WIP Wednesday: Playing Games

I teach a drama class in disguise (it's called "interpretive reading"). We play games all the time. Drama games loosen the students' imaginations and break down acting barriers (nerves, inhibitions, etc.).  We invented (well, modified) one yesterday to mimic the outbreak of a disease which caused near-instantaneous death. They sure love death scenes.

Speaking of death, I've killed too many WIPs in the past few weeks. They aren't dead, per se, just resting. I blame it on one of my alter egos. My latest WIP has zombies. Zombies sell in the commercial market. Crazy, but true. They are the erotica of horror fiction.

Wait... Zombie erotica.  Now that's something special. (and icky) And I didn't even invent the idea.

Today's the last day to jump in the In the Memory House contest--and the last day for a free story should you buy (or have bought) the book and drop me a line at aaron.polson(at)gmail.com. 

Clearing Clutter

I've nuked a good portion of my blog today, including all of the pretty little pictures of my books on the sidebar.

Don't worry, they're still here, just not plastered to my virtual front door. (Not that you were worried, anyway.)  I'm feeling somewhat scattered. Maybe it's my new fake name. (Heh.)

Maybe it's because I woke at 2:30 AM last night, evidently in training for the pending addition to the family.

Don't forget the free story offer if you grab a copy of In the Memory House by Wednesday. I'm also splitting Memory House profits with one lucky soul. Let's get reading.

Elective Surgery

I'm learning some tricks about publishing--lessons which are different in the small press/short fiction market and the mass commercial market.

1. Editors and readers of smart short fiction mags differ from the general reading public. Several reviews of my short fiction collections have brought this to my attention. Most recently, a reviewer in the UK wrote: " I particularly enjoy short stories that offer a final twist. I don't recall any of this collection having what I would regard as a decent ending" of Violent Ends. Ouch. Anyone in the UK want to counter that with some mild words of praise? I'll give you a cookie...

Anyway, final twists? Good luck getting a story with a "twist" ending published in most mags.

2. Commercial readers, by and large, don't give a sh*t about how beautiful your prose is. In fact, some will simply regard creative word-play as "typos" and snark about it.

I've published a few pieces under pseudonyms. No, I won't tell you what they are, yet, because they aren't in my genre. Let's just say they aren't my best work. Trust me. What I will tell you is that they are outselling In the Memory House, a book on which I worked for half the year. Gives a guy pause...

3. Cover art matters to everyone. I've given Black Medicine Thunder a Facelift and cover art change:

From this:

To this:

I think I like. You?

WIP Wednesday: Playing with Genre

I'm thankful to be home today and squeeze in a little writing time.  Of course extra time means extra thinking...

How do horror books sell?  Depends on how many zombies a book has...  Kidding, but seriously, I'm playing with genre on my WIP. Or I should say, playing in another genre. We'll see how it pans out.  I've put Reunion on hold for a book which had to be written, a thriller (what?!?) called Badlands. The first line:

Ryan enjoyed a breakfast of yogurt, granola, and fresh fruit before he returned to his room and found his son missing. 

Yeah, one of those kidnapping stories. There's going to be copious sex and violence, too. Maybe even an explosion. That is, if Ryan can't stop the explosion from happening. Hmmmm...

Hey... It works for Hollywood, right? 

Hope everyone is having a fantastic week.

Some Thoughts on Going Solo (and Why I Did)

The decision to go "indie" or self-publish did not come easily.

I'm a gut guy most of the time, going with feeling rather than logic (even though I tend to score higher on analytic items on standardized tests--go figure). Sometimes my gut leads me in the wrong direction. Sometimes I make mistakes.

I wrestled with going solo for quite a while. I tried to play the game, querying for three novels before punting. I sold well over one hundred stories to paying markets (token to pro) and gave a number away as well. Close to one thousand rejections have come my way. I wrote Loathsome, Dark and Deep specifically with the small press in mind, and thankfully, Belfire Press published it.

I never planned to self-publish. I'm glad I started writing five years ago--self-publishing was cost prohibitive then and not a viable business model. I believed all the negative hype because most of it was true. If I would have self-published at first, I wouldn't have had any drive to be a better writer. Rejection is your friend, folks. Really.

Things change. E-books happened. My craft improved. The system failed me (i.e., disillusionment happened).

But being a gut guy, I worried. I worried about what some of my writing colleagues might think. I worried about them more than readers because, to be perfectly honest, most readers just want a good story. I hope I can supply that more often than not. I'm sure I've alienated some of my writer buddies (or at least have given them pause) by choosing this path.

But it is the right path. For now.

Here's why I ultimately decided to go "indie" (a moniker I don't wave like a battle-flag as some do--I'm a writer first):

The first two reasons could fall under the sub-heading How I've been treated by agents:

I know it's bad form to snark about agents. I don't care. Unrepresented authors need to stop being afraid and demand humane treatment. These are not our overseers, folks. Too much power corrupts. 

1. Once upon a time an agent showed interest in one of my books. Said agent suggested he/she would call and talk about some revisions. I played hooky on the prescribed day, calling in sick and hanging out around the house, waiting for the call which never happened. Later that evening, I received an email: sorry, I was having drinks with so-and-so. Clean up your book and send it in again.

Yeah. Right. I guess I was the naive one. 

