose it as the grand prize winner. I won some cash, and more importantly, a trip to NYC to meet with three editors of my choice. Weirdly, by the time the trip happened I had already sold the manuscript, to Smallfellow Books in Los Angeles. That’s when I discovered just how much of a crap shoot publishing is, because through a series of misadventures by little book, titled Up Ned’s Nose, was not, and still hasn’t been, published. I chronicled the story in more detail here: (https://davewritesanddraws.com/2020/01/16/so-close-and-yet-the-two-decade-journey-of-a-single-manuscript/).
I kept writing, mostly for kids but some fantasy and horror for adults as well, submitting off and on. In 2006 everyone’s favorite dentist office magazine, Highlights for Children, published my short story Tough As Daisy. This was, and still is, one of my favorite things that’s ever happened to me. I’ve since sold them another story, but it hasn’t appeared in print yet.
My publication credits during this time are a mixed and varied bag. I sold short stories to several horror anthologies. I wrote a bunch of song lyrics, even though I can’t play or sing a lick, and had several recorded by local musicians. I wrote ASL test passages, and greeting card sentiments.
In 2013 CBAY Books, a small publisher in Texas, held a writing contest, and by coincidence I had just finished my first longer work for kids, a 15,000 word chapter book. My book, Trapped In Lunch Lady Land, won the contest by a comfortable margin, and the prize was a publishing contract. I was beyond excited. Funny thing, though, the editor thought it would work much better as a 30,000 word middle grade novel, and I had roughly two months to double my word count. Turns out she was right. Lunch Lady Land was published in 2014. I had a book signing at my local Barnes & Noble, and I did a bunch of school visits, which might be the most fun I’ve ever had.
Meanwhile, I was now creative director at that same ad agency (38 years next month) and besides doing graphic design, I was taking on more and more of the writing work. I’ve now written hundreds of tv and radio scripts, reams of ad copy, and countless blog posts for a variety of clients. I’m surprised at how much I enjoy this new and different creative outlet.
In the fall of 2019 I started this blog, and that took up a fair amount of my free time. By the time the pandemic reared its ugly head, I had not been writing much fiction, but that all changed. Suddenly, since we couldn’t go anywhere or do anything, I realized that if I didn’t do something to occupy my time, I would make myself, and my wife as well, crazy. I discovered the joys of writing to submission calls, and started writing short stories again. More importantly, I started submitting with a vengeance, not just the new stuff, but older stuff as well. I’m even tracking my submissions, with dates and everything. Yes, I know that’s how you’re supposed to do it. No, I never really did before.
I also started a RedBubble shop, Fan-Tasm, which features artwork inspired by iconic books and authors. A perfect marriage of my favorite things.
I have a story due to appear sometime soon on an extreme horror website. I’m a little worried about people reading that one, it’s a doozy. I’m participating in the Two Sides of the Story anthology, teamed up with a wonderful writer from Canada (hi, Renée!). At last count I had more than two dozen short stories, kid’s stories, picture books, and a chapter book out on submission.
I have no more excuses keeping me from writing it, so the YA novel I’ve been thinking about for a couple of years is finally going to happen. I hope. It terrifies me a little, because I’m going to write it in first person, and my main character is a 17 year old girl. No idea if I can pull that off, but I think it want to try.
My writing life has been sporadic, in fits and starts, with just a few successes along the way. But I figure, as long as I keep writing, I’m a writer. That’s good enough for me.
I’ve been writing off and on since I was in junior high and I wrote my first poem (if you’re feeling brave you can read it here: https://davewritesanddraws.com/2019/12/02/from-the-vault-my-first-poem/). In the many years since then I’ve written a variety of things, including everything from reading passages for ESL exams to greeting card copy. I wrote a middle grade novel that was published, and a chapter book still looking for a home. I’ve written poetry and song lyrics. For my day job as ad agency creative director I’ve written a couple hundred radio and TV commercials, and countless reams of website copy.
Through all of that, whatever I was writing, either for pay or for fun, I was also writing short stories. I became a reader because of science fiction and fantasy, and I cut my teeth on the short stories that filled the pages of magazines like The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and Galaxy (and hard to find back issues of New Worlds), and long-running anthology series like Damon Knight’s Orbit and Terry Carr’s Universe. Harlan Ellison’s Dangerous Visions and Again, Dangerous Visions showed me the great expanse of what science fiction could be.
So writing short stories seemed like a natural to me. I wrote short stories for kids (mostly fantasy) and short stories for adults (mostly horror, fantasy, and science fiction, go figure). The thing is, I would write a story whenever an idea occurred to me, and then try to find a home for it.
That all changed in the spring of 2020 as the pandemic really began to pick up speed. With nowhere to go and nothing much to do, I began to draw more, and write more. Only, instead of waiting for inspiration to strike like normal, I noticed that submission calls were popping up regularly on Twitter. I joined a couple of writing groups on Facebook, and more submission calls reared their heads. I wasn’t sure if I liked the idea of writing to a call instead of my usual way. I thought it might stifle my creative flow. I thought I might find it constricting.
Yeah, I was wrong. Writing to submission calls has been downright liberating. By giving me some sort of basic framework to start from, it freed me to let my imagination run wild, building on that framework. And if a story was rejected by that particular call, then I was free to search for a new home for it the old fashioned way.
Have I been successful at this? Some. I’ve placed two of the stories I’ve written to submission calls in the past year, I’m still waiting to hear from others, and still others are now looking for new homes.
My first novel, a funny fantasy adventure for middle-graders titled Trapped In Lunch Lady Land was published by CBAY Books in 2014. It sold a few hundred copies, I had a fancy book signing at my local Barnes & Noble, and, most importantly, I did a bunch of school visits. I read from the book and answered the kids’ whipsmart questions (Kindergartners: “Do you have a cat? I have a cat!” 5th graders: “How much did you make from your book? Did you get an advance?”). Those visits are the reason I will never stop writing.
Then, a few weeks ago, a funny thing happened that I did not see coming, although in retrospect I probably should have. Trapped In Lunch Lady Land officially went out of print. I was a little bummed, at least at first, but eventually decided to look at it as an opportunity to enter the exciting, confusing world of self publishing.
My first step was talking to my publisher for some much needed advice. She suggested, first, that I create new cover art for the new edition. Her second piece of advice, which I’ll be forever grateful for, was to take the Self Publishing Class from author P.J. Hoover (@pj_hoover on Twitter). Great class, covered all the basics. At the end of those three hours, I was confident I could pull it off.
Based on what I learned in the class, and my own research, I decided to publish through KDP, Kindle Direct Publishing. I created new cover art on my I-pad with my handy dandy Apple Pencil. KDP has templates available in a variety of sizes. I’ve been drawing by hand my entire life, and I’m not a pro with the pencil yet, but I’m really enjoying learning to use it. I laid out the interior pages of the new print edition in InDesign, which I’m very familiar with. Developing the Kindle e-book edition was trickier. The first edition of Lunch Lady Land didn’t have a Kindle version, so this was new territory. Even with what I learned in the class, I had a few false starts, a few missteps. I tried to make use of my print layout, which potentially should work, but I kept losing all the formatting. Very frustrating. Eventually I downloaded KDP’s free app, Kindle Create, and that did the trick.
So, now I have both print and Kindle versions of the new edition of Trapped In Lunch Lady Land available. Will I sell some new copies? Who knows? That’s not what’s important. I just like knowing that the book’s out there in the wild. And maybe some kid will read it, and enjoy, at least for a little while, spending time in a world I invented.
If you’re curious, here’s a link to the new edition. If you have a kid, or know a kid, they just might like it.
I wrote this song for local Cleveland group The Advocates, let by singer/songwriter Paul Senick. To this day it’s one of my favorite lyrics of all I’ve written.
GIVE IT BACK
Joanie’s husband beat her like a drum for nineteen years, Held her ego hostage in a cage of pain and fear. Bruises heal and bones mend, but what about the soul, His fists and words just beat her down, and each one took its toll. Joanie suffered silently, she never made a scene. She kept it bottled up inside, a never ending scream. Until the night her husband woke to the smell of gasoline. As Joanie struck the match she said, give it back to me.