2. Once upon a time I sent a query for a book. Six months passed. I sold the book to a small press. The agent I queried half a year ago asked to see a full. I told him/her the book was no longer available. The reply: "bad form, man".  No--bad form was making me wait six months without reply. At that point, I assume rejection. Time is the most precious commodity, and six months is a long time.

3. Running a small press (the now semi-defunct Strange Publications) taught me that most modern small presses were just folks doing the same thing I was: using desktop publishing technology to churn out books via on-demand printing. I learned all about layout and book design. I know I can do it better than some of the crap I've seen from so-called "small presses".  Some are top notch outfits with solid followings (Permuted Press and Belfire are both prime examples); many are hucksters and glorified vanity presses.

4. Self-publishing has moved beyond a vanity affair to a viable business solution. The up-front costs are not prohibitive (and really nothing but time and effort if you e-publish and are willing to do the work yourself). Authors are making money.  I know some want to claim making money isn't important, but I'm not going to lie. If I wasn't making any money writing, I'd have to quit and find a new part time job. That is the reality of my economic situation and the pending birth of our third child. Time is the most precious commodity--and you can't just print more.

That's my story, more or less.

I'm not perfect. I'll continue making mistakes. I'll continue writing.I will work harder.

Have a good one.

In the Memory House, Chapter 1 (and a free story)

If you've bought an e-copy of In the Memory House (or plan to do so before the end of the month), email me at aaron.polson(at)gmail.com for a free bonus story. 

In the Memory House is currently available at Amazon.com and Smashwords.

Chapter 1 - In the Memory House

Kelsey hated the club.

She hated the noise, the sweat-slicked men bumping and grabbing and oozing all over her. She hated the way the throbbing beat worked into her brain, and how she woke the morning after a dancing with the beat still pounding in her blood. She knew these were things a fit, attractive, twenty-seven-year-old woman was supposed to like.

But she didn’t.

She went to Tremors with Brit and Caitlin because she didn’t want to be alone, not after the dreams came back. Jared had haunted her dreams for the past week, Jared and the dead man with no blood. Even during waking hours, if Kelsey closed her eyes, the puckered-white flesh of the dead man’s gashes blinked in her memory. It haunted her more than the wreck, but Jared’s disappearance and the dull ached it caused weighed more than the dead man.

Nearly five years later, and the dreams were as bad as they’d ever been.

Even though she hated it, the club banished demons better than graduate studies ever had—much better than Human Lifespan Development or Principles of Testing and Measurement. A PhD in psychology seemed rather meaningless after what happened in the house. The world felt rather purposeless after Jared vanished without a trace.

“Hey, Kels? Where are you?” Brit asked. She’d been Kelsey’s friend since high school and still wore her dark hair past shoulder length. Kelsey had always thought of Brit—short for Brittany—as pretty, but in a vaguely Eastern European and mysterious way.

“Sorry,” Kelsey said. “Sorry… Just thinking.”

Brit flashed her news-desk-perfect teeth. “You need more booze, girlie.” She pushed a plastic cup filled with bright green liquid across the table. “This isn’t the time for thinking. It’s the time for drinking and getting stupid.”

Kelsey looked at the cup. The drink, whatever it was, glowed like radioactive Kool-Aid in a bad science fiction movie. Her eyebrows rose.

“Chill out. It’s a Midori Sour. Tastes like a Jolly Rancher but numbs the worry center.” Brit’s forefinger tapped her temple. “You’ve got way too much on your brain, sweetie. I don’t know why you’d want to stuff your pretty little head with all that psychobabble anyway.” 

“It’s not that.”

Brit nodded. “Right.”

She shook her hair, and long black strands flopped over her shoulders. Her eyes—almost as dark as her hair—drilled through bone, mining Kelsey’s secret thoughts. At least Kelsey felt she was. They’d been friends for a long time, true, but Brit hadn’t gone on the ski trip. Brit hadn’t clutched the door handle in Johnny’s SUV while the vehicle spun out of control and landed in a ditch. She hadn’t felt the brutal, numbing cold from the snow, the endless white blanket which plagued them to the porch, which forced them inside. She wasn’t the one to find the dead man, wrists splayed open in his bathtub. She didn’t lose Jared.

“Earth to Kelsey. I’ve lost you again. Go on and take a drink.”

Kelsey touched the cold plastic cup.  She brought it to her lips and took a drink. The alcohol was cool and sweet and sour as it washed over her tongue.  It warmed her chest as it slid down her throat. Maybe she did need to loosen up and get, as Brit so eloquently said, stupid. Maybe she needed to bury the past and try and forget Jared, forget the house, and forget the dead man. Just dreams… Dreams and bad memories. She closed her eyes and took another sip. It did taste a bit like a Jolly Rancher.

“Watermelon,” Kelsey said.

“You like?”

Kelsey smiled. “I like.  Let’s dance.”

Bodies shook and cavorted on the dance floor, all awash with flashing lights.  Throbbing music—a pop tune with relentless, pounding beat—swayed arms and legs in unison. Kelsey followed Brit to an empty corner, and both joined the frenzy. Kelsey’s eyes roved the crowd. Even at twenty-seven, she was toward the upper age limit at Tremors. Some faces looked like children—a few might have been students from the abnormal psychology lecture for which she was the teaching assistant. 

Three men—boys, Kelsey thought—in matching silver silk shirts made their way through the crowded dance floor. Each carried a plastic cup and faux-danced so as not to spill. Sweat slicked their faces so each sparkled under the bright, flickering lights. Kelsey watched them as she shuffled her feet. Some malaise and inhibition sloughed from her skin as she let the beat take her body. She hated the club, but Brit was right about one thing. She needed to let loose, get stupid. She hated the club, but dancing felt good.

She leaned close to Brit. “Those three are on the move.  I think they’re looking for wounded members of the herd.”

Brit laughed. “The lead is cute. Kind of. But his nose.” She scowled and shook her head so her hair spun from side to side.

“It’s huge,” Kelsey said.

“You know what they say about boys with big noses.” Brit ran her hands down her body, rolling her eyes in mock ecstasy.

As they both laughed, Caitlin, the shortest of the three, joined them. Kelsey felt Caitlin had the best body, busty but lithe with just enough ass to shake.  Her blue eyes were monstrous, near Anime size, and hair in dirty blonde ropes offered a sweet, innocent disguise. Caitlin was always happy and Kelsey a little jealous.

“I thought I’d lost you two.”

The music shifted. The three silver-shirted boys danced toward them.

“I’m taking a break,” Kelsey said.

“Me too. I need another drink.” Brit grabbed Caitlin by the wrist.

“What?” Caitlin’s alcohol-slick eyes were on the boys in silver.

“We don’t want to lose you to the wolf pack.”

The three friends skirted to the crowded dance floor’s edge. Caitlin craned her neck to watch the boys in silver. Kelsey fell into her chair, suddenly feeling very tired.

“You two want anything? Another Midori Sour?”

Kelsey shook her head. “I’m good, thanks.”

“I could use another screwdriver.” Caitlin held out her half-empty glass. “Pretty please.”

Brit rolled her eyes and headed for the bar.

Caitlin pulled her glass to her lips. Kelsey grabbed her forearm before she took a drink.

“You don’t want to do that.”

“I don’t?” Caitlin pouted. “Why not?”

“You left it at the table. Anybody could have slipped something in there.”

“Oh my God.” Caitlin snorted. “You are such a mother, Kels.  Lighten up.” Caitlin pulled her arm away, and a little liquid sloshed from the glass as the lights went out over the table.

“We hoped you ladies would have stayed on the dance floor.”

It was the nose, the leader of the silver-shirted wolf pack. His buddies grinned at either shoulder. Up close, his nose was big, ridiculously big, and Kelsey couldn’t stifle a giggle when she remembered what Brit suggested about boys with big noses. Big noses mean big…

“Some of us would have,” Caitlin said. She wrapped her tongue around the tiny black straw in her glass.

Kelsey rolled her eyes.  She let her gaze stray across the room and fall on a tall man near the entrance. A flare burst in her memory. Johnny.  She hadn’t seen him in almost five years, not since graduation, but it was him. His tall, cut features gave him away. Several years hadn’t changed anything about his face, his sleek, angular cheekbones and firm chin. Kelsey could almost feel his blue eyes, even across a dim club filled with people. He wasn’t dancing, just standing near the wall, almost like he was waiting for someone. Maybe looking for someone. Kelsey’s stomach knotted.

“…and our unit ships out at month’s end.”

Kelsey snapped back to her immediate vicinity. “What? Are you trying that old line?  C’mon, boys. Really?”

Big nose blinked hard at the word boys.

Caitlin kicked Kelsey’s leg under the table.

“Whatever.” Big Nose frowned. “I can see you’re not interested.  We were talking to your friend.”

Brit returned balancing three drinks in her hands. She read the look on Kelsey’s face. “Looks like I’m missing the party.”

Kelsey glanced at Johnny again. The dance floor lights flashed red and blue and white. “I was just leaving.” She climbed from her chair. Big Nose looked her up and down as she stood, and the two baboons at his shoulders did the same. She hated feeling dirty when a greasy boy eyed her like a cut of meat. She wanted a shower, to clean off the slime he’d heaped on her.

“Not bad,” he said.

Kelsey’s fingers curled into a fist at her side. “Fuck off.” She started to walk away.

He grabbed her wrist. “You wish, honey.”

Kelsey yanked her arm from his grasp. The flight across the club blurred in her head along with the music’s pound and her feet against the floor. She heard Brit’s voice bark her name twice, “Kels—Kels.” Shapes shifted and contorted, silhouettes of people, cardboard cutouts.  Her head spun.  By the time she worked her way across the room, Johnny was gone.

Five Question Friday: Chris Blewitt

1. What is the last book you read?

 - I just finished "The Girl Who Played With Fire" by Steig Larson.  It is the 2nd in his trilogy of "Girl Who..." novels.  I read the 1st one, Dragon Tattoo, earlier this year and thought it was fantastic.  The books are kind of intimidating at 600+pgs but for some reason, they flow very nicely.  "Fire" is just as good as the first one and I look forward to reading the final book, "The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets Nest".  If you haven't checked out these books or don't know the story behind Larson, do yourself a favor and read the them.

 

2. Is the book always better than the movie?

    - I'd have to agree here.  The Firm is one of my all-time favorite books and really inspired me to write and I think they did a poor job of replicating the book.  The music in the background, the piano, really turned me off.  And, they changed the ending.  Sleepers was a great book, but also a great movie.  On the other hand, action movies or something like Jurassic Park, could be better on screen than in a book.