Give it back, give it back to me, All the years and all the tears you took from me. Give it back, give me back my life, How’s it feel to dangle from the sharp edge of the knife. Give it back, give it back to me, Give it back, give it back to me.
Patty Anne was barely ten when her father came to call, Creeping like a prowler in the darkness, down the hall. You won’t tell a soul he said, here’s what it’s about. I brought you into this world and I can take you out. Patty suffered silently, she never made a scene. She kept it bottled up inside, a never ending scream. Until the night her father woke to the smell of gasoline. As Patty struck the match she said, give it back to me.
Give it back, give it back to me, All the years and all the tears you took from me. Give it back, give me back my life, How’s it feel to dangle from the sharp edge of the knife.
Give it back, give it back to me, All the years and all the tears you took from me. Give it back, give me back my life, How’s it feel to dangle from the sharp edge of the knife. Give it back, give it back to me, Give it back, give it back to me.
I wrote this a long time ago, after my first visit to New York City. Reading it now, I realize it sounds like I don’t like the city at all, but the truth is it’s one of my favorite places in the world. I was playing a character here, imagining the lives of some of the people I watched streaming past me.
HIT THE TOWN
my old man drove me as far as the station but he wouldn’t get out of the car shook my hand and palmed me a twenty told me again I was straying too far every small town punk wakes up one morning with big city lights alive in his dreams but I guess we all have to find out for ourselves those big city lights aren’t as bright as they seem go on now, boy, your bus is waiting I know this is something you think you have to do but take this advice along for the ride someone gave it to me when I was a punk just like you
you’ve got to hit the ground with both legs churning shine like a comet with both ends burning sweat and strain ’til the weight gets lighter keep coming back, like a punch drunk fighter and most of all, don’t forget this, Jack sometimes when you hit the town, you know the town hits back
Grand Central Station at three in the morning is something no boy from Ohio should see so many lost people huddled together so many dead eyes following me I sat on a bench to wait out the daylight wondered again how I’d come to this place an old woman tugged at the hem of my coat she said, don’t worry son, we’ll save you a space
you’ve got to hit the ground with both legs churning shine like a comet with both ends burning sweat and strain ’til the weight gets lighter keep coming back, like a punch drunk fighter and most of all, don’t forget this, Jack sometimes when you hit the town, you know the town hits back
now here I am gazing from fifty floors up at the lights of the city, completely alone thinking that maybe those lights aren’t so bright thinking that maybe it’s time to go home I’m tired of running just to keep up I need to sit down and rest for a while I’m tired of thinking each handshake a challenge it’s been so damn long since I wanted to smile
Grand Central Station at three in the morning is something that no longer bothers me much my eyes look away when voices are raised I don’t get too close, I’m afraid to be touched It’s hard to admit that my father was right but there comes a time when you must face the facts I won a few battles but I sure lost the war sometimes when you hit the town, you know the town hits back sometimes when you hit the town, you know the town hits back
I’m participating in a flash fiction competition where we’re given three prompts—a genre, a location, and an object—and must write a short story of 1,000 words or less. For the first challenge, my prompts were historical fiction, swamp, and pillow. I’m really happy with the result:
The swamp was different in Ohio, different from what they’d crawled through in Louisiana.
Down there they were wet more often than they were dry, waist deep in the muddy water, weaving between cypress trees draped with spanish moss. Snakes big around as a man’s arm hung from the trees, and the hot, thick air hummed with mosquitos.
Third night on the run a gator took Leon. He was six years old. One minute he was stepping down off one of the rare dry, grassy hillocks where they had stopped to rest, trying not to lose his footing on the slick cypress roots and go under. Then a gator had its jaws clean around his narrow chest and started to roll, tail thrashing, roiling the water, red blood mixing with the brown.
Judah planned their escape for months, starting right after his wife Mina died of an infection that went bad. The overseer had begun to take an interest in his daughter Delphine, not yet thirteen. Judah could not abide that. He gathered what food he could—they would have to make it through the swamp and all the way to the station in Jackson. An old woman named Maria had helped keep an eye on Delphine after Mina died, and Judah promised to take her and her grandson Leon along.
The four of them slipped away quietly the night of a party at the big house, lost themselves in the festive chaos. Judah had the food and the clothes on his back, Maria a small bible. Delphine carried a burlap sack that held her mother’s pillow.
The pillow had been Mina’s prized possession, a gift from the boss’ grandmother she tended to. It was down filled, trimmed with lace. Judah told Delphine she had to leave it behind, but she was adamant. She said, “Papa, this is all I got left of Mama. I’ll carry it, you don’t have to. Mama never laid a free head on that pillow. I’m gonna keep it wrapped up safe and clean, and I won’t lay my head on it until I know we’re free.” Judah started to argue, but he saw the same fierce look in Delphine’s eyes he used to see in Mina’s, and he let it be.
Delphine was true to her word. She kept that pillow swaddled like a baby, kept it dry through the swamp and all the way to the Jackson station. They were taken in there, given a hot meal and a place to sleep. From there they made their way to Montgomery, then Nashville, and Frankfort, Kentucky. In Frankfort they heard that two teams of slave catchers had been hired to track them. It was decided they had a better chance if they split up, and Judah and Delphine continued on alone.
They crossed the Ohio River near Cincinnati, huddled in the bottom of a jon boat, covered with a tarp. A preacher dressed as a farmer met them with a hay wagon on the Ohio side. The wagon had a false bottom Judah and Delphine crawled into, stifling hot, black as pitch. They were stopped twice on the way north. Judah held his daughter close, both of them numb with fear, as they listened to slave catchers try to bully the preacher. The preacher remained calm, serene, unflappable, and in both cases the slave catchers finally walked away, frustrated.
They parted ways a little north of Lima. They were staring at a wall of trees that went on for miles in both directions. The preacher said, “This is the Great Black Swamp. There are easier ways to reach Lake Erie, but this is the safest. Not even the slavers will follow you in there.” The preacher handed Judah a compass, and they shook hands. “Stay north. When you come to the Maumee River, follow it to the mouth and wait. Stay hidden. A week from now, a fishing trawler will anchor in the bay, with three lanterns hanging in the bow. They’ll take you to Canada.” They shook hands again.
If the Louisiana swamp was unending muddy water, cypress trees and hidden dangers, the Great Black Swamp was mud. Cottonwood and sycamore forests, the trees so close together you could barely squeeze through, grassy lowlands, and everywhere deep black mud that sucked at your feet, sucked the energy, the very life from your body. One thing was just the same as the other swamp, and that was the mosquitos, great clouds of them.
When they finally reached the Maumee, Delphine burst into exhausted tears, and Judah felt his own eyes well up.
They had been holed up for three days in a grove of trees on the banks of Maumee Bay when the trawler arrived, three lanterns shining brightly in the dark. Judah and Delphine were both sick with fever, half starved. A small skiff rowed in to take them out to the larger boat. Delphine hugged the burlap sack to her chest.
Lake Erie looked like rippled grey glass beneath a canopy of stars. The ship cook fed them bowls of stew until their bellies were full. The captain offered them a place to sleep below deck, but they chose to stay above, settling in near the bow, the lanterns above them. “Are we really free, Papa?” Delphine asked.
“We are,” Judah answered. “When we dock, we’ll be in Canada. We’ll make a new life. It’s what your Mama would want.”
“Then I think it’s time,” Delphine said. She untied the twine that held the burlap sack closed, and removed the pillow. It was clean and dry. Delphine made a nest in a pile of fishing nets on the deck. She placed the pillow carefully, and laid her head down. As she drifted off to sleep, Judah heard a whispered, “I love you, Mama.” Judah was soon asleep himself.
Here are a couple more examples of the poetry I was writing when I first started writing poetry. Is it good? Nope. But it started me writing, and I will always be happy about that.
THE KINGDOM OF CADABRA
In the air beneath the surface of the golden lined clouds, In the turning, brewing breezes like a falling silver shroud, In the burning of the thunder, in the freezing of the night, Lies the Kingdom of Cadabra, spreading far to left and right.
It’s a land where time is twisty, where years are but a jumble, Where gypsies do their dances while they prophesize and mumble. It’s a land where fire-spitting rockets fly alongside brooms, And atoms vie the esper force in many-crystaled rooms.
Pilgrim prudes and pagan gods coexist so nicely, And beggars beg for glowing gems, expensive, even pricely. The royals frolic merry at their happy final fling. In the burbling wine of apricots fly dinosaurs with wings.
Witches brew and white-foamed beer mix in velvet lined seas, And pinkly glow the elephants, with tiny, dimpled knees. Schooners fit with milky sails fly ever swiftly by, In the Kingdom of Cadabra, in the softly glowing sky.
THE GRAVEYARD
A wrought iron fence, tall and black, encloses the graveyard— a twilight boundary between different worlds. The gate is rusted. It comes open at a touch with a flurry of fine red dust. Slippery with dew, the gravel path is unkept, overgrown, nearly invisible beneath the moonless night. It twists and turns into the rustling grass, into obscurity. Shadows flit between trees in imitation of lost spirits, or spirits in imitation of shadows. The headstones are islands of marble in the low-lying sea of mist. Crimson-veined and distant, monuments in the corridors of time. In the far corner something moves. The mist parts to reveal a woman bent over a grave, the angled planes of her shoulder like atrophied wings, taut against the faded fabric of her coat. She lays wilted flowers beneath a wood cross, not marble like the others, and falls against it. The mist swirls, closes.
An unabashed, yearning love song. Not my usual style, but every once in a while I write one.
so here we are again like so many times before you crying in your beer, me trying to ignore how the bar lights sparkle in your eyes even through the tears how many times I’ve heard this same old story through the years so I hold your hand and tell you things will work out for the best and I ask myself again how I got into this mess
(CHORUS) baby I got heartstrings that never been played I try to see you differently but these feelings just won’t fade come on hold me close and feel the heat begin to rise I can’t be just your friend, I’m your lover in disguise I need to be your lover, your lover in disguise
so here we are again like so many times before spending all night talking, sharing hopes and dreams and more I wish that I could reach out, cup your face between my hands tell you I won’t hurt you, tell you let me be your man I won’t take your heart for granted, and I won’t tell you lies so look at me and try to see this lover in disguise
(CHORUS) baby I got heartstrings that never been played I try to see you differently but these feeling just won’t fade come on hold me close and feel the heat begin to rise I can’t be just your friend, I’m your lover in disguise I need to be your lover, your lover in disguise
(BRIDGE) so here we are again like so many times before but now my heart is open wide and I’m standing at your door take me in yours arms and try the two of us on for size and spend a little time with your lover in disguise
(CHORUS) baby I got heart strings that never been played please try to see me differently ’cause these feelings just won’t fade come on hold me close and feel the heat begin to rise I can’t be just your friend, I’m your lover in disguise I need to be your lover, your lover in disguise
Iwrote this piece of flash fiction to be a bit of a short, sharp punch to the gut. I hope it succeeds. It first appeared in a literary journal called Iceberg.
The girl surfaced into consciousness briefly to the smell of pine trees, eyes still squeezed tightly shut. Her body lurched violently and a wave of nausea washed over her. She sank back into darkness.
She choked back the urge to vomit the next time she came to and cautiously opened her eyes. Her vision swam, doubled, refused to clear. There are the pine trees, she thought. But why are they growing in the sky? Darkness again.
When the girl awoke for the third time the nausea had subsided and she could see, but that only made things worse. She was in the back of a van. The pine tree sky forest resolved itself to be dozens of pine tree shaped air fresheners hanging from the ceiling. They bounced and swayed together with the movement of the vehicle. The van had been stripped to bare metal, the walls and floor filthy, caked with rust and dirt. The pine trees could not completely mask a foul smell that filled the small space.
The girl was sprawled on the floor as if she had been thrown there. Her head throbbed, and a sharp pain burned between her shoulder blades. She tried to sit up and realized her hands were tied tightly behind her back. Her legs were bound, knees to ankles, with duck tape. The girl pushed with her feet until she was wedged against one wall, and managed to sit up. She looked toward the front of the van. She could see through a half-open metal door into the cab, where a middle-aged man was driving. His hair was cut short, and he wore old-fashioned black-rimmed glasses. The girl noticed that one corner of his glasses was wrapped with tape. The man was wearing dirty coveralls, and leather gloves even though it was stifling hot in the van.
The girl did not panic. She had been trained for this. She knew exactly what to do, what to say.
“My father will pay whatever you want, as long as you don’t hurt me,” she said in a strong, clear voice. Her father was very rich, and had long been fearful that someone would kidnap one of his children. He had drilled them all on how to act should the unthinkable happen. Be cooperative. Be respectful. Do not show fear.
The man glanced back at her in the rearview mirror. “What’s that, honey?” he asked.
“I don’t know how long we’ve been driving, but I’m sure my father knows I’ve been kidnapped by now. He’ll be waiting by the phone for your ransom demand.” The girl tried to sound brave, but she heard a little quaver in her voice and it annoyed her.
She could see the man smile in the rearview mirror, and she thought, it’s going to be alright. She forced a smile of her own and said, “Please, sir. I’d like to go home now.”
The man turned his head so he was looking at the girl directly. “Darlin’, you got it all wrong,” he said. “I don’t know who your daddy is, and I don’t care how much money he has. There’s not gonna be any ransom.”
He turned back to face the road and said, more to himself than to her, “That’s not why I took you.”
Flat on my back staring up at the sky watching the cloud caravan sailing by holding the grass as the earth spun around feeling the dew still wet on the ground I closed my eyes tight, imagined myself spinning through space on a trip somewhere else my feet like a comet burning a trail light years behind me, straight as a rail then a shadow crept in and eclipsed the sun I opened my eyes and knew you were the one
pull me down, hold me down plant my feet on solid ground baby be my gravity can’t you see I need you to be my gravity can’t you see I need you to be my gravity
there I was flat on the bottom of the pool holding my breath like some kind of fool thinking about God, thinking about death thinking I should open wide and drink a deep breath I imagined my friends all gathered around and me in the coffin, not making a sound they’d stop one by one to pay their respects then move on, my dear dead soul to dissect but a face swam above me, bright as the sun I opened my eyes and knew you were the one
pull me down, hold me down plant my feet on solid ground baby be my gravity can’t you see I need you to be my gravity
please pull me down, hold me down plant my feet on solid ground baby be my gravity can’t you see I need you to be my gravity
I woke to the pitch and the roll of the deck, with a rope at my neck and rough planking beneath me, the foaming white sea spray trying to reach me, the sky a dark yellow that whirled above me, and two pale red suns that the sky bled and ran. I felt a soft touch and my fingers met silk, and a girl with no eyes took me up by the hand. Guided by fingers that slid along railing, her hair whispering back to the sea wind’s lost wailing, she led me past crewmen that bent at their oars. With lean muscles straining and braided hair trailing, they sliced at the water that tumbled and roared. Each face looked up as we walked slowly past, and each face was eyeless, from one to the last. She led to a place at the end of the oars. I sat and took hold of the long wooden handle, and lost myself soon in the rhythm and pull, in the flapping of wings and the screaming of gulls, in the slapping of water ‘gainst the barnacled hull, in the two suns that set and the three moons that rise, in the dark yellow sky that whirls and sighs. I am a sailor on an alien sea. I have only the gulls to talk to me. I have only the wind to hold me up straight and tall, only my eyes to search for a shore that we never will see. And a long ago dream that answered the call.
We haven’t spent a night apart Since I first took your hand in mine Our lives forever joined together Like grape vines intertwined We’ve driven down some bumpy roads Without a light, without a map The two of us we always knew We’d somehow make it back
(chorus) I don’t need a choir singing I don’t need angels winging I don’t need a cloud with a view Heaven better be something special To be half as good as life on earth with you I don’t need those golden gates I’m in no hurry, I can wait I don’t need a sign to know it’s true Heaven better be something special To be half as good as life on earth with you
Images of days long past Like breadcrumbs floating in wine Surface now and then Golden moments out of time Every time I lose myself In long forgotten memories And travel back on through the years Your smiling face is all I see
(chorus) I don’t need a choir singing I don’t need angels winging I don’t need a cloud with a view Heaven better be something special To be half as good as life on earth with you I don’t need those golden gates I’m in no hurry, I can wait I don’t need a sign to know it’s true Heaven better be something special To be half as good as life on earth with you
In my head, I’ve always heard this one as a strummy but driving folk song, something like what the Indigo Girls might do.