 

3. What three things are always in your refrigerator?

 - Lemon juice, cheese, beer.  I add a few drops of lemon juice to every glass of water I drink, my wife cannot live without cheese, and I'm a beer connoisseur. 

 

4. What is on the floor of your car?
 - Sunflower seeds, both whole and in the shell.  They are my litte vice when I drive.  Car charger for my phone and my laptop.  Ice-scraper, usually from November to March.  Water bottles.  Lots of dog hair from my dog, Guinness.

 

5. What items do you always have with you?
 - I'm kind of a freak about chapstick.  It is ALWAYS with me.  Left pocket of my pants.  Other than that, my phone and my money clip with a few cards and a few bucks in it.  I haven't carried a wallet in 12 years.

 

 

Read The Lost Journal

The Editing Ninja Rises Again: Me and I

It's been a while since I've tackled an Editing Ninja post, but leave it to my students to provide inspiration.

Let's talk about personal pronouns, the first-person variety.

I is a subject. Use me when it's an object of a verb or preposition.

Incorrect: Vanessa and me like to watch old horror movies.

Correct: Vanessa and I love Vincent Price.

Incorrect: John invited Vanessa and I to his horror movie marathon.

Correct: John invited Vanessa and me to his horror movie marathon.

Simple, right? Eliminate the "___ and" and you can easily see which pronoun is correct. No one over the age of three would say "Me like to watch old horror movies."

Unless you are Cookie Monster.

A Shocking Contest

Ken Wood, editor (and writer) extraordinaire, notified me "Wanting It" from Shock Totem #3 has been recommended for a Stoker. This doesn't mean I'll be adding "Stoker Recommended Author" on any book covers or anything because that would be silly. But it's nice to know somebody likes your work. If you haven't read "Wanting It" or anything from Shock Totem, leave this blog immediately and grab a copy.
I promised a contest, and a contest you shall have. This one relates to my recent release of In the Memory House.

An author can always use a bit of help spreading the word about his/her work, so that's what I'm asking of you, dear readers.

Mention the book in a blog, tweet about it, tuck it into a newsletter, Facebook it (is that a verb now?)... whatever. Just help spread the word.

If you tweet, mention my handle (@aaronpolson). I'll probably stumble across other references on the web, but you can either email me (aaron.polson(at)gmail.com) or drop a line in the comments to make sure I have your entries. And you can enter multiple times.

The contest runs through the end of the month.

What do you win? Half of my proceeds from In the Memory House through November 30th. Incentive? Yes.

The links:

In the Memory House at Amazon.com

In the Memory House at Amazon.co.uk

In the Memory House at Smashwords

Thank you, and happy hunting.

In the Memory House Now Available

In the Memory House is now available at Amazon.com, Amazon UK, and Smashwords with other formats (including print) to follow...

Of course you can sample the goods at yesterday's post. 

Anyway (and of more importance), Owen's soccer team won their tournament this weekend. The final standings came down to goal differential, which they edged the second place team by one. Yikes. He played his eight-year-old heart out, and I couldn't be more proud.

Better than a book release any day.

But book releases are great, too--really.  ;)

And "contests" are even better. I have one to announce tomorrow.

Stay tuned.

Sample Sunday: In the Memory House

In the Memory House, a new supernatural thriller, is now available at Amazon.com, Amazon UK, and Smashwords with other formats (including print) to follow...

From In the Memory House:

They never planned to enter the house. 

They never knew the house existed.  If not for the snowstorm, they would have never found the house—or, more accurately, the house would have never found them.  As it was, five friends stood on the concrete slab porch while wind whipped snow in small eddies around them Johnny, tall and angular in a light jacket, rapped his knuckles on the door.  The two girls—Kelsey with her dark, ropey curls tucked under an ivory stocking cap and Sarah, blonde and pale and pretty and wearing pink—huddled together against the siding.  Ben, soft and thick with a lingering layer of childhood fat, leaned against the railing, staring across the white field. 

“Nobody’s home,” Jared said.  He wasn’t wearing a proper coat.  As they scrambled from the ditch, Kelsey had looked at his grey sweatshirt and jeans and had said he would freeze.  Jared, his brown eyes dark enough to challenge a moonless night, had smiled and said, “I’ll be fine.”  On the porch, he didn’t even shiver. “Doesn’t look like we’re getting in. We should head down the road, see if we can find someplace, any place to ride out the storm.  Nobody has any cell service, so we can’t call snow-plows-r-us.”

Ben rolled his eyes.  “We’d be fine if dipshit hadn’t landed us in the ditch.”

Johnny wheeled from the door. His blue eyes sparked. His fists clenched and unclenched. “Dipshit?  I didn’t see you volunteer to drive.  Damn SUV needs new tires. They’re as bald as Sarah’s dad.”

“Hey,” Sarah said.

Kelsey squeezed her arm. “He’s right.  Your dad is pretty shiny upstairs.  But I’m freezing. Right. Now. Can we just break in or something?  I’m sure Farmer Bob or whoever owns this place would rather have a broken window than five humansicles in his field.”

“Farmer Bob?” Jared poked his head out from under the porch roof. “Damn place is brick. Three stories. How do you figure a farmer lives here?”

Kelsey shrugged and went back to shivering. “Out in the middle of nowhere, that’s how.”

“It’s an old lock.  We can pick it rather than break a window.” Johnny knelt in front of the door and squinted through the key hole.  “Does anybody have a hair pin? Sarah? Kels?”