On an island not on any map, on a rocky, windswept bay, sits a rough and tumble harbor town that goes by Devil’s Cay. The fishing boats set out each day with morning still a dream, and straggle back long after dark, another day redeemed. The longshoremen and sailors come with pockets full of pay to Darilyn’s, the finest tavern in all of Devil’s Cay. They come to drink, and talk, and fight, and tell a tale or two. They come to laugh at stories that were old when they were new. But every night at ten o’clock, wherever she may be, the dark haired beauty behind the bar looks out across the sea.
Then Darilyn begins again to sweetly play her mandolin. Her fingers dance upon the strings, she sings about her true love Jim, with eyes cast down she looks within, and dreams of how it might have been, her song so sad that eyes begin to well with tears for her and him.
They say it happened long ago, when she was just a girl, and a sailor name of Captain Jim was the center of her world. Jimmy was a handsome lad, and many a lady tried, but the slender waif named Darilyn was the apple of his eye. He pledged that they would marry on the day she turned eighteen, but all that ended one March night when the wicked sea turned mean. Jimmy saved a dozen men, then saved a dozen more. As the clock struck ten his ship went down and Jimmy was no more. Now every night at ten o’clock, wherever she may be, the dark haired beauty behind the bar looks out across the sea.
Then Darilyn begins again to sweetly play her mandolin. Her fingers dance upon the strings, she sings about her true love Jim, with eyes cast down she looks within, and dreams of how it might have been, her song so sad that eyes begin to well with tears for her and him.
Tonight there’s something magic in the air at Darilyn’s, and all eyes are upon her as the clock approaches ten. Now the door swings slowly open on a ghost from days long past, and Captain Jim says, Darilyn, I’ve made it home at last.
Then Darilyn begins again to sweetly play her mandolin. Her fingers dance upon the strings, she sings about her true love Jim. With smile wide she looks at him, and wonders what tomorrow brings.
With smile wide she looks at him, and wonders what tomorrow brings.
I can’t play or sing a lick, but I’ve been lucky enough to have a few songs recorded by various singers/songwriters. This one hasn’t been, but it’s one of my favorites, so I’m keeping my hopes up it will happen some day.
when I first met Tracy she was walking the ledge outside my window, toes over the edge she tapped on the glass, threw me a smile that was a little bit crooked, a little bit wild she stepped through the window like she did it all the time said, hey how are ya, thanks I’m fine or so I’ve been told–then she started to laugh and that’s what I remember when I think about our past
she said, I used to walk the tightrope and swing on the trapeze well, not really, but don’t you think that’s a cool thing to be? did you ever tap dance ten floors up and know you just can’t fall? you know, I’d rather go crazy than never go anywhere at all
we talked that night for what seemed like hours but when she left I didn’t know a damn thing about her can’t really say that night was the start of some big love but that crazy girl with the crooked smile fit me like a glove Tracy had her problems, I knew that going in I could live with her addictions as long as I was one of them I get high on life, she’d say, but smiling when she said it there’s a lot of turns I’ve taken wrong, but I never will regret it
she said, I used to walk the tightrope and swing on the trapese well, not really, but don’t you think that’s a cool thing to be? did you ever tap dance ten floors up and know you just can’t fall? I believe I’d rather go crazy than never go anywhere at all
she’d disappear for days on end, never tell me where huddle in the corner, say, you know life’s just not fair from the giddy heights of ecstasy to the bottom of her soul Tracy was the pilot, but she never had control I knew one day her dance would take her too close to the edge I knew one day her fingertips would slip off from the ledge I knew our time together was a trip that had to end but I didn’t know how much it hurts to lose your dearest friend
Tracy used to walk the tightrope, and swing on the trapese and if she said she did it, well, that’s good enough for me I never learned to tap dance and ten floors is just too tall but I think I’d rather go crazy than never go anywhere at all
This is my attempt at a sort of noir song lyric. I always pictured Johnny Cash singing it.
smoke on the horizon, wind in the trees high whine of sirens following me back country roads, gravel and dirt tracks carry a full load, U-turns and switchbacks
I’m hellbound, and I can’t be found hellbound, holed up in hell town
smoke on the horizon, wind in the trees trying to get by but nothing is free across the state line, getting lost in the shadows biding my time, retreating from battles
travel at night, sleep through the day stay out of the light, finding my own way keeping in touch with the man with the money playing my hunches, sometimes it’s funny
I’m hellbound, and I can’t be found hellbound, holed up in hell town
smoke on the horizon, wind in the trees no one can follow what no one can see doing my work, each job as it comes wherever they lurk, just keep myself numb
slipping through shadows, feeling the fear nothing worth loving, nothing held dear
I’m hellbound, and I can’t be found hellbound, holed up in hell town hellhound, holed up in hell town
In 2013 CBAY Books (which, I was happy to discover, stands for Children’s Brains Are Yummy Books) held their first writing contest, and I was the first winner in the Middle Grade category. The manuscript I won with clocked in at 15,000 words, but my wonderful editor, Madeline Smoot, suggested it would be a much stronger novel at 30,000 words. Turns out she was right.
Fast forward to 2014, and Trapped In Lunch LadyLand was born. Did my life change? Was I able to quit my job and become a full time author? Nope. But having a published novel was way up there on the bucket list. I had a book signing event at my local Barnes & Noble (no indie bookstores in my neck of the woods, unfortunately), which was a blast.
The very best part of the whole publishing experience, though, was doing school visits. I did a bunch, reading to kids from kindergarten through fifth grade, taking questions, and generally being flabbergasted by just how smart and funny they were. Kindergartners wanted to know what kind of pets I have, and told me in great detail about theirs. By fifth grade they were asking how advances work.
So what’s Trapped In Lunch Lady Land about? Here’s the elevator pitch:
Josh and Patty Anne aren’t exactly the best of friends (ok, they detest each other), but after they both end up trapped somewhere beneath their school in a land made completely of school cafeteria food, they quickly learn they have to work together if they want to survive. With the help of some unusual friends they meet along the way, the two must brave countless dangers unlike anything in the normal world. If they can survive the skybeater, the canisaurs and the tater-tot throwing ladle monsters, Josh and Patty Anne might just make it home alive.
Interested? Know an eight to eleven year old boy or girl who might be interested? You can check it out on Amazon at:
My SUV gave up the ghost just outside Junction City Left it there, no burial, I guess death is never pretty Walked twenty miles through corn and wheat as far as the horizon I know that it’s good exercise, but I wish I was still drivin’ Sad and sleepless in a Motel 6, waiting for the break of day Out of luck, and that damn girl is still half a state away
She said, Call me a dreamer, call me a fool Prove that you love me as much as I love you Come climb a mountain and lay down beside me Follow the trail to the love deep inside me Leave that life behind and start everything new
Come on, she said, let’s run away and keep on running for a while I shook my head and silenced her with an absent, condescending smile She was gone next morning, left behind a map from Triple A That led to Colorado, where she wrote, “I’m heading this way” And she left behind a letter that cut right to the heart And I knew I better hit the road ’cause she had a good head start
So here I am with thumb outstretched and not a car in sight But I think I crossed into Colorado sometime late last night There’s a mountain in the distance that I know I’ll have to climb You know, it’s worth the trouble if it makes that dreamer mine
She said, Call me a dreamer, call me a fool Prove that you love me as much as I love you Come climb a mountain and lay down beside me Follow the trail to the love deep inside me Leave that life behind and start everything new
I like poetry as much as the next fella. I even write some myself. But there’s something about a perfectly written song, a set of lyrics that speaks to your head and your heart, words that ride a melody like a longtime lover (or a brand new one), that makes me want to put pen to paper.
Here are some lyrics that speak to me, and, to be honest, lyrics I wish I had written. These were the first songs that came to mind. I’ve just scratched the surface. There are so many more, and I’ll probably do this again.
NEW YORK, NEW Y0RK Ryan Adams
I remember Christmas in the blistering cold In a church on the Upper West Side Babe, I stood there singing, I was holding your arm You were holding my trust like a child
CAR WHEELS ON A GRAVEL ROAD Lucinda Williams
broken down shacks engine parts could tell a lie but my heart would know listen to the dogs barkin in the yard car wheels on a gravel road child in the backseat about four or five years lookin’ out the window little bit of dirt mixed with tears car wheels on a gravel road
RICH MAN’S WAR Steve Earle
Bobby had an eagle and a flag tattooed on his arm Red white and blue to the bone when he landed in Kandahar Left behind a pretty young wife and a baby girl A stack of overdue bills and went off to save the world Been a year now and he’s still there Chasin’ ghosts in the thin dry air Meanwhile back at home the finance company took his car Just another poor boy off to fight a rich man’s war
THE ONLY FLAME IN TOWN Elvis Costello
But you blew hot and cold Turned my heart to a cinder And with each passing day You’re less tender and more tinder Now you’re not the only flame in town
32 FLAVORS Ani Difranco
and god help you if you are an ugly girl course too pretty is also your doom cause everyone harbors a secret hatred for the prettiest girl in the room and god help you if you are a phoenix and you dare to rise up from the ash a thousand eyes will smolder with jealousy while you are just flying back
EVERYBODY KNOWS Leonard Cohen
Everybody knows that you love me baby Everybody knows that you really do Everybody knows that you’ve been faithful Oh, give or take a night or two Everybody knows you’ve been discreet But there were so many people you just had to meet Without your clothes Everybody knows
TENNESSEE Arrested Development
Outta the country and into more country Past Dyesburg and Ripley Where the ghost of childhood haunts me Walk the roads my forefathers walked Climb the trees my forefathers hung from Ask those trees for all their wisdom They tell me my ears are so young Go back, from whence you came My family tree, my family name For some strange reason it had to be He guided me to Tennessee
WHEN I WAS A BOY Dar Williams
I was a kid that you would like, just a small boy on her bike Riding topless, yeah, I never cared who saw My neighbor come outside to say, “Get your shirt,” I said “No way, it’s the last time I’m not breaking any law.” And now I’m in a clothing store, and the sign says less is more More that’s tight means more to see, more for them, not more for me That can’t help me climb a tree in ten seconds flat
When I talk about my writing here on the blog, I’m talking about fiction writing. Whether writing for kids, or writing science fiction, fantasy or horror for adults, fiction is my favorite pool to splash around in.
What I don’t talk about much here is my day job, which I’ve done now for almost forty years. I’m creative director for a small, close-knit ad agency here in beautiful Cleveland, Ohio (And no, I’m not being sarcastic. I love this city, except for the weather.). Funny thing is, if I add up the minutes, I spend more time writing for work than I do at home. Don’t get me wrong, my main gig is graphic design, but in any given week I write radio and TV scripts, website copy, blog posts, print copy—the list is long. My co-workers are aware of my fiction writing, and insanely supportive, which is very cool.
The questions I find myself asking are these: Does the fiction writing make me a better advertising writer? Does the advertising writing make me a better fiction writer?
I don’t know for sure, but I think the answer to both questions is yes.
My fiction tends to the fantastic, to flights of fancy, often to humor. I lean on my imagination pretty hard. I would argue that all those things come into play when I’m writing advertising copy, because I try to look past the first, more mundane ideas, and aim for somewhere near left field. I might be selling sewing machines, or home heating and cooling systems, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find a fun and unique way to make that sale. The skills I’ve learned writing fiction help me do that.
Conversely, When I sit down to write fiction, the skills I’ve learned writing advertising copy come into play. I’ve had to learn to make a point clearly, succinctly, in as few words as possible, to describe something so that the mind’s eye can see and understand it. I find this really helpful when writing action scenes in particular, the ability to keep all the pieces moving without the story desolving into a muddy stew of imprecise verbs.
So, in a word, yeah. I think writing a lot makes me a better writer in both my day and night jobs.
I would love to get some other opinions here. Do you agree? Disagree? Let me know!
Look at you now, sprawled out on the floor. Tried to reach the bathroom only made it to the door. When you left last night you were looking so fine, I would have told anybody I’m so proud that he’s mine. Now your tie’s around your head and your shirt’s buttoned wrong, and I can see from your position that your underwear’s gone.
You were too drunk to remember, and now you’re too cool to care, and you’d like to ask me what you did but baby you don’t dare. Now, that lipstick’s such a pretty color, but it’s not one you should wear. You were too drunk to remember, and now you’re too cool to care.
The cops left here about an hour ago. From the story they were telling me, you put on quite a show. I understand the bloody nose– sounds like you saw some stars. But where’d you get that haircut, and where the hell’s the car? You left home with a Rolex– Now you’re wearing Mickey Mouse. From the buzzing cloud above your head, you’ll have to be deloused.
You were too drunk to remember, and now you’re too cool to care, and you’d like to ask me what you did but baby you don’t dare. My bags are packed, I’m leaving, and I would probably tell you where, but you were too drunk to remember, and now you’re too cool to care.
My bags are packed, I’m leaving, and I would probably tell you where, but you were too drunk to remember, and now you’re just too cool to care.
Lulu has a plastic Jesus on the dashboard of her car she likes to think that maybe he protects her Lulu sees the eyes of angels when she looks up at the stars she says that sometimes late at night the statue smiles at her
Lulu has a radio on the nightstand by her bed she spins the dial, searching through the static Lulu hears the voices of the saints around her head she says that if they ever stop it would be so tragic
Lulu had a mother, hung herself in Lulu’s room promised everlasting joy if she would join her soon promised that the hand of God would pull her from the tomb people say that Lulu’s mom was crazy as a loon now they say the same about Lulu
Lulu has a bible that she carries like a shield she parries each attack with verse and chapter Lulu reads aloud from it as she walks across the fields she says what others think just doesn’t matter
Lulu has a television, the on/off switch is crossed with tape she says the devil lives behind the screen Lulu turned it on just once, a very bad mistake now she sees the devil in her dreams
Lulu had a daddy, used to visit Lulu’s room Lulu would lay very still and look up at the moon finally he just up and left, and not a day too soon people say that Lulu’s dad was crazy as a loon now they say the same about Lulu
Lulu has a scrapbook filled with clippings from the paper she says the rapture hides between the lines Lulu says she doesn’t really care if people hate her the earthly ones are the only ties that bind
Lulu has a journal where she keeps her secret thoughts she sits each night and writes ’til long past dark Lulu keeps it locked up tight, afraid that she’ll get caught she says she fears the dog that doesn’t bark
Lulu had a boyfriend, never came to Lulu’s room the time he spent with Lulu was like watching a cartoon he only ever held her hand, but people just assume people started saying he must be crazy as a loon he would never say the same about Lulu
Do you remember the TV show Inside-Out Boy? It was an excellent piece of claymation that ran on Nickelodeon for a few years in the late 80s/early 90s. Fast forward to a couple of decades ago, and I had an idea for some new stories set in the Inside-Out Boy world. Not content to sit on an idea I liked, I wrote a few spec scripts, and hunted down the production company that had produced the original series. As it turned out, they liked it. We started talking about the possibility, and it was a slim possibility, that we could move forward with the idea. Then…then 9/11 happened, and they were in New York, and that was it. But I still like the idea. Here’s one of those spec scripts.
Inside-Out Boy In:
The Grass Is Always Greener On The Inside-Out
SCENE:Bird’s-eye view of a suburban neighborhood at dusk; kids playing, lawns being mowed. This wholesome vision is shattered by the sound of a—
YOUNG GIRL’S VOICE
Help! Leave me alone, you bullies!
CUT TO:An access alley behind a garage with garbage cans, etc. Two punky looking teenage boys are teasing a cute young girl (Carla). They have taken her bike.
CARLA
Give me back my bike or I’ll tell my dad!