“Hairpin?” Sarah screwed up her face. “Are you nuts?”

“I dunno.  Seems like it should work.  They do it in all those old crusty movies J-rod watches.”

“Those are classics,” Jared said. “God… No taste. Have you even tried the door?”

“What do you think he’s been doing?” Ben boxed Jared on the shoulder.  “Knock-knock, who’s there?”

Johnny stretched to his full six foot, two inch height, placed one hand on the doorknob, but yanked it away.

“What’s wrong?” Kelsey asked.

“I dunno. It’s cold.”

“Of course it’s cold, numb-nuts.  It’s freezing. Have you seen the snow?” Ben waved across the field. “Your hand’s turning blue, too.”

Johnny rubbed his fingers. “No.  It was a different kind of cold.”

“Here,” Jared said, stepping forward. He wrapped his fingers around the knob and twisted. The door held for a moment, but then gave with a pop and creak. “I see what you mean cold. But here we are, folks.  No broken windows, no picked locks, no frozen twenty-two-year-olds on the porch.  It wasn’t locked. Looks like the innkeeper doesn’t mind trusting his neighbors. Our sanctuary.” He stepped aside so the others could enter.

Warmer air greeted them—not exactly warm air, but not as biting as the frigid exterior. A smell hung in the air, too, just like every house has its own odor. This smell was different, cold and sterile and clean, without the expected hint of dust and mold which an older house should have.

“Hello?” Jared called into the house. No answer came.

“It’s dark,” Kelsey said. “And it smells funny, too.”

Ben sniffed. “Smells fine to me. Smells pretty clean.”

“Yes… That’s what I mean,” Sarah said. “I mean it smells funny because it’s clean. I expected old person smell.  Or dirt. Something musty and earthy. Farmer smell.”

“Maybe Farmer Bob likes to take care of his stuff.” Ben strode through the foyer, past the dark wooden staircase and matching banister, and turned right into what appeared to be a living room.  A couch and two matched chairs were arranged on an ornate rug, the couch in the middle with the chairs facing each other on either side. Each was lined with deep red upholstery. The rug and furniture shared a subtle paisley pattern, and in the dim light appeared to be an even darker red design on the burgundy fabric. A subtle, tan wallpaper covered the open stretches of wall. Deep hardwood molding surrounded everything.

“Find a light switch,” Johnny said.

“Here.” Jared punched a black button. “Old school switch.” A simple brass chandelier flickered above their heads.  Weak, yellow light washed over the room. “At least we have power.”

“Not much of an improvement, if you ask me.” Ben walked around the couch and plopped in a seat.  He crossed his boots on one armrest. “Farm Bob has some wickedly Victorian taste in furniture.”

“Ben—get your wet feet off the…” Kelsey’s mouth hung open as she scanned the floor. “It’s dry.  Your feet are dry.”

“See.  No problem.”  Ben grinned. “I must have knocked all the snow off before coming in.”

Kelsey backed toward the door. “I don’t like it in here. I don’t like this house.”

“Shhhhh.” Ben pressed a finger against his lips. “It might here you.” He wagged his eyebrows.

“God, Ben. You and Kels sound like a B horror flick. First hairpins, now the house is alive.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “Shouldn’t we call somebody?”

Johnny nodded. “I’ll see if there’s a phone around here.  Maybe in the kitchen or hallway.  In this black hole, Farmer Bob must have a line to the outside world.”

Sarah grabbed Johnny’s arm. “I’ll go with you.”

Kelsey’s eyes moved from Ben’s boots, to the floor and back to the boots. “I think I’ll go with you guys.  Ben? Jared?”

Ben closed his eyes. Jared shook his head. “I’m going to chill right here. No pun intended, of course.”

Johnny, Sarah, and Kelsey circled through the living room, past an opening for a hallway, and into the dining room.  Their footsteps on the hardwood floor were tiny things, whispers in a monstrous cave’s mouth.  When they walked on the rug in the living room, they didn’t make a sound. A large wooden block table with a set of four chairs sat in the middle of the dining room.  The table top, a dark, polished walnut finish, was clean. A point of light from the window reflected in the middle. Kelsey walked to the table and rubbed a fingertip across the surface. Her skin squeaked against the wood.

Johnny joined her at the side of the table. “Farmer Bob sure keeps this place clean, doesn’t he?  Kind of a funny house—not as big on the inside as I expected. I guess it does have the third floor windows.  Maybe somebody bound and gagged—”

“Stop it, Johnny.  You’re starting to sound a little like Ben,” Sarah said. “Creepy-deepy Ben.”

“You invited him on this trip.” Johnny leaned over one of the chairs. “I didn’t.”

Sarah shot Kelsey a glare. “Kels opened her big mouth and Ben asked if he could go.  What was I going to say?”

“No.”  Johnny smiled. “Fifth wheel and all.”

“He paid for a fifth of the cabin and bought us a lot of booze.” Sarah twirled a finger through a strand of hair. “That part wasn’t so bad.”

Kelsey’s chest tightened.  For a moment, she couldn’t catch her breath.  She fell back against the table and touched her neck with one hand.

“What’s wrong?” Johnny asked.