BOY A
Ooooh, I’m really scared! She’s gonna tell her daddy!
BOY B
Not if we put her in a garbage can…come on, Stu, let’s get her…
They approach her menacingly.
CUT TO:Close-up of Carla, looking terrified, as the shadows of the boys fall across her. She trips and falls.
CUT TO:The two boys approaching, from Carla’s P.O.V.
VOICE FROM OUT-OF-FRAME
Hey! Why don’t you dorks pick on someone your own size!
The punks look around puzzled.
BOY A
Who said that?!
VOICE FROM OUT-OF-FRAME
I did!
Inside-Out Boy leaps down from the garage roof, landing on top of a garbage can. He waves his arms and sticks out his tongue at the boys, making loud noises, exploiting his inside-out-ness. The punks become scared little kids and run away screaming. Inside-Out Boy watches them go.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Hah, that’ll teach ‘em.
I.O.B. turns back toward Carla, and really sees her for the first time.
CUT TO: Close-up of Carla’s face as I.O.B. sees her…she’s a blonde vision, light radiating from her face.
CUT TO:Close-up of I.O.B.’s face with a dumb smile and faraway eyes. He is clearly smitten.
CUT TO: I.O.B. kind of shakes himself, realizes he’s staring. He reaches to help Carla.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Here, let me help you up.
Carla recoils from his touch, tries to hide the look of revulsion that crosses her face but does not succeed. She scrambles to her feet, keeping her distance. This is one girl who does not think I.O.B. is cool.
CARLA
No, no, that’s okay. I’m fine, really.
Carla hurries past him, jumps on her bike. She pedals away, one bent wheel squeaking.
CARLA (OVER HER SHOULDER)
Um, thanks and everything.
CUT TO: Close-up of I.O.B. He realizes what has just happened.
INSIDE-OUT BOY (TO HIMSELF)
Wow, she was scared of me. I, I think I grossed her out!
CUT TO:I.O.B. walking home, slumped and dejected, as indignities are heaped upon him. Dogs and cats follow him, sniffing. A bird lands on his head, begins to peck. An elderly woman carrying a big pie to her neighbor sees him, screams and flips the pie up in the air; naturally it lands on his head.
INSIDE-OUT BOY (HOWLING TO THE HEAVENS)
I’m tired of being inside-out!
A gopher pops his head out of his hole, sees I.O.B., lets out a loud EEEK and dives back into his hole. I.O.B. hangs his head and sighs.
DISOLVE TO:The next day at school, I.O.B. sits in class, still grumbling. His teacher enters with Carla in tow, and I.O.B. perks up immediately.
TEACHER
Class, say hello to your new classmate, Carla Calloway.
CLASS (HAPHAZARDLY)
Hello, Carla…
TEACHER
Carla, why don’t you find yourself a seat.
I.O.B. realizes there is an empty seat next to him. He looks at Carla and smiles hopefully. Carla sees him and ducks her head. She heads for a desk on the opposite side of the room. I.O.B. drops his head on his desk.
DISOLVE TO:I.O.B. eating lunch with his best friends; Darcy, who lives next door, and Thomas, a bit of a nerd who thinks of I.O.B. as his own personal science project. I.O.B. gazes longingly across the cafeteria at Carla.
DARCY (TO THOMAS)
What’s with him?
THOMAS
He’s in love with that new girl, Carla, but she thinks he’s gross!
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Shut up, Thomas!
Darcy looks daggers at Carla. She’s been carrying a quiet torch for I.O.B. for years. She thumps I.O.B. on the head to get his attention.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Huh? Ow! What?!
DARCY
If Blondie over there can’t see what a cool guy you are, even inside-out, then she’s not worth the time of day!
INSIDE-OUT BOY
You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re my friend.
DARCY
Ooooh!
Darcy storms off, upset.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
What’d I say?
THOMAS
Man, you really have a way with the ladies.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Shut up, Thomas!
DISOLVE TO:Later that day, after school. I.O.B. and Thomas sit on the playground swings, talking.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Where’s Darcy?
THOMAS
She went home. She’s still cheesed off at you. You know she kind of likes you, right?
INSIDE-OUT BOY
You’re crazy! Me and Darcy have been friends forever!
THOMAS
Yeah, whatever.
They sit in silence for a moment, I.O.B. deep in thought.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Hey Thomas…I don’t want to be inside-out any more. Can you find a way to change me back?
THOMAS
Are you sure?
INSIDE-OUT BOY (DETERMINED)
Yeah, I’m sure.
THOMAS
Well, I love a challenge. Let’s go to the lab.
DISOLVE TO: Thomas’s room. It’s a nerd’s paradise, with computers, test tubes, Bunsen burners, etc. Thomas is wearing a lab coat, the pocket bristling with pens. I.O.B. looks apprehensive.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Now what?
THOMAS
(WITH A BIG SMILE ON HIS FACE…
HE’S BEEN WAITING TO DO THIS FOR A LONG TIME)
We have to run some tests.
Collage of scenes, one dissolving into the next, as I.O.B. is subjected to all manner of silly tests while Thomas takes notes. He’s poked and prodded with odd-looking instruments. He’s hung upside-down and spun in circles. He hops on one foot while holding a goldfish bowl in one hand, balancing an umbrella on his nose and singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”
CUT TO: Thomas pressing the ENTER button on his computer keyboard, while I.O.B. looks on, exhausted.
THOMAS
Keep your fingers crossed, here it comes.
A sheet of paper slides out of the printer. Thomas picks it up, not letting I.O.B. see it.
THOMAS
Hmmmm…why didn’t I think of that?
INSIDE-OUT BOY
What? What’s it say?
THOMAS
You have to swing up over the bar backward.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
You’re kidding…
THOMAS
Nope.
INSIDE-OUT BOY (WITH CONVICTION)
Let’s do it.
DISOLVE TO:The swing set. I.O.B. takes his seat as Thomas and Darcy look on.
DARCY (STILL MAD)
I hope you know what you’re doing. What if you turn inside-out again? You’ll end up being a big gooey mess.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
I’m already a big gooey mess…besides, that’s not going to happen, right, Thomas?
THOMAS
Um, right. At least, I don’t think so. So, you ready?
INSIDE-OUT BOY (HOLDING ONTO THE CHAINS)
Yep.
Thomas and Darcy get in front of I.O.B. and each grab a side of the swing. They back up, pulling the swing forward as far as they can.
THOMAS
On three. One, two, threeeeee!
They rush forward, flinging I.O.B. backwards. The swing goes up in a big arc, almost parallel to the ground, before heading back.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Almost, keep pushing!
Thomas and Darcy keep pushing, the swing inching higher and higher.
CUT TO:Close-up of I.O.B. as he finally loops over in slow motion, upside down, chains slack. As he comes over the top he begins to transform, turning right–side out. He comes to a bouncing stop, looks down at himself and lets out a loud
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Yeah! It worked!
Thomas and Darcy join him in cheering.
THOMAS
I knew it would work! At least, I was pretty sure. Science triumphs again!
DARCY
So now what? You going go tell your family?
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Yeah, they’re really gonna be surprised!
DISOLVE TO:Mom and dad hugging I.O.B. in a stranglehold.
MOM
Oh honey, we love you no matter what. Plus, now I can take the plastic off the furniture.
CUT TO:I.O.B. with his little sister, Shelly. She pokes him experimentally.
SHELLY
Hmmm. You’re not sticky anymore. I’m gonna miss that.
She looks at him with a frown, then bursts out laughing and hugs him.
SHELLY
Just kidding!
CUT TO: I.O.B.’s big brother Steve. He looks I.O.B. up and down, then bops him on top of the head and walks away.
STEVE (OVER HIS SHOULDER)
Inside-out or not, you’re still a dweeb.
I.O.B. sighs, rubbing his head, then smiles.
INSIDE-OUT BOY (A LITTLE SARCASTICALLY)
There’s no place like home…but now there’s a certain blonde girl I have to go see.
DISOLVE TO:I.O.B. in a jacket and tie, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He’s obviously nervous as all get-out as he walks up the porch steps of a nice house and rings the doorbell. Carla answers the door. She looks at him dismissively through the screen door.
CARLA
Can I help you?
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Um, yeah, I mean yes. (HOLDS OUT THE FLOWERS) These are for you.
CARLA
Who are you?
INSIDE-OUT BOY
It’s me, the kid who saved you when those older boys took your bike. I guess I look a little different now. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to go to a movie or something.
CARLA
As if. So you’re not inside-out any more, I still don’t owe you anything. You really thought I’d go out with you? Yuck!
Carla slams the door in I.O.B.’s face. I.O.B. slinks away, crushed, and the night just gets worse. He runs into the elderly woman who had the pie before and tries to scare her out of spite. She hits him with her umbrella. A gopher pops up out of his hole and bites him on the ankle. Finally, as he crosses an alley, the two punks from before grab him up, pulling him into the darkness. We hear loud banging sounds, then the punks exit the alley, dusting off their hands, laughing.
CUT TO:I.O.B. in a garbage can, banana peel and miscellaneous trash on his head.
INSIDE-OUT BOY (DEFEATED)
I guess there’s only one thing left to do…
DISOLVE TO:The playground, late at night. I.O.B. peeks up from behind some bushes, scanning the playground. He zips from bush to tree like a ghost, making his way toward the swingset. When he’s sure the coast is clear he gets on the swing.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Here we go again!
I.O.B. begins to swing, higher and higher. As he climbs into the sky, his determined frown is gradually replaced with a smile. Finally, with a triumphant yell, he loops over the top and turns back inside-out. He leaps off the swing, plants his feet and raises his hands into the air.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Inside-Out Boy is back!
DISOLVE TO:The next day in the school cafeteria. I.O.B., Thomas and Darcy are sitting together, I.O.B. inside-out as can be. Thomas is shaking his head.
THOMAS
I just don’t get it. I can’t figure out why you turned back inside-out.
INSIDE-OUT BOY (WITH A SLY SMILE)
It’s a real mystery all right.
DARCY
So what’d your family say?
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Oh, you know. Steve bopped me on top of the head, Shelly loves me no matter what, and Mom put the plastic back on the furniture. I guess life is back to normal. So who wants to hit the playground for some kickball?
THOMAS
I’m in. Darcy?
DARCY
You guys go on, I’ll be there in a minute.
Darcy reaches into her pocket and pulls out a big, juicy worm.
INSIDE-OUT BOY
Darcy, what’s that for?
DARCY
That Carla girl is looking a little pale. I think she needs more protein in her diet, so I’m gonna add this to her spaghetti.
Darcy and Thomas high-five.
THOMAS
You go girl!
DARCY
No one messes with my boy—best friend. (SHE BLUSHES)
CUT TO:Close-up of I.O.B., a big embarrassed smile on his face.
I’m really proud of this short story. It first appeared in a middle-grade anthology titled Side Show 2: Tales of the Big Top and the Bizarre.
CLOSING FOR THE NIGHT
Darkness crept up on the carnival like an old tom, slow and easy. A sign hung over the entrance gate: JOJO’S ALL-MECHANICAL CARNIVAL. The sign hung sideways, a confusion of peeled paint and rain-warped wood, the colors washed out by the passing years.
Gent permitted himself a faint metallic sigh as he rose to his feet. He let the rocking chair fall back and settle itself. Another night, another closing. Knee joints squeaking, Gent walked down the three wooden steps to the parade grounds. It had rained earlier in the day, and the ground was still muddy. Water splashed up to soak the edge of his tattered cape, and brown-spotted his tarnished brass legs.
The small clapboard house that was Gent’s home sat in the shadow of the Ferris wheel. He pulled back on the switch, and the big ride ground to a halt. Lights, the ones that still worked, blinked out one by one along the wheel, dropping it into silhouette.
Gent made his way from ride to ride, shutting them down. At the merry-go-round he had only to turn off the music. The ride had long-since ceased to turn. The tape was worn, and the tinny melody ground out slowly, in fits and stops. Gent let it play for a while as he wandered through the patterned labyrinth of his memory, where laughing knights rode to battle on their gaily painted steeds, and the music rang out to announce their coming.
So many memories. Gent had been the caretaker of the carnival in its heyday. He had strolled through the crowd, joking with the men, complimenting the women. His pockets were always filled with candy for the children. Gent’s sculpted ivory handlebar mustache curled to pinwheels at the ends. His ivory hair cascaded to his shoulders like the froth of a mountain stream. His white top hat was always tipped in greeting.
Gent shook himself, alarmed to hear a loose rattling sound. Enough. He had a job to do.
He stopped the last ride, then crossed to the long, low sideshow building. The crude paintings on the outside had worn away, leaving only the barest outlines of the spider girl, the lobster man, the bearded lady, the alligator boy, the many others who had steadily pulled in the marks.
Jojo had at first tried mechanical sideshow attractions, but it had not worked out. People came to a sideshow to be repulsed and shocked. Mechanical attractions could not do that. So he brought in human performers, the best, pulling them out of retirement in a celebration of deformity. The customers did not seem to mind that this one aspect of the carnival was not mechanical, and Jojo saw no reason to change the sign.
Open resentment existed between the humans and the droids, at least at first, but year by year their relationship mellowed. Gent felt true sadness when they left. They were all gone now, left with the last wave of colonists, gone to the stars.
Gent entered the sideshow. He walked down the row of parted, threadbare curtains to a small booth at the end. The only one who had not left—a two-headed baby floating in a large jar of formaldehyde. Its limbs had atrophied, skin wrinkling back from bone. Four eyes glistened like milky pearls. It stared into the darkness, lips pursed in identical frowns.
Gent had put off giving the baby a proper burial. It was his last, pitiful link with humans.
The slow, mournful wail of a harmonica drifted in on the night breeze. Gent left the sideshow behind and headed for the midway. This was the worst part of closing for the night. His fellow droids, the ones still operating, were all too human in their suffering.
Gent followed the sound of the harmonica to behind the first trailer. Kentucky’s brass skin had been inlaid with polished teak. Now the teak was discolored, the brass spotted, but a black felt derby still perched on his head.
Kentucky tipped his derby as Gent came into view. He dropped the harmonica into his lap. “Good sir, would you sit for a story? A bit of excitement to color this drab evening?” Gent heard a note of pleading in his voice.
Kentucky was a storyteller. It had worked fine in the old days. People would wander around back of the trailer, pulled in by the haunting sound of the harmonica. When enough had gathered, Kentucky would begin. He knew a thousand stories. Tall tales and breathtaking adventures, stories to quicken the pulse and touch the heart. Pirates and ghosts, fair maidens and fire-breathing dragons, dastardly villains and heroic children.
And if the crowd thus gathered was just right for the pickpocket’s trade, it was a fair price paid for the entertainment given.
“Not tonight, Kentucky. Tomorrow. Right now, it’s time to shut down.”
Kentucky grabbed Gent’s arm, held tight. “Please, Gent. I’m getting tired of telling myself the same old stories every day. I need to look in someone’s face and see them smiling, or crying, or anything! The back of this trailer ain’t much of an audience.”
“Yeah, Kentucky, I know. And you’ll have an audience, just wait, they’ll be back. But right now it’s time to shut down.” Gent slid his hand to the back of Kentucky’s neck and eased down the switch. Kentucky drooped forward. The brightness in his eyes died and his arms dropped into his lap. Gent curled the fingers of one hand around the harmonica.
Gent never got used to the wide, desolate midway. Without a laughing throng of people, it was just sad. All that’s missing are tumbleweeds, he thought.
The gaming droids had long ago rusted away. They were buried in the plot of swampy land beyond the row of trailers. They had never been more than simple machines. Jojo knew that no droid, no matter how complex, could top a human hawker. But the sign said ALL-MECHANICAL, and except for the sideshow it was so.
The gaming droids had squatted on casters and shouted, “Try your luck!” in a hundred different voices as they proffered darts and balls, rings and hoops. When the people left for good, they rolled into corners and shut down. Perhaps, Gent thought, they were the lucky ones.
Most of the trailers along the midway were tightly shut, the heavy corrugated shades pulled down and welded in place. Gent made his way past them, to the lair of Stupendo the Great.
Stupendo sat back in shadow, his cape billowing, his high top hat tilted at a jaunty angle. Stupendo had been a marvel in his day. His golden hands flashed to and fro, creating illusion after illusion with dizzying speed. His polished obsidian eyebrows were always raised, as if in surprise at his own mastery. Now when Stupendo moved into the light, Gent saw that the top hat was brimless, the cape a rag. His left eyebrow had broken off. And scrambled circuits, besides.
Stupendo fanned an incomplete deck of tattered playing cards before Gent. “Pick a card, any card at all.” Gent smiled as he took a card. The three of hearts. Stupendo tapped the deck with his magic wand. “Ah ha!” he shouted triumphantly. “Your card is…the queen of spades!”
Gent smiled again as he slipped the card back into the middle of the deck. “Right again, as always. But now it’s time to shut down.” Stupendo chuckled to himself as Gent flipped the switch.
Gent made a wide detour around the geek pit. When the geek had ceased to function, they had left the body there, unable to lift it from the pit. It lay there now, overgrown with fern and ivy, surrounded by the bones and severed skulls of chickens and rats.
The geek had been a prime draw. Built with its software purposely corrupt, it was a wild thing, truly dangerous, and the deep pit with its close-set bars across the top was a necessary precaution. Its iron skin bristled with spiky hair. Its body was corded with muscle, arms long and snarled. It walked with the sideways gait of an ape. Its eyes burned with a red, hateful fire.
To Gent had fallen the task of running the geek show. Four times a day he stood on the bars over the center of the pit and gave his spiel. Then, averting his gaze, he dropped in a live chicken, or a sleek black rat. The geek would fall on the animal with a guttural roar. Grasping the animal at the neck with steel teeth, it would shake its head back and forth in a frenzy until head parted from neck in a bloody shower. Foam running down its chin, the geek would proudly display the headless, jerking body. Men screamed and women fainted, but they kept coming back for more.
Gent was dragged back to the present by a shrill, cackling laugh. Madame Blatsky, the only other droid still living, and she was raising a ruckus.
By the time Gent reached her trailer, Madame Blatsky had quieted down, though her eyes still sparkled, and her carved mahogany cheeks seemed flushed if that were possible. Madame Blatsky reclined in a womb of Turkish rugs, the colors now muddled and indistinct. The faded sign above her read, Madame Blatsky, Palms Read, Fortunes Told, Prophesies Given.
Before Gent could say a word, Madame Blatsky began to talk, and the words poured out like thin wine from a goblet. “I saw a vision! They’re coming back, the people are coming back, they’re coming in their great silver ships, and they’ll reward us for waiting. They shall bedeck us in riches, in fine silks and spun gold, they’ll encrust our bodies with jewels and precious metals, and they’ll carry us in splendor…”
Gent turned her off. It was always the same. Each day she shut down her senses and entered a trance. At twilight she woke with a yell, convinced she’d had a vision. Madame Blatsky had begun to believe in herself. At least she still had some faith, some hope.
Gent made his way slowly back to his house. Tonight had been a bad one. They were all nearing the edge, and it was only a matter of time before they slipped over. Perhaps they had been built too well. Loneliness, Gent thought, is a curse that man could not have wished upon us.
Gent looked up as a tendril of cloud snaked across the moon, sending a shadow racing along the ground toward the merry-go-round. He closed his eyes. For a brief moment it had looked just like a small child running to catch the ride before it began.
This story was first published in an anthology titled Nasty Snips, a collection of short horror. This one is indeed short, clocking in at a little over 500 words.
BAGGED
It was the witch’s fault.
There were other contributing factors. Paul’s friends had convinced him that a new club in the Industrial Flats was the place to be for a steamy summer night costume party. They had goaded him into wearing the wool Sherlock Holmes costume that was now causing him to sweat and itch uncontrollably. Yes, his friends were partly to blame. And alcohol had been involved; enough said about that.
It was the sight of the witch across a dance floor crowded with trendy, costumed partiers, however, that had caused his present predicament. He had caught just a glimpse of her; alabaster skin, raven black hair that refracted the spinning lights like a prism, the flash of a slim yet curvy body between the folds of her black satin cape. Beneath the cape a Moebius strip of leather, lace and chrome that revealed more than it concealed. Her boots were leather, intricately laced; wickedly high heels that pulled the sleek muscles in her calves taut. She held a mysteriously oversized black leather purse protectively against her body.
The witch was dancing by herself, spinning in slow, looping circles. Her body seemed to catch and hold the music, like each note was her own private lover. Paul watched her with an attraction that bordered on physical need; he felt like a small planet in orbit around a novaed sun. Their eyes caught just once. She held his gaze with eyes the color of anthracite, until he had to look away, dizzy.
When she left the club Paul followed, helpless.
He was lost. Paul had no idea how long he had been following the witch. It was as if he was hypnotized by her impossible beauty, a moth drawn to her black flame. He vaguely remembered scrambling up and over a concrete bridge abutment, scraping his hands raw on the rough edge. He had crossed a railroad trestle above water mossy green in the moonlight, making his frightened way in the dark from one precarious foothold to the next. There was a long-deserted factory, rusted scrap metal piled into angular mountains. The witch moved with fluid grace, always too far ahead to catch, yet always in sight. At some point, they went underground.
The witch stopped. Paul stepped into a cavernous room where old fluorescent lights sputtered fitfully, sending hard-edged shadows careening across the space. Shapes moved in the darkness all around him. As they staggered into the spastic light, the shapes became people, dozens of them, dressed in rags and cast-offs. They carried bags or pushed squeaky shopping carts filled with bags and trash. They’re just bag people, Paul thought, and started to laugh. He had been spooked there for a minute.
The first rock caught him by surprise. He was on the ground before he realized what had happened, blood running into his eyes. They advanced methodically, stoning him with surprising precision. When they stopped, the witch was standing in front of him, smiling. She set her bag down next to him with great care. Something moved inside it.
The last thing Paul saw before his connective tissue began to dissolve was the creature that oozed from the bag. It wrapped its many arms around his body, releasing a fluid that burned like napalm.
When Paul’s body was suitably prepared, the witch’s master laid eggs in the flesh jumble. The bag people danced long into the night, in celebration of the birth to come.
Why do writers write? That question comes up once in a while on the Twitter #WritingCommunity, and as you may imagine the answers are as varied as the folks answering. Some write for that elusive fame and glory, some to illuminate a particular passion, some because it feeds the creativity monster that lives inside them. For me, the answer is pretty simple. Writing makes me happy. I’ve been doing it since roughly junior high, and I still get a happy little rush from crafting a pretty sentence. And on rare occasions, when my brain is bubbling with ideas and words are sparking out of my fingertips at a feverish pace, that happiness approaches something very much like joy. I can reach that same joy by drawing but it’s trickier, because there are more tools involved, more variables between my brain and the final result.
There’s another reason people, including me, write, and that’s because they have to. Because the act of writing keeps the darkness at bay, because it expels inner demons, because it brings relief and release. They use writing to work through issues, and maybe so that they don’t surrender to those issues. They write because it’s better than screaming into the void.
Looking back at my own work, I can recognize the moments when I wasn’t writing for fun, but was instead writing to alleviate…something. It might be an entire story, or a poem, or just a fragment or even a single line. To the reader it may not be readily apparent that I wrote those words as a way to exorcise some beast clawing at me from within, to justify or maybe apologize for an experience that haunts me. I can see it, though. I remember.
I’m not, as a rule, particularly tortured. I have led, and continue to lead, a relatively happy and fulfilling life, with a loving family and good friends. That doesn’t mean the hopelessness never comes to call. I’m lucky in that, when it does, when I’m feeling overwhelmed, I have a way to battle back. I don’t think I’m at my best in those cases, when I’m tearing the words out of my soul one barbed letter at a time. To me, my best writing happens when the creative flow is wide open and I’m just going along for the ride. But I cherish each and every one of those painful sentences.
It’s comforting to know that the next time the darkness descends, words are waiting to shield me.