Kelsey shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.  I just felt sort of, weird. Like asthma when I was a little girl.  It’s nothing really. Just a little adrenaline from the wreck.  I’m just feeling a little shaken.” She didn’t want to mention the cave, how she’d gotten lost on a tour as a girl and left in pure darkness. She didn’t want to mention how she’d just felt a twinge of the same, all-encompassing fear.

Sarah rolled her eyes and mouthed the word “drama” toward Kelsey. 

“Let’s get out, then.  All of us.” Johnny strode across the room and through a small archway. “Bingo.”

Kelsey closed her eyes against the harsh daggers in Sarah’s icy blue stare. It was Johnny. Kelsey knew it as sure as she knew her name. Jared was a great guy, a solid friend, but they both wanted Johnny and Sarah sharpened her knives. Kelsey chewed her lip and shifted away.  

“Let’s see what he found,” Sarah said. She turned and ducked through the archway without another glance at Kelsey.

Johnny stood in the middle of a bright kitchen with an avocado green phone receiver in one hand. A looping phone cord, matching the phone’s green, dangled to the floor. Johnny’s face was turned down in a frown.

“What?” Sarah asked.

“Dead.”

Kelsey felt a shiver at the word as though Johnny’s voice had become an ice block and rubbed over her back.  “Dead?”

“Dead-dead. No signal. No buzz. No nothing.”  Johnny waved the receiver toward the windows, a solid bank of which filled the wall behind the kitchen sink and between the cabinets.  Yellow and white gingham curtains hung open revealing a blinding field of snow and small shed behind the house. The cabinets had been painted white with yellow highlights to match the curtains. “Must be the snow.”

“But the house has power,” Sarah said. “If the power—”

“It doesn’t work that way, Sarah.  Electricity and phone are on separate lines. I figured most phone lines were buried out here, though.”  Johnny dropped the receiver on its wall cradle.  Plastic clicked against plastic. “We better get back to the others and figure out what the hell we’re going to do.”

Kelsey started back through the archway, but paused. “Couldn’t we go the other way?”

“What do you mean?” Sarah asked.

“Well, we passed the stairwell when we came in, walked through the couch room—the parlor, past the one hallway, and through the dining room.  Another living room or parlor or whatever should be the other way.  Just on the other side of the wall.”

Johnny shrugged. “Makes sense.  But there’s only the one entrance to the kitchen. Not to mention the screwy décor for a house—or inn or whatever—of this age. Avocado green is so ‘70s.” He gestured to the phone.

“When I see him, I’ll tell Farmer Bob you don’t approve,” Sarah said.  “Let’s just go, okay?”

“I thought Farmer Bob was creepy-deepy Ben’s name for our dear host.”

Sarah scowled at Kelsey and walked through the arch.  The three returned they way they’d come, passing the massive table, the small hallway and into the room with a couch and two chairs, the parlor to the right of the big staircase. Ben was on the couch, feet still propped high. He’d folded his hands behind his head and appeared to be sleeping.

“Where’s Jared?” Johnny asked.

Ben’s eyes flickered open.  “Huh?”

Sarah sat on the edge of a chair with her back arched as though she wasn’t comfortable coming in contact with the house in any way. “Jared.  Where is he?  He was with you, in here, when we went on the phone hunt.”

The tightening came back to Kelsey, pressing against her lungs from all sides. She felt a tingling, hot braid of nerves climb her back and flush her face.  She looked from Ben to Sarah and Johnny. The chandelier flickered, darkening the room. But it hadn’t actually flickered, had it? Her eyes tricked her, of course...

“Dunno,” Ben said.  “I guess he just went exploring.”

“Exploring? Here?” Sarah scooted closer to the chair’s edge. “What the hell for?”

“Architecture.  Jared’s major, Sarah.  Maybe he’s been inspired by this place.  Weren’t you just saying something about the kitchen?”

Sarah glanced toward Kelsey. “That was Kels.”

Ben stood from the couch, stretching for the ceiling. “How big do you think this place is, anyway?  I mean, from the outside, it looked massive. Like an old castle even, all that limestone around the foundation.”

“It could have been an inn or hotel, I guess.” Johnny shook his head. “I don’t know. But we should find Jared.”  He walked to the stairs and cupped a hand against his face. “Jared?”

“What made you Captain Responsibility all of a sudden?  I’m sure Jared’s around here somewhere.”

Jared’s gone. The thought came to Kelsey as her breath came back to her lungs. She leaned against a wall, trying to steady her wobbly nerves. Jared’s gone, and he won’t be coming back. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the unwelcome thought, but its roots had grown deep quickly. 

“And we need to find him.”  Johnny pointed at Ben. “We can split up and stick together. I’ll take upstairs with—”

“Wait. Whoa.  Slow down there, Johnny.” Ben waved his hands. “Who appointed you Fred of this Scooby Doo crew?”

Johnny’s hand clamped on the stair railing. His knuckles began to whiten.  “Just bad vibes about this place.”  He peeled his hand away from the rail and looked at it. “Just bad vibes.”

Kelsey rubbed her shoulders. “I felt it when we came in.  I feel it now.  Maybe it’s just because of the wreck. I don’t know. But I don’t like it here. It’s too clean. It’s too—”

Wood groaned from the floor above them and caught Kelsey’s words in her mouth and sprinkled her with a wave of chills.

“That’s probably our intrepid architect now.” Ben smiled. “I’ll go and check.”

“We don’t go alone.” Johnny glanced at Kelsey and then his eyes rested on Sarah.

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll go with you Benny-boy.” She glared at Kelsey as she crossed the room.

The two vanished up the stairs into the second floor’s darkness.  Johnny stood with his back turned to Sarah for a moment, a long moment in which the chill left her and she began thinking about Johnny—his broad shoulders and lean, stone-chiseled face.  Was it wrong to hope Johnny might come around, might choose her?  He’d broken up with Sarah two months ago, making the ski trip awkward—a reason, even a small one—to be thankful for Ben being the fifth wheel.  Still, she had hoped Jared and Sarah might hit it off, couple up, and leave Johnny for her.  She looked up, caught Johnny’s eyes, and felt a warm rush in her cheeks.

“Why didn’t you go with Ben?” she asked.

“Ben?  Sometimes I really hate that bastard. I didn’t want to punch him. I mean, how the hell can the guy fall asleep after hitting the ditch?”

“He was asleep before hitting the ditch,” Sarah said.

Johnny nodded. “True.  Besides, I didn’t want to leave any of the women alone.”

Kelsey crossed her arms. Now wasn’t the time to show her hand. “How chivalrous.”

“Don’t go all feminista on me.” Johnny shrugged. “We don’t even know who lives here—hell, Farmer Bob could be asleep upstairs.  Maybe he’s an ax murderer. This damn house must be at least four or five thousand square feet. Three stories and a basement by the looks of the foundation. Huge. Maybe he is asleep upstairs. Maybe he knows we’re here, and the old guy’s watching.”

Kelsey shivered. “Stop playing. You’re giving me the creepy-crawlies. Why do you call him an old guy, anyway?”

“Just a feeling.”

“Yeah. Me too.  The feeling.” Kelsey rubbed her arms. The air had dropped a few degrees, but there wasn’t a draft. If anything the room was dead. “Maybe it’s the jitters after the accident, but I don’t like this place.”

“Definitely has a vibe.” Johnny moved closer to Kelsey. His blue eyes locked onto hers. He held out a hand. “We won’t be here long.”

She hesitated, her breath catching in her throat, and then took his hand. The skin was cool and ruff, not warm like she’d expected. Maybe it was the room. Maybe the chill was in the house itself. “We should look, too.”

Johnny turned toward the hallway. “The basement, wherever it is?”

“I don’t want to, but—”

The scream stopped Kelsey’s words before they left her mouth. Sarah’s scream. Kelsey didn’t think again until she was, following Johnny, halfway up the stairs. They rounded the landing, hurtled the final flight, spilling into the darkened second story hallway.  Dim, yellowish light filtered from a window at one end. Down the other direction, a black figure waved.

“Down here!” Ben called.

Kelsey’s eyes adjusted to the darkened hallway, but she couldn’t see Sarah. Johnny trotted in front. He didn’t seem to be afraid—not like she was. Why was her heart rattling in her chest?  Why did she feel like she couldn’t breathe? Ben moved back, further into the hallway. Johnny stepped through the doorway to which Ben had been pointing.  He wheeled and tried to grab Kelsey, but too late.

She gasped. “Oh my God.”  Her hands covered her mouth, but she couldn’t shut her eyes.

A man lay in a half-filled bathtub. His near-white hair clung close to his pinkish scalp, but was not wet. Although his hair showed old age’s silver-grey, the lack of lines on his face told a much younger story. His dead eyes stared at them, almost as though he’d been watching the door when he died. Almost as though he’d been waiting for them. In his left hand, draped as it was over the tub’s edge, he held a knife, the folding type which held utility blades used in construction.  Thick gashes marred both wrists, a disordered criss-crossing of cuts. His right arm stretched along the far edge of the tub and wore a slash from the base of his hand to mid forearm. The cuts on the left were much smaller.

Sarah whimpered from the corner.  Johnny stepped inside and pulled her to him, pressing her face against his chest. “There’s no blood,” she muttered.

“Bullshit,” Ben said. He’d closed in behind Kelsey, blocking the door.

Sarah pushed away from Johnny’s chest and glared at Ben. Her voice became firm, almost angry. “No blood. There’s no God-damned blood.”

Kelsey’s body turned to ice as she hunted—but didn’t find—a single drop.  The few inches of bathwater in the tub were clear despite the old man being fully clothed.  The linoleum floor reflected a small, sunny patch from the window but was otherwise unmarred.

“No blood at all.”

Happy Birthday, Aimee

Once upon a time, you looked so innocent...

WIP Wednesday: Stranger in a Strange Land

And no, I'm not referring to Robert Heinlein's 1961 science fiction novel.

Not NaNo-ing always makes me feel a bit "out of the loop". Many bloggers are deep in the NaNo muck, and I'm here, piddling away at a pace of 500-800 words a day on my new book.  Not a NaNo pace at all. Not at all.

Slow and steady wins the race? All right... but I didn't know I was in a race.

Speaking of strangers, here's a snippet of strangeness from what I'm tentatively calling Reunion:

“Hold on,” James said. “Where the hell did Carl go?” 

The three men faced each other and turned slowly, eyes scanning the rows of stone and dark fences of trees. James let his gaze drift past the grey ribbon of highway, K-15, which ran along the western edge of Greenwillow. No Carl. Plenty of darkness. A gust of hot summer breeze meandered through the cemetery. Late July brought temperatures near the century mark earlier that day, but James shivered.

Don't worry. Carl's fine.

For now.

Coming Soon...

Five years ago, one of them never left the house. Now they've returned, and Hollywood cameras will catch every moment...

What The Abominable Dr. Phibes Taught Me about Storytelling

I love classic horror films.

I simply adore 1971's The Abominable Dr. Phibes. Vincent Price is at his grandiose and macabre best playing the titular character. A major spoiler warning to those who have not seen this vintage gem: this post is about endings--the vengeful doctor's in particular.

The plot of  The Abominable Dr. Phibes revolves around revenge. Dr. Phibes seeks vengeance for his wife's untimely death on a London operating table. His mode: Old Testament plagues of the pharohs: bats, locusts, boils, rats, hail...

And in true Weird Tales style, Phibes accomplishes his murders with style (if not reality).  Phibes has a flair for the  post-steampunk with his hail-making machine wired to a car's battery (the film is set in the mid 1920s). But this post is about endings...

And the end to the movie is inevitable: Dr. Phibes chases revenge as Scotland Yard closes in on him. In the final sequences, as he forces Dr. Vesalius (Joseph Cotten) to perform surgery on Vesalius's son (to retrieve a key implanted near the boy's heart--um, did Saw really allude to Phibes? Hell yeah.), you get a sense it was all inevitable.

Phibes, through an ingenious neck transmitter to gramophone device, claims nine will die. Barks as much in Vesalius's face during surgery, in fact.

And nine do die.  But here's the storytelling magic: the ninth isn't Dr. Vesalius's son--it's Phibes himself. As the police break into the house, Vesalius rescues his boy, and Phibes's assistant Vulnavia dies under an acid bath (but she was a clockwork, I think), Phibes attaches himself to a pump in his underground vault, lies down next to his wife's corpse, and fades away as the pump removes his blood and replaces it with formaldehyde.

Yeouch.

What can a storyteller learn? The ending, even when it seems inevitable, can still surprise an audience and be right. Even though Phibes is a heartless killer throughout the film, he does it with a style and charisma which leaves the viewer (at least this viewer) cheering in the end.  Phibes seals his tomb as he dies, leaving the police wondering how he escaped and the audience in on his little secret. He never planned on escape.

It's perfect. The writers didn't choose the easy ending: revenge on Dr. Vesalius (he did save his son) and no one expected Phibes to be the ninth to die. When is the last time the police never caught the baddie? Beautiful.

So writers, ask yourself at the end: choice A or B? And then choose C.

(Need I mention Phibes plays a bad-ass pipe organ?)

I Will Work Harder

Yesterday, I felt like a rock-star teacher. We held revision camp in two of my classes, both college-prep composition courses. I cheered students efforts, challenged their fledgling skills, and knocked a few proverbial home-run lessons about showing/telling and waste words out of the park.

Writing for publication--and all the effort involved--has made me a better teacher. A far better teacher. Thanks to each and every editor who has given a minute or two to push my words through the meat-grinder.

I'll have a few words and some numbers about The Big Experiment soon, but for now, I feel pretty good about this:

As of this writing, it's #9 at Amazon UK under Horror>Short Stories.  Books above it? M.R. James, Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, and Tim Burton.  I'm humbled.

And this is okay, too:

As of this writing, it's #11 at Amazon US under Horror>Ghosts.

Thanks, readers. I will work harder. I will keep writing. I will work harder.

WIP Wednesday: Winners, Start Your Imaginations

First things first, let's hear it for my October Contest winners:

Grand Prize: Gef Fox

1st Place: Anthony Rapino

2nd Place: K.C. Shaw

Fred, tell them what they've won...

"Grand Prize: You name and supply physical/psychological characteristics for a character in my next book. Here's the teaser: Four friends gather at their twenty year high school reunion to pay respects to a friend who died in high school... Within a week of their meeting, one of them is murdered. I'll leave it there, for now.

1st Place: You supply me with two characters (general types, e.g., plumber--you can name them if you wish), a situation, and a setting, and I write a piece of flash fiction (of at least 500 words) to share with the world.You may even name the piece, if you wish.

2nd Place: I will write a Friday Flash (of at least 100 words) with any title you supply."

As for the Coffin Hop winner, Jennifer Smith was among a handful of entrants who correctly identified Three Dog Night as the band "Monster Shindig" singer Danny Hutton fronted in the '60s/'70s. 

Winners, I'll be in touch soon--if you want to drop me a line at aaron.polson(at)gmail.com first, go ahead.

Then there's this:

Five years ago, one of them never left the house... Now, they're back. Welcome home.

Coming soon.

Market Deaths

Murky Depths, Crossed Genres (the magazine--not the publishing company), and all forthcoming anthologies from Library of Horror Press are dead. I'm sad in the case of Murky Depths (but glad to have "Shoes for the Journey" published before its demise--it was a beautiful mag) and Crossed Genres (which published my longish-short "Down There" earlier this year). The Library of Horror situation rankles a bit. I had two stories slated for future publication from LoH, one in Witchology and the other in Made You Flinch, Again (again?).

This--the frequent death of short story markets--more than anything, puts me off writing more shorts. Markets come and go--even after you've signed a contract. If I'm running my writing life as a business, I'm not sure it makes much sense.

But then again, I'm not sure anything I've done in my writing career makes much sense. I tend to follow my heart: