Aaron Polson

Violations...

2012-01-28T06:30:00.000-06:00

Remember last week's post about plagiarism and pirating in the modern "wild west" internet/digital publishing world?

Well...this happened. I'll let Robert Swartwood explain it all. I'm too tired. Too frustrated. I've been sorting this mess out since the mid-afternoon.

The thing which boggles me the most? The pirate can't be making (much) on his/her/its knock off of Echoes of the Dead. It's not exactly flying off the virtual shelves for me, either. Robert might not have noticed it if said pirate hadn't listed the book as a free promo.

It's not like it was erotica or something. I hear that stuff sells.

Sheesh.

I have some history with plagiarists and pirates.

One of my classmates at K-State plagiarized a term paper in Psych 350: Experimental Methods. Not a pretty sight. A few of my stories were nabbed and rebooted a few years ago (remember this?). This Christmas, some brave soul "published" an anthology of Christmas horror without rights from the authors. (Um... the antho included Stephen King, Ramsey Campbell, and many more big names.)

eBookr has quite a selection of my stuff for "free". (All you can read, folks!)

But this Amazon trick? This sh*t is just out of hand.

Welcome to the digital future.

We're just getting started...

The Skull in Uncle Rego's Closet - A #FridayFlash

2012-01-27T09:44:00.001-06:00

The skull smells like cleaning fluid, the pine oil kind that Mama uses on the kitchen floor. It weighs a little more than the soccer ball Uncle Rego gave me last year for my eleventh birthday. The yellow-white color almost matches the ivory of the old piano in the shed, the one Papa promises to fix up for Mama one day. One day when he works a single job instead of three.

Uncle Rego says the skull belongs to our great-grandmother. He says he brought it back from Sonora on one of his trips. The rest of the bones, he says, had to wait. Too hard to get them across the border, he says. And then the broken leg. And then he stopped going back to Mexico because things were bad in Sonora.
I’ve stolen Uncle Rego’s skull three times now.

The first time I left it on the back porch, assuming it would be gone in the morning. Uncle Rego found it when he came home, stumbling more than usual with the heavy reek of cigarettes and tequila clinging to his clothing. He merely wrapped the skull in the folds of his shirt and staggered to his room in the basement, muttering in Spanish.

The second time, I tried harder. I took the skull into the yard and placed it near the small rock garden Mama loves. She’s the one who found the skull the second time, but a day or to passed before she noticed, possibly because it blended in so well with the stones.

“Mateo,” she said. “This isn’t something to play with.”

This time, I did better. I buried the skull in the soft garden dirt next to Mama’s peppers and tomatoes. I buried it deep—as deep as I could before my arms began to burn and sag like rubber bands. Not that it is hidden, exactly, just deep. Deep enough, I hope.

When Mama comes into my room, I tell from the sour frown and lines on her face she wants to know where it is. Uncle Rego cries out every few minutes from his room.

“Where is it this time, Mateo?” she asks. Her arms cross her chest.

What scares me, more than anything, is how white Mama’s face gets when I tell her about the headless woman who throws pebbles at my bedroom window most nights. I tell her the skull is hers, and she just wants it back. I tell her I don’t think the skull belonged to Great-Grandma, and ask if Rego knows who the headless woman is. Mama just cries, folds me toward her chest, and rocks back and forth, saying, “hush, hush.”

WIP Wednesday: Slowing to a Trickle

2012-01-25T08:36:00.002-06:00

Between Max's autoimmune issues, baby Elliot, and trying to wrangle Owen/my job/maintain a relationship with my wife... and other things, I haven't been writing as much as I'd like.

I have given a character a gun. Said character has decided to use the gun rather than call the police. See, he doesn't think the police will believe what he has to tell them (his wife might be held captive in a farmhouse/organized crime compound/possible religious cult). It doesn't help his case that it is three in the morning, he's covered in mud, blood, and cow shit, and a little high.

This could get interesting...

And it's all part of No Good Deed, a crime/thriller novella.

More soon.

“Why Write a Series? Don’t You Have Enough on Your Plate?"

2012-01-23T06:15:00.000-06:00

A guest post from Barry Napier...

I asked myself this question roughly one hundred times as Iwas about halfway through the first draft of Everything Theory: Cold Compass. Honestly, the first answer that came to mind was the fact that Isimply wanted to put myself into an overly ambitious project and see itthrough. The second (and honestly mostimportant) answer was this: because the characters of the story were demandingit.

At first, I had never intended Everything Theory to become a series. It was going to be a nice little one-offstory with the potential for other books that tied into the same universe withthe same characters. I certainly had no intentions of the books taking up about90% of my writing time. But as I made myway through the first book of the series, ColdCompass, I realized that these characters—primarily Gabe, the centralcharacter—had a lot more going on than could be covered in one book.

I assumed I could probably get three books out of Gabe, hisback story, his father’s sordid history, and the shadow organization thatconnects it all: CSAR. I made a few plotmaps and was ready to tackle a trilogy. Then I ended up introducing the villain of Cold Compass, a mysterious figure named Garrison Sleet. And as I delved more into who/what he mightbe, it started to appear as if a trilogy might not cover the entire story,either.

So as it stands, I have a 5-book series on my hands. It is all mapped out and fits rather well(although it appears that Book 4 might be pretty lengthy). Book 1 has been released, and Book 2 is a fewediting sessions away from being wrapped up. I am currently taking a slight break from the Everything Theory books to give myself a break (or maybe it’s thecharacters that needed a break) from the twists, turns, and conspiracies.

So…why write a series? Because sometimes the writer is just the conduit; it’s the characterswithin the story that are really producing the words.

To learn more aboutBarry, his Everything Theory booksand other works, visit him at his online home:www.barrynapierwriting.wordpress.com.

The Digital Gold Rush and Plagiarism

2012-01-19T10:30:00.002-06:00

In light of the recent kerfluffle at Amazon.com over plagiarized erotica (thanks to the good posters at Kindle Boards for bringing this to my attention), I've been doing some thinking.

Dangerous, that thinking thing.

A number of author's were angered--incensed--that stories were stolen from free-to-read websites and sold for profit on Amazon. Yes, it stinks. But it won't go away. Not ever.

Plagiarism has a long and healthy history in the world of content creation. In Shakespeare's time, an actor was only given his lines on tiny slips of paper which contained his lines and cues for fear the plays would be stolen. Modern technology has only made the process easier.

It's a digital gold rush.

Thank goodness Wikipedia is back today, because I'm quoting directly:

"A gold rush is a period of feverish migration of workers to an area that has had a dramatic discovery of gold."

I'm speaking of content gold, here. Follow my logic:

Many authors post on Kindle Boards about how lucritive erotica can be.
Plagiarizer goes to the web and trawls for free stories (and there are a ridiculous number of them out there--in any genre).
Ctrl+C then Ctrl+V and a few formatting moments and voila, a book.

If you are going to point hombres to gold, you better be ready for the rush. And every gold rush in the history of the U.S. has brought a shit-storm of criminal activity.

Some of the sites (Literotica in particular) don't appear to be publications in the traditional sense (meaning they don't reject most of their submissions and just about anyone can post). Countless similar sites exist in other genres, from fan fiction to poetry. While this isn't a case of people stealing stories from Newsweek or Fantasy and Science Fiction, it is still theft.

I'm not a fan of plagiarism and piracy; no author should be. (I've been a target of plagiarism in the past, remember?) But I'm not stupid, either. You put your content out there in today's wide-open wild west, and poachers are probably going to strip the juiciest bits like digital vultures on a rotting digital 'possum. Are we ever going to stop them? No. Not ever.

What can an author do?

Know the risks of posting online and take those you feel comfortable with. Most of all, get paid for your writing. If the Literotica scandal has shown these erotica writers anything, it's that there's a market for their words.

Publish them yourself and get paid. It's not a dirty thing to accept compensation for your work. If you don't, somebody else might.

The Travelling Theatrical Tour: On Dreaming the Impossible

2012-01-17T06:00:00.000-06:00

(a guest post by Cate Gardner)

Thank you to Aaron for allowing me to invade his blog so that I cancelebrate the release of my book, Theatreof Curious Acts. Aaron is one of my favourite online folk and I thought anapt subject for his blog would be 'On Dreaming the Seemingly Impossible' for as Aaron's recent publication in Shimmerproves, perseverance pays off…

Clarkesworld (insert magazine of your choice here) will never acceptone of my stories. I fully expect they won't - most of the time. This isn't acase of doubting whether my stories are good enough, it's about a market thatthousands of writers target and, which only accepts twelve a year from theslush pile.

Despite this fact, every time I send them a story I think 'this is the one'.

It never is, of course.

Does receiving a rejection from Clarkesworld bother me? Heck no, I justsent a story to one of the top magazines in the speculative fiction business. Idared to dream.

If rejections get you down, and hey we all have our moments, try toremember that every other writer out there, that one you just twittered, thatother who just wrote a Facebook update that left you gasping with envy, theygot a rejection yesterday or they'll get one tomorrow. You're not alone. Rejectionsare part of the business, but their partner is a wonderful thing called hope.What was just rejected goes out into the world with fresh hope.

And you know some of those writers who've had stories accepted by oralready published by Clarkesworld, well they didn't think they'd make it ineither. Now I need to go check if seven days have passed since I last subbed toClarkesworld.

Theatre of Curious Acts is available at all goodonline bookstores.

Daniel Cole wants the world to end.

Returned home from the Great War, his parents andbrother in their graves, Daniel walks a ghost world. When players in a theatreshow lure Daniel and his friends, fellow soldiers, into a surreal otherworldthey find themselves trapped on an apocalyptic path. A pirate ship waits toferry some of them to the end of the world.

Already broken by war, these men are now theworld's only hope in the greatest battle of all.

More information isavailable at www.categardner.net

Promises, Promises

2012-01-13T11:59:00.001-06:00

It ain't going to be pretty.

WIP Wednesday: Escape from the Planet of the Rewrites

2012-01-11T06:24:00.000-06:00

Yeah, I'm sitting on my first installment of Dead Lands. It has wings--granted, they are rotting and undead--but for some reason I'm dragging my feet.

Maybe it's the 3:00 AM feedings. Maybe it's the repeat trips to the specialist in Kansas City. Maybe I need to be slapped around by the ghosts of Edgar Allan Poe (who published some of his own stuff in journals for which he was editor--did you know that?) and H.P. Lovecraft.

In the meantime, I've written (or mostly written) two shorts. I've not written a short worth donkey spit in quite some time. Maybe these will have wings, too.

"Small Favors" features a man who cannot die (think "he coulda been a superhero") in a post-apocalyptic world. Yes, I have zombies on the brain, but I'll be damned if I can write a "straight" story about them. He's a different kind of undead.

"No Good Deed" is a pretty straightforward crime story where one good deed turns into a night of hell for a man and his wife. I guess you should probably leave the guy carrying a gas canister on the side of the road next time, eh? Why am I writing it? Readers like crime. I can't explain it; it just is.

I guess I'm not dragging my feet that much. Dead Lands is coming (once I finish "No Good Deed"). Promise. I might even have cover art soon.

Maybe.

Some News, Some Not

2012-01-05T08:32:00.002-06:00

I made my first "sale" of the new year on New Year's Day. Considering the lack of material I have in the wild, I'm chalking it up as a "New Year's Miracle". "Jumping In" will appear in Dark Moon's forthcoming charity anthology, Slices of Flesh. The cover art is provided by Mike Mignola of Hellboy fame with Dave Stewart doing the color work. Yes, it's pretty awesome. Check it out at Dark Moon Books. The TOC is stacked with some big names in the industry, too.

On the home front, Max has a diagnosis. We're currently seeking a second opinion. I believe healthcare, like any personal service, should involve choice. Doctors--while much more knowledgeable about medicine than me--are not experts on my kid. (It makes a parent a tad uncomfortable when the diagnosis changes in a week simply based on an offhand comment made to the doctor... Just sayin'.)

Dead Lands: Pass the Ammunition is coming soon. Like next Monday soon.

Stay tuned.

"The Good Daughter" Makes Tangent Online's Recommended Reading List for 2011

2012-01-02T09:49:00.001-06:00

These are the moments which make "traditional" publishing special.

"The Good Daughter" from Triangulation: Last Contact (edited by Steve Ramey and Jamie Lackey) has been selected as a starred "recommended read" at Tangent Online (read the entire Tangent Online Recommended Reading List 2011). It's the second time one of my tales has made the list (the other story was also from a Triangulation anthology, Dark Glass back in 2009).

Congrats to all the authors who made the list. I'm humbled to be in your company.

The Year That Was, The Year That Is

2012-01-01T08:46:00.001-06:00

Elliot dominated 2011, even before we knew he would be Elliot. Once Aimee and I learned we would have another child, plans tripped into motion. I spent the summer tearing apart and rebuilding our house. The (older) boys moved into a new room. I dove into electronic publishing with the hopes of bolstering our family coffers to help pay for another mouth. It's helped.

But my writing has suffered. Not because of any one of these things, but all of them together. Having another child scares me--even with him here, now, I'm scared.

I have hopes for 2012. I want the best for my family. I want to do some real writing again.

One goal I'm putting forth is to write and submit at least one quality story a month. While I have several longer projects brewing, short stories are my real love. Short stories won't do anything to help feed my family. But...

It's something I have to do so I can be sane for my family.

My goals for 2012 are simple:

1. Write and submit one story a month. I'm one pro sale away from "active" status in the HWA. I'd like to see that happen someday.

2. Finish my serial zombie novel.

3. Write at least one other book. Several ideas are brewing. I'll be flipping coins in a week or so to see what direction I head. (The front runner is a story involving a murdered magician and the boys who vow to find his killers.)

Bring it on, 2012. I'm ready.

WIP Wednesday: Long Live Serial Fiction

2011-12-28T07:50:00.001-06:00

I'm writing about zombies.

Well, not exactly. I'm writing about people dealing with zombies and each other in a post-apocalyptic setting. I (almost) swore I never would, but, as Justin Bieber says, never say never.

Great Zeus, did I just reference Bieber?

I'll be releasing Dead Lands in three parts. If I still want to play in the world I've created, I have ideas for other books.

Come back Friday for a the first chapter of the first installment, Pass the Ammunition. Until then, here's a teaser:

Back in high school, Mrs. Phelps made us do this littlewriting project about what kind of junk we’d grab if our house was on fire. Shewas an English teacher and older than both my folks put together. Even herwrinkles had wrinkles, but you won’t see anyone that old anymore. They can’trun fast enough. They can’t swing a bat or sledge hammer hard enough to crack azombie’s skull. Most kids wrote down inane shit like family photos or theirChihuahua. I think I wrote about my brother’s Playboy collection. That was a different life.

Shimmer 14

2011-12-27T11:34:00.000-06:00

A pleasant, non-healthcare related distraction... Whew. I need one of those.

Shimmer #14 has been released to the wild, including:

Food My Father Feeds Me, Love My Husband Shows Me, by A. A. Balaskovits

Chinvat, by Sunny Moraine

Made of Mud, by Ari Goelman

This House was Never a Castle, by Aaron Polson

Minnow, by Carlea Holl-Jensen

Trashman, by A.C. Wise

We Make Tea, by Meryl Ferguson

Bad Moon Risen, by Eric Del Carlo

Some Letters for Ove Lindström, by Karin Tidbeck

Gödel Apparition Fugue, by Craig DeLancey

You can read Eric Del Carlo's piece, "Bad Moon Risen," free online. But I know you want a copy, don't you?

Well, don't you?

My Three Sons

2011-12-26T20:28:00.001-06:00

First of all, Max is (somewhat) on the mend. Thanks for all the well wishes and positive vibes; I told him he had good vibrations sailing in from around the globe. He smiled. His condition (which involves some rather unpleasant blood where there should be no blood) continues to stymie the doctors, but we did escape the hospital in time for Christmas at home. His spirits are high and energy better than it has been, so I have hope.

With the infant at our house (Elliot continues to be the most chilled-out baby I've ever met), we didn't have to travel this year. Christmas at home was soooooo pleasant.

Owen is winning the best big-brother award this year. The hug Max delivered upon opening Owen's gift was a once in a lifetime moment. Evidently, Lego Hero Factory kits = "I love you to the moon and back, man" in Max's world.

I'll start on something writing related soon, but for now I'm just circling the nest.

It's a good place to be.

Living in a Castle

2011-12-20T08:28:00.001-06:00

Max is sick.

I sent a brief tweet last night, but he's at Children's Mercy Hospital in Kansas City. I'm his roommate for the stay, and we are lucky enough to be in the "castle tower". Funny, from the outside of the building it just looked like a hospital.

The accomidations are... passable.

He appreciates all the positive vibes.

His Name is (Elliot) Robert Polson

2011-12-16T20:39:00.000-06:00

And no, I'm not making (too much of) an allusion to Fight Club.

Elliot Robert Polson with big brother Max.

Elliot was born at 9:03 PM on 12/15/2011 after a crazy day of induced labor, nerve pinching, and cheerleading. The big fella weighed in at 9 lbs, 2 oz and was a neat 21 1/2 inches long.

He's getting reading to join his brothers' club some day.

(Yes, I know Polson and Paulson are spelled differently... Thank you very much.)

Welcome to this wacky family, Elliot!

The Editing Ninja: An Abusive A

2011-12-15T08:41:00.000-06:00

Does any word misuse cause more consternation than thesimple flipping of articles a and an? The rule is simple: a comes before words beginning with aconsonant or consonant sound; ancomes before words beginning with a vowel or vowel sound.

Incorrect: Dakota ate aorange.

Correct: Dakota ate anorange.

Incorrect: Gregory became an zombie.

Correct: Gregory became azombie.

Poor Gregory.

Some notes:

The vowel u often makes a consonant sound (yew) at thebeginning of words such as university and unified. Therefore, a must proceed these words even thoughthey start with a vowel.

Be aware of words which begin with silent letters, such asthe h in herb or heir. Since the initial sound is a vowel, you must use an.

The sound wins every time. Yet another reason you shouldread your work aloud in the revision phase.

WIP Wednesday: The Waiting Game

2011-12-14T08:39:00.002-06:00

Aimee's due date was last Sunday (12/11/11). So we are waiting.

And waiting.

And the longer we wait, the closer baby's birthday will be to Christmas, for which he/she will never forgive his/her parents (at least during the teen years).

In the mean time, I'm writing about zombies, but doing so on my terms:

Had I known I’d be shot in the back, I might have stayed inmy bunk.

(Here's a dirty little secret: editors of small press mags might shy away from zombies, but the e-reading public sure doesn't.)

Booooks, booooks, booooks...

Bigotry in America

2011-12-13T08:42:00.004-06:00

On the way to school this morning, I heard a story about Lowes (the home improvement store) and the television series, All-American Muslim. You can listen to the story (about three minutes) here.

I've never watched All-American Muslim. I hadn't even heard of the show. I've shopped at Lowes before, but doubt I will again.

Evidently, "the conservative group that got Lowe's to pull its ads from a reality TV show about American Muslims has been fighting for more than two decades against gay rights, strip clubs and most anything else that offends evangelical Christians."

Well, Mr. David Caton of the "Florida Family Association," you offend me. You offend me with your hatred, bigotry and misinformation.

Several politicians called the Florida Family Association a fringe hate group, a title Caton shrugged off, saying the group aims to "defend traditional American biblical values."

Traditional American biblical values? What, like burning witches and lynchings?

Caton suggests "99.9 percent of Muslims agree with the principles of Sharia law" and by nature, Islam requires a follower to be an extremist.

You wouldn't know anything about extremism, would you Mr. Caton?

Take a gander at the truth about Muslims in America. Of course, it's all to easy for haters to ignore the truth, isn't it? Haters have been ignoring the truth for a long, long time.

I love the country in which I was raised, a place in which different people have the right to be different--even if it requires struggle to gain and maintain that right.

The struggle is our greatest strength; the struggle keeps us honest.

I'm not sure where Mr. Caton lives, but it's not my America. If I had any advertising dollars, I'd call TLC right now and ask for an ad spot.

Joe R. Lansdale, Master Storyteller

2011-12-12T10:20:00.002-06:00

I haven't stayed up late to finish a book in a few years. Having children cuts down one's desire to be groggy the next day. They're always on, and a parent isn't really allowed a day off.

Joe R. Lansdale weaves stories I would cringe to write (and give my left pinkie, to boot). The cringe comes from his subject matter--he doesn't shy away from awful race relations, lynchings, and rape. But damn, can this man write. My Saturday night became Sunday morning, but I had to finish The Bottoms.

The Bottoms (2000) is beautiful and thrilling, and a fine companion for an older audience looking for a read in the vein of To Kill a Mockingbird.The subject matter is challenging, but realistic, and man... Mr. Lansdale keeps the pages turning.

Dreadfully Yours

2011-12-11T07:00:00.001-06:00

Introducing the Abominable Gentlemen:

And by "Abominable" I mean "Awesome".

Penny Dreadnought, an ongoing digital pulp, ispublished by and features stories from the Abominable Gentlemen:

James Everington

Alan Ryker

Iain Rowan

and me

In this first issue, Introducing Penny Dreadnought, Insidious Indoctrination Engine of theAbominable Gentlemen, we put forth some of our best stories. Later issues will have various, dark themes and feature new material.

Exciting?

Dreadfully so.

And a steal at $0.99:

Amazon (US)

Amazon (UK)

Smashwords

Fleecing the Flock

2011-12-09T08:28:00.001-06:00

There has been much ado about nothing regarding Amazon's new KDP select program. Some authors/publishers/etc. have cried foul, saying Amazon's practices are tantamount to a monopoly.

Pu-lease. They're asking for a minimum of 90 days exclusivity for a few promotional benefits. Don't like it? Don't sign up. I don't know that I've ever signed a short story contract for less than 90 days exclusivity, and several of those were for token-paying markets.

But--and here's the fleecing--Kindle Nation Daily is offering a "Free Book Highlighing" Service to "Help Indie Authors Get the Word Out About New Free Book Listings!"

You see, KDP will now allow an author to list his/her book for free for up to five days within the 90 day period. For the low (cough, cough) cost of $25.99 a day, Kindle Nation Daily will highlight the book for you. Go on. Read the fine print.

I know how I feel about this. Your thoughts?

The Editing Ninja: Whose versus Who's

2011-12-08T08:20:00.001-06:00

The apostrophe causes problems with these two homophones.

Whose is apossessive pronoun.

Incorrect: Who’scar is this?

Correct: Whosecar is this?

Who’s is thecontraction of who and is. Again, the apostrophe (like withit’s) indicates the omission of a letter.

Incorrect: Whoseon first using who’s glove?

Correct: Who’s onfirst using whose glove?

Simple, right? And now you can steal from the Editing Ninja's arsenal in one handy digital package:

(Isn't he cute?)

Temper Tantrums

2011-12-06T12:16:00.001-06:00

Temper tantrums... Who said they were limited to children. Read the comments on any contraversial blog, and you'll quickly see my point.

With the impending birth of our third child, this NPR story about tantrums really caught my attention.

The most important lesson: when a child is angry, do nothing.

This works for internet trolls, too. Don't respond to the negative comments, and magic happens.

Food for thought.

Sample Sunday: From Vengeful Spirits

2011-12-04T07:29:00.001-06:00

From Chapter 6 of Vengeful Spirits (now discounted at Amazon and Smashwords):

“Thankyou,” Phoebe said to the librarian. The floor cried out and the old man shifted in his chair asshe turned to the foyer and heavy set of stairs which led to the second floor.To her surprise, the wide staircase didn’t make a sound as she climbed. Therail, darkly stained wood, was cold and smooth in her hand. She rounded thelanding, and saw the second floor was dark.

It’sjust a library.

Shelowered her head and forced legs up the final steps. A small, handwritten signread “please turn off lights as you leave” with a switch beneath it. Phoebehappily flicked the switch, and the room sparked to life. The floor planmimicked the level below, with racks of books visible inside a room labeled“Non-fiction” to her left and another room labeled “Reference” to the right.She moved toward the right, surprised at the eerie silence of the carpetedfloors. So silent she imagined even the books were listening for the slightestsound, waiting to fall from the shelves and crush her.

Tallwindows decorated the walls of the reference room, and Phoebe quickly found theshelves of bound newspapers. They were large books, as wide and tall as thepaper and at least three or four inches thick. Five volumes all together, eachmarked with dates on the spine.

“Okay,Phoebe, where to start,” she whispered to herself. She pulled out the volumewith 1918-1935 on the spine, deciding to start with the train. If what her brothersaid was true, she’d need a paper from 1928. The heavy book echoed in the emptyroom as she dropped it on the table top. Inside, the pages were obviousreproductions made on glossy, heavyweight paper.

Thefirst headline, Doughboys Stop Hun in Belleau Wood, showed pictures of fourlocal men in uniform along with a map of France. Phoebe’s fingers slid over theslick pages, turning them gently, one at a time. Some jumped weeks, others onlydays. The paper must have been published on an irregular schedule. She passedArmistice Day, various business announcements in the early twenties, electionresults, and finally, on April 30, 1928, the headline she’d been looking for:

TragedyStrikes on Rail: 78 Confirmed Dead

Thereproduction, like most of the other pages, was of poor quality. Many of thewords were nearly unreadable because of smudges or age. Phoebe was able todecode enough to learn the train wrecked just west of town while crossing asteel deck girder bridge over the Republic River. The engine had skipped thetracks traveling at approximately 35 miles per hour, and dragged all cars andpassengers over the edge.

Subsequentpages showed grainy, black and white photos of the rescue efforts. The finaldeath toll for the tragedy stopped at eighty-one.

Asigh escaped Phoebe’s lips, long and raspy like a midnight breeze. She hadn’trealized she’d been holding her breath until so much of it came at once.Eighty-one people died in a train wreck outside a small town in Kansas. Twoparents die on an icy road in Illinois. Phoebe’s blood became frozen mud. Sheclosed her eyes, and tried to remember her mother’s face.

Shecouldn’t.

Anoise sounded across the second floor—a thump, the sound of a book falling froma shelf onto the carpeted floor. Phoebe pressed her fingers against thetabletop until the blood drained away and they were as white and cold as newsnow.

“Hello?”

Thebuilding answered with a quiet, settling creak. Outside, the sun had begun toset, and the room, with its bright fluorescent lights, was now brighter thanthe sky. How long had she been in there?

Shereturned the 1918-1935 book to the shelf, and drew out 1936-1948. Another heavyvolume, this one largely filled with the last years of the Great Depression andWorld War II. Nothing about a school fire.

Itwas a picture in the next volume, 1949-1965, which caused the icy fingers ofterror to encircle Phoebe’s heart—not the picture exactly, but the captionbeneath. The photo was of a young woman, Lucy Hardaway, fifteen. The captionread:

TheStrangler Takes Another Victim

Phoebecovered her mouth and stifled a gasp. She scanned the date under the newspaperflag: September 21, 1957. Another victim? Her fingers worked the pages inreverse order, checking each until 1955. She found nothing about a firstvictim. Maybe an accident. An omission. Maybe the police hadn’t known or thepaper didn’t report it—

Anothersound from across the way.

Phoebefelt for her bag under the table. She thought of calling EG, telling him tocome pick her up, now. She would run down the stairs, leaving the 1949-1965book open on the table, open to the picture of Lucy Hardaway, a pretty girl inblack and white with dark curls, glasses, and thick eyebrows. She could…

No.

Sheturned past Lucy’s picture, hunting for another mention of the Strangler. Amorbid curiosity took over Phoebe’s fingers. She flipped the next few pages,working against the fear which clutched her heart and threatened to crush herlungs. Cars passed on the street below, making strange shapes on the walls withtheir headlights. She flinched at every, tiny sound.

January4, 1958. Another girl, Joan Carpenter, dead of the Strangler, only now, thereporters had begun to call him—of course they assumed he was male—the SpringdaleStrangler. There was mention of another girl in the article, evidently thefirst victim, a young woman who lived in the rural area surrounding town.Evelyn Jones died six months before poor Lucy, but the police only made theconnection after the second death.

Withfevered intensity, Phoebe continued her hunt. The police searched for theStrangler. He’d gone silent until 1961. The girl’s name was Emma Lee. She haddark hair, limp and long, her face was long, too. High cheekbones. Phoebecouldn’t help but think she’d seen the face before, somewhere. She went missingin June of ’61, and the police feared the worst. The FBI became involved.

Sheflipped pages, skipping anything which didn’t mention the Strangler.

July1, 1961, the FBI and Spring County Sheriff’s Department cornered a man namedNathaniel Slade in a small house on the heights overlooking the RepublicanRiver. After an eight hour standoff, the law enforcement moved in, shootingSlade dead. He was unarmed.

Theynever found Emma’s body.

Grab a copy for Kindle or other e-reading devices for only $0.99 and find out what happened to poor Emma.

We have a Winner! (and More Elective Surgery)

2011-12-03T06:39:00.001-06:00

Fred, the envelope please...

Mary Rajotte is the winner of my 50/50 split of In the Memory House profits for November, thus continuing a fine tradition of Canadians winning my contests. Congrats, Mary. I'll be in touch to share the bounty.

Which might (or might not, who knows?) have been a bigger bounty had I started with this:

Instead of In the Memory House. Sometimes I need a little more market research. I tend to be too much of a gut guy. You see, In the Memory House is also the title of Howard Mansfield's book of essays about New England culture and history.

Yeah. Not my book at all. Mine features a living house which tries to make friends by killing people. Think of it as a house with Asperger's on steroids.

So maybe Echoes of the Dead has a little more zip. The word "Dead" lands hard, at least. It does deliver the message directly, and I've found that is a key piece of marketing any book. And yes, the paperback is still coming.

And then I've nixed Smoke and replaced it with Vengeful Spirits. Again, I think the new title lands harder and sends a little more of a direct message about the book's content. I've also tweaked the cover with new font and image:

This poor puppy has been through a number of changes, originally starting as Borrowed Saints. Like I said, I'm a gut guy. My heart and mind need to arm wrestle before the next book skitters into the wild.

Congrats again, Mary. And good luck, my dear books. I will try to do you better in the future.

The Editing Ninja Assassinates Myself

2011-12-01T07:30:00.000-06:00

Okay, the pronoun myself is used and abused far too much.

Myself is NEVER used to replace I or me. Got it? It should only be used reflexively (I stabbed myself) or for emphasis (I told Mr. Polson myself).

Wrong: Myself and my son will go to the game on Saturday.

Right: My son and I will go to the game on Saturday.*

Wrong: She emailed Juan and myself.

Right: She emailed Juan and me.

*You should always mention yourself last. It pays to be humble.

WIP Wednesday: Playing Games

2011-11-30T08:33:00.001-06:00

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

2011-11-28T11:50:00.001-06:00

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

2011-11-26T07:50:00.001-06:00

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

2011-11-23T10:13:00.001-06:00

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)

2011-11-21T10:21:00.001-06:00

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)

2011-11-20T08:15:00.001-06:00

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 andoozing all over her. She hated the way the throbbing beat worked into herbrain, and how she woke the morning after a dancing with the beat stillpounding 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 bealone, not after the dreams came back. Jared had haunted her dreams for thepast week, Jared and the dead man with no blood. Even during waking hours, ifKelsey closed her eyes, the puckered-white flesh of the dead man’s gashesblinked in her memory. It haunted her more than the wreck, but Jared’sdisappearance 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 everbeen.

Even though she hated it, the club banished demons better than graduatestudies ever had—much better than Human Lifespan Development or Principles ofTesting and Measurement. A PhD in psychology seemed rather meaningless afterwhat happened in the house. The world felt rather purposeless after Jaredvanished without a trace.

“Hey, Kels? Where are you?” Brit asked. She’d been Kelsey’s friendsince high school and still wore her dark hair past shoulder length. Kelsey hadalways thought of Brit—short for Brittany—as pretty, but in a vaguely EasternEuropean 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 thetable. “This isn’t the time for thinking. It’s the time for drinking andgetting stupid.”

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

“Chill out. It’s a Midori Sour. Tastes like a Jolly Rancher but numbsthe worry center.” Brit’s forefinger tapped her temple. “You’ve got way toomuch on your brain, sweetie. I don’t know why you’d want to stuff your prettylittle 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’ssecret thoughts. At least Kelsey felt she was. They’d been friends for a longtime, true, but Brit hadn’t gone on the ski trip. Brit hadn’t clutched the doorhandle in Johnny’s SUV while the vehicle spun out of control and landed in aditch. She hadn’t felt the brutal, numbing cold from the snow, the endlesswhite blanket which plagued them to the porch, which forced them inside. Shewasn’t the one to find the dead man, wrists splayed open in his bathtub. Shedidn’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 lipsand took a drink. The alcohol was cool and sweet and sour as it washed over hertongue. It warmed her chest as it slid down her throat. Maybe she didneed to loosen up and get, as Brit so eloquently said, stupid. Maybe sheneeded to bury the past and try and forget Jared, forget the house, and forgetthe dead man. Just dreams… Dreams and bad memories. She closed her eyes andtook 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 flashinglights. Throbbing music—a pop tune with relentless, pounding beat—swayedarms and legs in unison. Kelsey followed Brit to an empty corner, and bothjoined the frenzy. Kelsey’s eyes roved the crowd. Even at twenty-seven, she wastoward the upper age limit at Tremors. Some faces looked like children—a fewmight have been students from the abnormal psychology lecture for which she wasthe teaching assistant.

Three men—boys, Kelsey thought—in matching silver silk shirtsmade their way through the crowded dance floor. Each carried a plastic cup andfaux-danced so as not to spill. Sweat slicked their faces so each sparkledunder the bright, flickering lights. Kelsey watched them as she shuffled herfeet. Some malaise and inhibition sloughed from her skin as she let the beattake her body. She hated the club, but Brit was right about one thing. Sheneeded 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 thinkthey’re looking for wounded members of the herd.”

Brit laughed. “The lead is cute. Kind of. But his nose.” She scowledand 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 handsdown 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 toshake. Her blue eyes were monstrous, near Anime size, and hair in dirtyblonde ropes offered a sweet, innocent disguise. Caitlin was always happy andKelsey 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. Caitlincraned 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-emptyglass. “Pretty please.”

Brit rolled her eyes and headed for the bar.

Caitlin pulled her glass to her lips. Kelsey grabbed her forearm beforeshe 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 inthere.”

“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 glassas 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. Hisbuddies grinned at either shoulder. Up close, his nose was big,ridiculously big, and Kelsey couldn’t stifle a giggle when she remembered whatBrit suggested about boys with big noses. Big noses mean big…

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

Kelsey rolled her eyes. She let her gaze stray across the roomand 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 anythingabout his face, his sleek, angular cheekbones and firm chin. Kelsey couldalmost feel his blue eyes, even across a dim club filled with people. He wasn’tdancing, 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 tryingthat 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 onKelsey’s face. “Looks like I’m missing the party.”

Kelsey glanced at Johnny again. The dance floor lights flashed red andblue and white. “I was just leaving.” She climbed from her chair. Big Noselooked her up and down as she stood, and the two baboons at his shoulders didthe same. She hated feeling dirty when a greasy boy eyed her like a cut ofmeat. 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.” Shestarted to walk away.

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

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

Five Question Friday: Chris Blewitt

2011-11-18T08:24:00.001-06:00

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

2011-11-17T12:28:00.001-06:00

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

2011-11-15T08:32:00.001-06:00

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

2011-11-14T09:17:00.001-06:00

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

2011-11-13T09:10:00.001-06:00

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, moreaccurately, the house would have never found them. As it was, five friends stood on the concreteslab porch while wind whipped snow in small eddies around them Johnny, tall andangular in a light jacket, rapped his knuckles on the door. The two girls—Kelsey with her dark, ropeycurls tucked under an ivory stocking cap and Sarah, blonde and pale and pretty andwearing pink—huddled together against the siding. Ben, soft and thick with a lingering layer ofchildhood fat, leaned against the railing, staring across the white field.

“Nobody’s home,” Jared said. Hewasn’t wearing a proper coat. As theyscrambled from the ditch, Kelsey had looked at his grey sweatshirt and jeansand had said he would freeze. Jared, hisbrown eyes dark enough to challenge a moonless night, had smiled and said,“I’ll be fine.” On the porch, he didn’teven 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 callsnow-plows-r-us.”

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

Johnny wheeled from the door. His blue eyes sparked. His fists clenchedand unclenched. “Dipshit? I didn’t seeyou volunteer to drive. Damn SUV needsnew 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 placewould rather have a broken window than five humansicles in his field.”

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

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

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

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

“I dunno. Seems like it shouldwork. They do it in all those old crustymovies J-rod watches.”

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

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

Johnny stretched to his full six foot, two inch height, placed one handon 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 theknob and twisted. The door held for a moment, but then gave with a pop andcreak. “I see what you mean cold. But here we are, folks. No broken windows, no picked locks, no frozentwenty-two-year-olds on the porch. Itwasn’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 warmair, 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 andsterile and clean, without the expected hint of dust and mold which an olderhouse 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 becauseit’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 throughthe foyer, past the dark wooden staircase and matching banister, and turnedright into what appeared to be a living room. A couch and two matched chairs were arranged on an ornate rug, the couchin the middle with the chairs facing each other on either side. Each was linedwith deep red upholstery. The rug and furniture shared a subtle paisleypattern, and in the dim light appeared to be an even darker red design on theburgundy 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 simplebrass 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 thecouch and plopped in a seat. He crossedhis boots on one armrest. “Farm Bob has some wickedly Victorian taste infurniture.”

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

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

Kelsey backed toward the door. “I don’t like it in here. I don’t likethis 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 aline 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 theboots. “I think I’ll go with you guys. Ben? Jared?”

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

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

Johnny joined her at the side of the table. “Farmer Bob sure keeps thisplace clean, doesn’t he? Kind of a funnyhouse—not as big on the inside as I expected. I guess it does have the thirdfloor windows. Maybe somebody bound andgagged—”

“Stop it, Johnny. You’restarting 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 ifhe could go. What was I going to say?”

“No.” Johnny smiled. “Fifthwheel and all.”

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

Kelsey’s chest tightened. For amoment, 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 whenI was a little girl. It’s nothingreally. Just a little adrenaline from the wreck. I’m just feeling a little shaken.” She didn’twant to mention the cave, how she’d gotten lost on a tour as a girl and left inpure darkness. She didn’t want to mention how she’d just felt a twinge of thesame, all-encompassing fear.

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

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

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

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

Johnny stood in the middle of a bright kitchen with an avocado greenphone 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 anice 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 thecabinets. Yellow and white ginghamcurtains hung open revealing a blinding field of snow and small shed behind thehouse. The cabinets had been painted white with yellow highlights to match thecurtains. “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 lineswere buried out here, though.” Johnnydropped the receiver on its wall cradle. Plastic clicked against plastic. “We better get back to the others andfigure out what the hell we’re going to do.”

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

“What do you mean?” Sarah asked.

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

Johnny shrugged. “Makes sense. Butthere’s only the one entrance to the kitchen. Not to mention the screwy décorfor a house—or inn or whatever—of this age. Avocado green is so ‘70s.” Hegestured 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 andtwo 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 tobe 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 shewasn’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 allsides. She felt a tingling, hot braid of nerves climb her back and flush herface. She looked from Ben to Sarah andJohnny. The chandelier flickered, darkening the room. But it hadn’t actuallyflickered, had it? Her eyes tricked her, of course...

“Dunno,” Ben said. “I guess hejust went exploring.”

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

“Architecture. Jared’s major,Sarah. Maybe he’s been inspired by thisplace. Weren’t you just saying somethingabout the kitchen?”

Sarah glanced toward Kelsey. “That was Kels.”

Ben stood from the couch, stretching for the ceiling. “How big do youthink this place is, anyway? I mean,from the outside, it looked massive. Like an old castle even, all thatlimestone 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 herlungs. She leaned against a wall, trying to steady her wobbly nerves. Jared’sgone, and he won’t be coming back. She shook her head, trying to dislodge theunwelcome 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 takeupstairs 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 towhiten. “Just bad vibes about thisplace.” He peeled his hand away from therail 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’tknow. 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 hermouth and sprinkled her with a wave of chills.

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

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

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll go with you Benny-boy.” She glaredat 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 Sarahfor a moment, a long moment in which the chill left her and she began thinkingabout Johnny—his broad shoulders and lean, stone-chiseled face. Was it wrong to hope Johnny might comearound, might choose her? He’d broken upwith Sarah two months ago, making the ski trip awkward—a reason, even a smallone—to be thankful for Ben being the fifth wheel. Still, she had hoped Jared and Sarah mighthit it off, couple up, and leave Johnny for her. She looked up, caught Johnny’s eyes, and felta warm rush in her cheeks.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t go all feminista on me.” Johnny shrugged. “We don’t even knowwho lives here—hell, Farmer Bob could be asleep upstairs. Maybe he’s an ax murderer. This damn housemust be at least four or five thousand square feet. Three stories and abasement 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 adraft. If anything the room was dead. “Maybe it’s the jitters after theaccident, but I don’t like this place.”

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

She hesitated, her breath catching in her throat, and then took hishand. The skin was cool and ruff, not warm like she’d expected. Maybe it wasthe 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’sscream. Kelsey didn’t think again until she was, following Johnny, halfway upthe stairs. They rounded the landing, hurtled the final flight, spilling intothe darkened second story hallway. Dim,yellowish light filtered from a window at one end. Down the other direction, ablack figure waved.

“Down here!” Ben called.

Kelsey’s eyes adjusted to the darkened hallway, but she couldn’t seeSarah. 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 intothe hallway. Johnny stepped through the doorway to which Ben had beenpointing. He wheeled and tried to grabKelsey, but too late.

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

A man lay in a half-filled bathtub. His near-white hair clung close tohis 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 staredat them, almost as though he’d been watching the door when he died. Almost asthough he’d been waiting for them. In his left hand, draped as it was over the tub’sedge, he held a knife, the folding type which held utility blades used inconstruction. Thick gashes marred bothwrists, a disordered criss-crossing of cuts. His right arm stretched along thefar 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 againsthis 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 voicebecame 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 singledrop. The few inches of bathwater in thetub were clear despite the old man being fully clothed. The linoleum floor reflected a small, sunnypatch from the window but was otherwise unmarred.

“No blood at all.”

Happy Birthday, Aimee

2011-11-11T08:56:00.001-06:00

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

WIP Wednesday: Stranger in a Strange Land

2011-11-09T08:33:00.003-06:00

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...

2011-11-08T09:45:00.002-06:00

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

2011-11-07T08:41:00.002-06:00

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

2011-11-04T08:27:00.002-05:00

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

2011-11-02T08:29:00.000-05:00

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

2011-11-01T11:04:00.002-05:00

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:

Halloween Spooks

2011-10-31T08:29:00.001-05:00

Halloween completes the triumvirate of my favorite holidays. Along with Christmas (keeping messy theology out of the mix, there are plenty of presents for everyone) and Independence Day (when I make things explode), this is the good stuff. Ghosts, spooky stories, butchered pumpkins... Ah, yes. Don't forget: Today is the last day to enter my October contest.

And fun reading material--

Editor K.V. Taylor of The Red Penny Papers is kind of enough to publish my second Sons of Chaos serial novella. Head over and read part 1 of The Sons of Chaos and the Desert Dead. Nothing like a good evisceration on Halloween. It's going to get weird.

(Can you believe jack-o'-lanterns used to be made from turnips? Turnips!)

Say Hello to My Little Friend

2011-10-28T08:31:00.000-05:00

My Kindle helps me edit.

It's an idea I've borrowed (er, stolen) from Alan Ryker. Throw your manuscript on Kindle (don't worry about formatting--any old mobi will do), and then turn on text to speech. What a bonus. Seriously. I've found many areas I want to fix only after hearing "someone else" read my book.

One funny little bit--the robo-voice pauses longer for commas than periods. It makes for strange phrasing at times. Not to mention the humor of hearing an expressionless voice say phrases such as:

"...we can't call snow-plows-r-us..." or "We'd be fine if dipshit hadn't landed us in the ditch."

Need a mobi? Save your manuscript as a filtered web page (from the drop down menu) and convert with Calibre. I like to follow along on-screen as the robo-voice reads.

What does all this mean for you, dear readers? In the Memory House is that much closer...

Coffin Hop: Mastering Suspense

2011-10-27T08:21:00.002-05:00

Alfred Hitchcock earned many names in his time as a filmmaker, including The Master of Suspense.

Suspense is vital to most writing--every story depends on at least a little emotional tension or there is no story. (Thumb your nose, guardians of the avant-garde.) Horror, thriller, and mystery fiction relies on suspense.

I showed my classes this wonderful clip from The Birds. While Rear Window, North by Northwest, and Psycho may have been better films from start to finish, this snippet reveals Hitchcock's masterful touch (and is pretty damn creepy, as well).

Suspense is all about waiting. You know something bad is going to happen, but the master makes you wait for it.

WIP Wednesday: The Best Little Editing Book (Ever?)

2011-10-26T10:06:00.000-05:00

I'm going through In the Memory House and purging unnecessary language. Not the f-bombs, oh no. Although I've been criticized before, if my characters need to vent, they need to vent.

I'm using suggestions from the late Ken Rand's book, The 10% Solution, to cull unnecessary words from the book.

The ctrl+F (find) feature is a writer's best friend. I've already made an adverb pass (searching for "ly"). I'm currently limiting "of"'s appearances. (I almost wrote "appearances of of"--see how it works?)

What editing tricks do you use to prepare your manuscripts?

Coffin Hop Day Two: Ghost Floats (and a new story)

2011-10-25T07:00:00.000-05:00

Head over to Every Day Fiction to read "The Long Walk to Never" today. As always, comments and ratings are appreciated.

Here's another blast from the past, Coffin Hoppers: Ghost Floats, a fun drink with a spooky pedigree. I offer it word for word as it was in the original text, The Little Witch's Black Magic Cookbook by Linda Glovach.

20 minutes / 2 servings

You'll need a blender, measuring spoon, measuring cup, and glasses.

Ingredients:

1 cup prepared powdered milk (fresh milk won't work)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup diet soda

Ask your mother to get the blender out of the cupboard.

Put the milk and the vanilla in the blender. Slowly add the soda.

Blend at medium speed for two minutes. Pour into two glasses and put them in the freezer for ten minutes.

When you take the drink out of the freezer you will see the ghosts floating on top. This is a great drink fro mother witches on diets because it has only 57 calories*. And the little witches who are not on a diet can use regular soda.

*Yeah, I know. WTF? But the book was published in 1972. A whole helluva lot of witches were on diets back then. Or something like that.

Do you remember any recipes or special Halloween treats from your childhood?

Coffin Hop Kick Off: Halloween Past

2011-10-24T06:40:00.000-05:00

I'm excited about this week's Coffin Hop. Head over to the main site for a massive pile of other sites to visit. As many of you know, I'm running a contest for October, and all Coffin Hoppers are elligible to enter.

Today's challenge, ghouls and ghosties, is to name the band for which the artist who recorded the following song is most famous:

I know all it will take is a little poking around on the interweb, but hey, that's the beauty of the 21st century. I listened to the vinyl version of this song (and accomanying story) about a million times when I was a kid. Feed me, Seymour--and look what happened.

So you can enter by sending an email to aaron.polson(at)gmail.com with the subject line "coffin hop". All those who submit correct answers will also be eligible for an electronic ARC of In the Memory House, my forthcoming not-exactly-haunted house novel.

Happy hopping!

Sample Sunday: from Darker Matter

2011-10-23T07:49:00.003-05:00

from "Penance" a previously unpublished short story included in Darker Matter:

During Brother John’s final round through rows of sleeping flock, he found prisoner AA23 dead in his stasis tube. John pressed his palm to the canopy, flinching slightly at the cold, smooth surface, and uttered the last rites. His gaze swept over the rest of the flock, assured of their relative peace. Twenty-five blinking green dots responded in broken rhythm.

Another death. Three inside of a month. Five all together. Something must be wrong with the chambers—but no malfunctions of this magnitude had ever been recorded. Not while the Order operated the penance ships. John fumbled with his thick robes, drawing them close about his throat. The tips of his fingers found the com-link. His mouth dried. He moved his tongue around, trying to find courage and words. Maybe half an hour left on his meditation. Glass tubes stared back at him, tubes offering the ghost image of their human occupants. The hold of the Corpus Christi frightened him. So big. So empty and cold save for the sleeping murderers and rapists locked away for their penitent flight.
He pressed the black com button, and the device crackled in response.

“Yes. What is it Brother John?”

“Brother Matthew,” he said. “We've lost another.”

My little e-book of dark "science fantasy" is now available for Kindle. A Smashwords edition is coming soon, I promise. Buy the Kindle edition of Darker Matter for only $0.99.

Hosting a Halloween Drive-In: Top 10 Public Domain Horror Films

2011-10-22T15:11:00.000-05:00

It's more of a "sit in" because we host in our backyard. Tonight, we're watching It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown and risking a wrist slapping from the copyright police (since we have no permission to display the movie to the "public"*--shhhhh).

If you want to host a drive-in, you'd be safer (and more legal) showing some of these horror goodies from the public domain vault (at least I think these are all in the public domain). All text is from IMDB.

You can also stumble over to www.horrortheque.com for a whole browser window full of free horror goodies. Tis the season!

10. Dementia 13 1963, Francis Ford Coppolla

John Haloran has a fatal heart attack, but his wife Louise won’t get any of the inheritance when Lady Haloran dies if John is dead. Louise forges a letter from John to convince the rest of his family he’s been called to New York on important business, and goes to his Irish ancestral home, Castle Haloran, to meet the family and look for a way to ensure a cut of the loot. Seven years earlier John’s sister Kathleen was drowned in the pond, and the Halorans enact a morbid ritual in remembrance. Secrets shroud the sister’s demise, and soon the family and guests begin experiencing an attrition problem.

9. Phantom of the Opera 1925, Rupert Julian

At the Opera of Paris, a mysterious phantom threatens a famous lyric singer, Carlotta and thus forces her to give up her role (Marguerite in Faust) for unknown Christine Daae. Christine meets this phantom (a masked man) in the catacombs, where he lives. What’s his goal? What’s his secret?

8. The Last Man on Earth 1964, Ubaldo Ragona

Dr. Robert Morgan (Vincent Price) is the only survivor of a devastating world-wide plague due to a mysterious immunity he acquired to the bacterium while working in Central America years ago. He is all alone now…or so it seems. As night falls, plague victims begin to leave their graves, part of a hellish undead army that’s thirsting for blood…his!

7. The House on Haunted Hill 1959, William Castle

Millionaire playboy Fredrick Loren hosts a party for his 4th wife Annabelle Loren at the “House On Haunted Hill,” a house that has seen seven murders, Fredrick invites 5 guests: Lance Schroeder,a pilot, Ruth Bridges, a journalist, Watson Prichard, the owner of The House On Haunted Hill, Nora Manning, a worker for one of Fredrick Loren’s companies, and David Trent, a psychiatrist. Fredrick will offer each of them $10,000 to spend a night in The House On Haunted Hill. They all want the money. At midnight, the caretakers lock to doors, and the terror begins!

6. Dr Jeckyll and Mr Hyde 1920, John Robertson

Based on the story by Robert Louis Stevenson, Dr. Henry Jekyll believes that there are two distinct sides to men – a good and an evil side. He believes that by separating the two men can become liberated. He succeeds in his experiments with chemicals to accomplish this and transforms into Hyde to commit horrendous crimes.

5. The Cabinet of Dr Caligari 1919, Robert Wiene

A horror film that surpasses all others. Alan relates the story of traveling magician Dr Caligari and Cesare. Their arrival in a town coincides with savage killings. Secretly Caligari was an asylum director who hypnotizes Cesare to re enact murders. But the final reel contains something, which will leave an audience shattered. It blows away all your moral certainties and beliefs. This is the true power of its horror. To leave you vulnerable and uncertain of what you feel was secure and certain.

4. The Most Dangerous Game 1932, Irving Pichel & Ernest B. Schoedsack

An insane hunter arranges for a ship to be wrecked on an island where he can indulge in some sort of hunting and killing of the passengers.

3. Nosferatu 1922, F Murnau

An unauthorized production of Bram Stoker’s work (The legal heirs didn’t give their permission), so the names had to be changed. But this wasn’t enough: The widow of Bram Stoker won two lawsuits (1924 and 1929) in which she demanded the destruction of all copies of the movie, however happily copies of it were already too widespread to destroy them all. Later, the Universal studios could break her resistance against this movie. Count Orlok’s move to Wisburg (Obviously the real “Wismar”) brings the plague traceable to his dealings with the Realtor Thomas Hutter, and the Count’s obsession with Hutter’s wife, Ellen the only one with the power to end the evil.

2. Night of the Living Dead 1968, George Romero

The dead come back to life and eat the living in this low budget, black and white film. Several people barricade themselves inside a rural house in an attempt to survive the night. Outside are hordes of relentless, shambling zombies who can only be killed by a blow to the head.

1. M 1931, Fritz Lang

A psychotic child murderer stalks a city, and despite an exhaustive investigation fueled by public hysteria and outcry, the police have been unable to find him. But the police crackdown does have one side-affect, it makes it nearly impossible for the organized criminal underground to operate. So they decide that the only way to get the police off their backs is to catch the murderer themselves. Besides, he is giving them a bad name.

*The public being our family and a few friends.

Coming Soon...

2011-10-20T18:16:00.000-05:00

Sunday.

WIP Wednesday: Always Seeking Feedback

2011-10-19T13:11:00.000-05:00

Writers should always be on the search for feedback.By feedback, I'm not speaking of reviews, per se, but actual critiques of one's work. This is one way in which a writer improves his/her craft.

Sometimes reviews offer helpful critique; sometimes they're drivel. Not all reviews are created equal, regardless of what I've written in the past. Sometimes they come from unexpected corners. Take this snippet from a review at an Elftown wiki:

It's hard to tell if the main character, Aaron (yeah, same name as the author) is hallucinating the paranormal events (seeing dead bodies in the dumpster at work, thinking he sees the old man they killed lurking in all corners), or if there is something truly amiss, which is one of the things I rather like about the story. It's a horror story, but you don't really realize how horrific it is until the end.

Thanks, Ixel, whoever you are. I appreciate every reader.

Every time I tell my wife I've received a new review, she asks "Who is (insert reviewer or review publication here)?" Good question. I usually can't answer--even when a review is published at a "professional" site.

So why is it authors hang on reviewer's words? Why is it we seek feedback, and keep seeking even when we are disappointed by the quality/quantity/content?

What does this have to do with my WIP? I'm juggling how to go about landing critiques for In the Memory House before loosing it on the world. I'm wondering if I should or let readers be my guides...

"Loaners" published at Lovecraft eZine

2011-10-18T08:31:00.000-05:00

It's been a while since I've been able to direct my dear readers to a free read online. Just in time for the haunted season, you can read my short story, "Loaners" at Lovecraft eZine.

I should mention our dear main character uses the f-word (and even thinks it). Just in case you thought a story posted at an ezine dedicated to H.P. Lovecraft was going to be all clean and wholesome.Just in case.

Anyway, thanks to editor Mike Davis for publishing the piece.

Have a wonderfully macabre day.

My Son, the Writer of Weird Fiction

2011-10-17T08:41:00.002-05:00

The Great Minds Think Aloud Book Club has a little interview with yours truly about Halloween, the favorite holiday of this horror writer. Hop on over and check it out.

Owen entered his first writing contest today. His story was... interesting. Think classic Weird Tales thrown into a blender. A troop of baboons then rearranged the scraps of paper. My favorite bit:

I tried to open my eyes again. I couldn’t. So I decided to get them open with razors. I cut slits in my eyes so I could see. Though it hurt, it didn’t really matter. I needed eyes. That was what my grandma said.

The moral? Always listen to Grandma. (I have no clue where he came up with this razor idea. No clue.)

Have a wonderful Monday.

WIP Wednesday: The Insidiousness of Memory

2011-10-12T10:25:00.001-05:00

I'm making some revisions to In the Memory House, and as my intrepid protagonist finds her room, I realize my own memories have spilled onto the page. Have you ever read "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman? You should. (It's rather creepy.)

I covered poor Kelsey's (the protag) room in yellow wallpaper.

The walls were hung with wallpaper—not a plain yellow, either. Upon closer inspection, she noted a subtle pattern of darker vertical lines, but the lines were made of a tiny, repeated shape. The shape reminded Kelsey of corn cobs. She was in the corn-cob room. Absurd. Her fingers touched the wall and found a slight texture, small bumps where the shapes rose from floor to ceiling.

And as another character says:

“Yellow. Yech. It’s a rather mustardy shade, don’t you think?”

So there it is--my subconscious giving me details for a spooky room in a spookier house. Thanks Fred.

Have ever accidentally dropped details into a story from fragments of memory?

What Kolchak The Night Stalker Taught Me About Story Telling

2011-10-10T08:34:00.000-05:00

I had the opportunity to dust off my Kolchak: The Night Stalker DVDs this weekend. What a marvelous bit of macabre TV history.

A storyteller (e.g., writer) can learn much from Kolchak. For example:

Suspense is your friend. Make the audience wait. Kolchak slowly uncovers the truth, piecing the story together with the audience. Brilliant.
Don't show your hand too soon, or hide the monster's face for the first half of the story.
Build a story around a character and setting which works. Kolchak (the series) is set in Chicago--a big enough place for plenty of people to be murdered, and Kolchak (the character) is a freelance news reporter (which gives him latitude to investigate those murders).
Tension between characters drives the plot.Was there any police captain in Chicago Kolchak didn't lead to a heart attack with his intrepid (if not annoying) questioning?
Take a trip to the underworld: The final 5-10 minutes of each episode usually involved Kolchak going to the monster's lair and looking for him/it/her. Some of the spookiest sh*t on TV.
Give your protagonist some quirks. Kolchak was never known as a snappy dresser... (What's with the hat?)
Most importantly, don't be a one trick pony. Kolchak is a great show, but only survived one season. I'm guessing it was cancelled because, quite frankly, every episode was the same. Watch them in a row and you'll get the pattern.

What have you learned about storytelling (or writing) from your favorite television programs?

Items Found Above the Bathroom Ceiling in Room 215, Best Western North, Wichita Kansas

2011-10-08T21:54:00.000-05:00

1. Areceipt from Wal-Mart, smudged and illegible except for the date, 5/6/11, andthe word “bakery”

2. Twocondoms, without wrappers, dry

3. Arazor blade, two-sided, rusted with a dark brown crust on one side

4. Aplastic bag, quart size Ziploc, containing $5,000 in small bills (20s, 10s,5s), bound with a rubber band

5. Threeempty syringes, 100 cc, plastic tube with stainless steel needles, empty

6. Onehuman finger (presumably female), severed from the 1st metacarpo-phalangeal joint,wrapped in plastic, fingernail painted (chipped) with candy apple red

7. Oneworn copy of Stephen King’s Night Shift,paperback, 1979, with several pages missing (123-167)

(a work of fiction, FYI)

Friday Featured Read: Don't Fear the Reaper by Michelle Muto

2011-10-07T10:55:00.000-05:00

Grief-stricken by the murder of her twin, Keely Morrison is convinced suicide is her ticket to eternal peace and a chance to reunite with her sister. When Keely succeeds in taking her own life, she discovers death isn’t at all what she expected. Instead, she’s trapped in a netherworld on Earth and her only hope for reconnecting with her sister and navigating the afterlife is a bounty-hunting reaper and a sardonic, possibly unscrupulous, demon. But when the demon offers Keely her greatest temptation—revenge on her sister's murderer—she must uncover his motives and determine who she can trust. Because, as Keely soon learns, both reaper and demon are keeping secrets and she fears the worst is true—that her every decision will change how, and with whom, she spends eternity.

Links:

Name That Tombstone

2011-10-06T08:35:00.002-05:00

I posted this picture on Monday--blank tombstones made of 1/4 plywood sub-flooring.

We need some suggestions for names; so far, we have:

Owen Moore than he could pay

Max D. Out

(both named after my kids--macabre much?)

...and something about a zombie.

Three ideas, but five tombstones. Any suggestions?

WIP Wednesday: It's a Business

2011-10-05T08:41:00.000-05:00

This year, I'm going to pay income tax on my writing earnings for the first time in my life. Taxes are scary.

This means several things:

I've made enough income from a single source that the IRS will come find me if I don't.
I can legitimately "write off" the home office as a business expense.
I need to start running my affairs as a business.

So what, exactly, does #3 entail?

When I started writing, I wasn't sure what, exactly, I was doing. My prose lacked and my business skills were none-existent. I've improved (a little) on the writing front. The only sure way to write better is to write more.

But this business thing?

Discussing money is a rather taboo subject, but money is at the core of a business. Last month, between formatting jobs, e-book sales, short story payments, and royalties from my publishers, I added over $500 to the family coffer. I'd be thrilled if I could do this on a consistent basis, but most of these "revenue sources" are variable.

And variable is scary.

I want my wife to be able to work part-time (she wants it, too). She can bring home about half of her current salary working part-time as a therapist (counselor). If I can crank my earnings from the writing/formatting "business" to about a grand a month, we can make it work. I'm heading that direction. But her counseling business is variable, and so is the writing.

And variable is scary.

I've been writing longer than I have treated it as a business. Businesses have plans. I need a plan.

My heart wants to write another book right now. My business manager tells me to get to work revising and editing In the Memory House so I can make a release date in December. Heart and business manager need to compromise.

Or maybe I need a new business manager, because I'm keeping my heart.

In the Memory House: Canned

2011-10-04T08:39:00.000-05:00

And by "canned" I mean the first draft of In the Memory House is DONE.

Whew.

It's a slim book at only 60K, but those words came with a price: months of writing and rewriting and several characters who will never be the same.

Some may have even been harmed in the drafting of this book. *sad face*

On to a short story I've been itching to write, and then edits and the next book and the next and the next...

Happy writing.

The October Contest

2011-10-03T07:30:00.000-05:00

This is the greatest month of the year. Not only does the end of October bring Halloween, but the horror movie marathons fill cable channels, the leaves do their annual color-change magic (around here, at least), I convert leftover sub-flooring into tombstones for the yard (above), and I can hold a ridiculous contest.

Ridiculous as in awesome.

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.

So how do you enter?

Every time you do the following, you receive "points" (points like tickets in a raffle):

1. Comment on my blog anytime during October. 1 point

2. Tweet about the contest (include my Twitter handle: @aaronpolson) 2 points

3. Tweet about any of my books (include my Twitter handle: @aaronpolson) 2 points

4. Write a review of any of my books at Amazon, Goodreads, or Smashwords; better yet, post the same review at all three. 5 points each (15 to post at all three...whoot)

5. Buy a book. You'll have to let me know at aaron.polson(at)gmail.com. 5 points

To facilitate #5 (and celebrate October), I've lowered the price on all my self/indie published books to 99 cents at Amazon.com for the next week. Get 'em while they're hot.

The contest ends on October 31st at midnight Central Standard Time; winners will be announced November 1st.

The Chilling Effect on Internet Anonymity

2011-09-29T10:34:00.003-05:00

Should individuals be allowed to use "false names" (or pseudonyms) on the internet?

This story on NPR begs the question. Big sites like Google + and Facebook say no.

From the piece:

"Part of the L.A. Times site still operates under what Orr calls the old Wild West system, where all you need to comment on a story is an email address. He says those sections have more trolls, commenters who bait each other with racism or personal attacks. The sections with Facebook logins, on the other hand, are pretty civil."

I have no love of trolls--the internet kind. (I like them in fantasy stories.) While I understand why some have the need to use false names online (just like I understand why Peter Parker wears a mask as Spider-man), in many cases the right to be anonymous is abused--e.g., trolls. Being anonymous allows individuals to be as mean and nasty as they can, which, in turn, can have a chilling effect on others who don't want to be mean and nasty. The term "chilling effect" usually refers to laws which infringe on the freedom of speech.

I think anonymous internet trolls infringe on the freedom of speech. They are bullies and cowards.

Once upon a time, newspapers required a phone number with a letter to the editor. I've had a few published in the past, and every time the paper called me to verify I was who I said I was in the letter.

Anonymous has spun out of control. I respectfully disagree with the argument that internet pseudonyms are the same as literary pseudonyms as "Gardin Winslow" suggests (in the NPR piece). (Did you find this blog via Google, Gardin? I hope you're well.) I do understand your need for anonymity and I respect your perspective. But the same?

Hardly.

Internet anonymity has become a way for people to be as awful as they want, to play with their demons in public without any sense of how those demons might stomp all over others. In the worst cases, some folks loose their demons on purpose because they like to hurt others.

Of all amendments in the United States Bill of Rights, I hold the first most dear:

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

Language is what separates humans from the rest of the animal kingdom. Excercise it.

But do so with care.

A student once wore a t-shirt with the phrase "Freedom of Fucking Speech" emblazoned across the chest.

Oh... Really? I'm glad men and women have died over the centuries for this freedom--all so you can don the F-bomb and stride into the school. Well played.

Freedom of speech is a powerful thing--and power must be used carefully. I rewired part of the basement this summer, but I didn't let the kids play with the bare wires. And you can be damn sure I flipped the breakers before I touched anything. I only needed to watch one light switch spark and melt to know the power humming through those thin copper lines. Speech carries more weight. Speech has started and ended wars, caused religions to be born and crumble...

And now, mean people abuse it so they can be royal assholes online with impunity.

Am I worried about the chilling effect of "real" names being required online?

No.

I'm more concerned with the audacity of mean people to abuse their fellows and then cry foul when someone wants to take their weapons away.

Boo-hoo.

WIP Wednesday: On Running the Marathon

2011-09-28T08:27:00.000-05:00

I've heard the metaphor "it's a marathon not a sprint" too often lately. Okay, maybe not too often--but many times. It's an appropriate one for many things in life because, after all, life is a marathon, not a sprint.

Writing a novel is a marathon. Selling short stories is a marathon (at least it takes a looooong time to develop your craft and wait for market responses). Selling a novel is even more of a marathon. Should you decide to go "indie" (or self-publish), selling books is a marathon. At least it should be--the sprints will kill you.

In a meeting yesterday, our superintendent said a school improvement process was a marathon, not a sprint. One of my colleagues freaked out: "I'm better at short distances!"

It's not the distance, dear. It's that you shouldn't blow all your energy in one, short burst. You'll need to pace yourself.

I love selling ebooks, but I'm not one to go crazy with marketing. These are the sprinters. I do a few things, here and there. The most effective being Library Thing giveaways (they'll let you give away ebooks--unlike Goodreads which requires dead-tree editions) and making books free at Smashwords. Nothing else comes close as far as impact for the amount of time involved.

And time, these days, is a very precious thing. With two very busy children and a third on the way, my life outside of school is torn in several directions. How do I find time to write? I don't know. But, like sleeping and eating, I need to write to live--at least to add quality to my life. I probably need to sleep a little more, though.

In the Memory House is almost finished. It will be a short novel at about 60K. If I was worried about querying agents, I might as well stop and forget about it. No one will touch a 60K novel. Good thing readers aren't so picky. I've really run the marathon with this book, and I hope to push to the first of many finish lines later this week.

How's your marathon going?

Flash Fiction and Me: Small Magic

2011-09-27T10:16:00.000-05:00

Here's the real truth:

I owe any writing chops I have to flash fiction. Flash fiction taught me the power of the right word at the right time. It taught me how to edit, how to cut, how to tweak to fit the most impact in the fewest number of words. Striving to "get it right" in a piece of flash did more for my writing craft than any novel, story, or blog entry I've penned over the last five years.

Quite simply, flash fiction is magic.

Anyone wishing to be a writer should--no must write a little flash.

I've collected 71 of my flash stories in one e-book*:

Stories reprinted in Small Magic represent some of my very best. Several have been reprinted in The Best of Every Day Fiction (volumes Two and Three). Several stories are award winners. Some of them will make the reader cringe, cry, or laugh. A few will do all three.

(You might notice the cover on Amazon is different... I haven't had a chance to update it yet.)

*a paperback version is in the works (stay tuned)

Flash Fiction and Me, Part 1

2011-09-26T10:15:00.001-05:00

Time for the truth: I've had a rocky relationship with flash fiction through the years.

In the beginning, I didn't think much of it. Real writers penned novels. Between novels, they wrote short stories. Less than a thousand words? Please. Less than five hundred? That's just obscene.

During one sleepless night in 2008, I decided I needed to push myself, stretch the boundaries a little. Maybe there was something to this "flash fiction" thing. Maybe I just disliked it because I wasn't any good at it.

I decided to call for submissions for a new magazine; 52 Stitches was born. Of course, during the first year, I called it Fifty-Two Stitches.

I'm not the greatest magazine editor on the planet. Some of the stories... Well let's just say I'm not sure I always picked the best from each litter.

I loved doing Stitches. I kind of miss it. I'd love to do it again, but with the impending birth of our third child--I just can't.

If you're new to this blog and haven't read any Stitches yet, most of the stories are still available online (52stitches.blogspot.com). Both years are collected in dead tree editions as well.

(2009) <p>&amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;(2010)&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;gt;</p>

(2010)

Tomorrow I'll discuss how flash fiction became one of my favorite storytelling modes. (And why every writer should practice this particular art.)

Friday Flashback: Let's Scare Jessica to Death

2011-09-23T08:41:00.001-05:00

If you've never seen Let's Scare Jessica to Death, a strange, bleak gem from 1971, it's time to give it a view.

Can you tell Halloween is coming? I'm excited.

The Big Book of New Short Horror

2011-09-22T08:23:00.000-05:00

I'm a sucker for a retro/pulpy looking cover.While the Big Book of New Short Horror might not have that "PC" vibe, it certainly screams retro. And lookie here, it's out just in time for Halloween.

My story, "Lulu Learns the Stitch," is included along with 57 (57!) other tales. You can grab the lot for your Kindle ($2.99) with paperback and hardcover options coming soon.

Thanks to editor Jessy Marie Roberts for giving "Lulu" a home.

WIP Wednesday: Head Hopping

2011-09-21T10:10:00.001-05:00

Some stories have a clear protagonist--others operate with an ensemble cast.

I'm reading Hell House by Richard Matheson for a third time.* Matheson skillfully weaves four characters into his narrative, switching scenes when hopping heads, and it never feels wrong. He's consistent within a scene, but the reader has four protagonists to follow. I like it.

I'm not playing the same kind of game with In the Memory House, but some of the minor characters have scenes of their own. Like Johnny, a twenty-something veteran of the Iraq war:

Funny—he hadn’t thought of the cabin in years. How old had he been—seventeen, eighteen—the last time Uncle Mel had them to the cabin? That was all before Mel’s prostrate cancer, the chemo, and the funeral. Years ago. Before college, the house, and Baghdad.

Jesus, not again.

Johnny rolled over, closing his eyes. He didn’t need his eyes to see the thick layer of shit-yellow dust on clothing and skin and buildings and his Humvee. Dust covered everything. He didn’t need his eyes to remember the way Ty Miller’s face looked seconds before the rigged howitzer shell ripped open the side of their Humvee and a hunk of shrapnel tore a gash in Miller’s throat. The blood came to Johnny in his sleep. He saw it pour from the tap. He even pissed blood.

He's not the "it" character through the whole book, but everyone in the cast has a moment on stage.

*Yes, I'm that guy, the one who reads a book or story over... and over... and over again.**

**Only if it's good.***

***Yes, Cate, three stars are fun.

Great Stories = Great Inspiration

2011-09-19T09:57:00.003-05:00

Thanks to Daniel Powell's recommendation, I picked up a copy of Crucified Dreams. Funny subtitle on that book... I'm not sure many of the stories qualify as Urban Horror, but that is beside the point.

The point? Some of the pieces in Crucified Dreams are "grab you by the throat" awesome. I slapped myself for never reading Harlan Ellison's amazing "The Whimper of Whipped Dogs" before. Slapped myself hard. Ellison's a little crazy (okay, a lot crazy), but he writes with passion and wit and life.I want even one-tenth of that for myself.

I woke hours before the rest of the family on Saturday, read Ellison's piece, and immediately wrote pages of handwritten notes and prose for a short story--the first time in months I felt that inspired to write a short. "The Tiger Yawns" now stands at 2,100 words and I should finish today around 3K.

Thanks Uncle Harlan. Thanks Daniel. Thanks to all the tigers locked up in the zoo. This story is for you.

They're even scary when they yawn.

Five Question Friday: Budo von Stahl

2011-09-16T06:12:00.003-05:00

Five questions with Budo von Stahl:

1. What do you think makes a good story?

Good grammar and spelling, of course; engaging characters; and I'm a sucker for good world-building/backstories.

2. What is the last book you read?

Chicks in Chainmail

3. Is the book always better than the movie?

Almost.

4. Why are manhole covers round?

Because people are square?

5. If I could read a diary of one of your characters, what would I learn about him/her?

Tillman kept a journal, and most of what I know of him and his friends came from it. (insert winking smiley here)

The Editing Ninja: Prepositional Abuse

2011-09-15T10:14:00.002-05:00

I'm always troubled when I read prose which abuses the lowly preposition.

"I turned my head up and looked at her."

"I ended up looking at my feet."

"He stared the other man down."

Prepositions (most of them) require the presence of an object (noun or pronoun) to make a complete prepositional phrase in standard usage. As a phrase, they may function as nouns, adjectives, or adverbs--the preposition itself denotes temporal, spatial, or logical relationship (e.g., it shows where the object "is" in space or time).

In sentence one, there is no object. A reader asks herself, "Up where?"

A suggested revision: "I turned and looked at her." Less words (usually) = better sentence.

In sentence two... Well, let's just say it doesn't work.

A suggested revision: "In the end, I looked at my feet." Or "I eventually looked at my feet."

While we use the phrase "stare down" in common language, it bothers me. I still want to ask myself, "Down where?"

A suggested revision: "He stared at the other man." Or "He stared until the other man flinched."

Please take care of your prepositions. They're like delicate flowers.

WIP Wednesday: By the Numbers

2011-09-14T08:40:00.000-05:00

Net gain of one thousand words after revising and rewriting parts of Borrowed Saints.

In the Memory House stands at 47K with another 15-20K until the first draft is done.

The House Eaters sold five copies with its former imprint; since going "indie" it has sold 254 copies and counting. Yes, price does have an impact folks. People seem to like "cheap" for better or for worse.

I'm about thirty books away from hitting the "1,000" mark sold via Kindle. I guess that's a milestone.

Now I need to write.

Have a great day.

I've Broken My Short Story Bone

2011-09-13T08:20:00.005-05:00

Between working on In the Memory House and revising Borrowed Saints (which will have a shiny new cover and new title, coming soon), I've broken my short story bone.

I started a piece for Rainstorm Press's Mutation Nation anthology, but after two-thousand words have realized I'm writing a novella. Huh?

Waaaaay too much back story. I definately started in the wrong place. This has never happened to me, and I'm struggling a bit with making it work.

Anyone else have similar issues when switching between longer and shorter writing?

How Much is a Review Worth?

2011-09-12T08:32:00.001-05:00

Chuck Gould at Horror Bound Online Magazine has reviewed Loathsome, Dark and Deep. It's a good one, too--he even uses the word "consuming" to describe the book. I like that.

From the very first page of Aaron Polson's Loathsome, Dark & Deep, there is something about the writing and imagery that offers up shades of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness.

That was my goal; I'm pleased it hit the mark.

Read the rest of the review online at Horror Bound.

Loathsome has been out for nearly a year now, and has garnered several (mostly positive) reviews.With the boom of "indie" writers and book bloggers--some sites which even charge for reviews or advertising--one asks oneself how much these things are worth, especially when most book consumers state word of mouth and author's personality do more to "sell" a book than any amount of reviews or advertising.

While I say I will never pay for a review, I have sent free books (even dead tree editions) to sites/publications/individuals in return for an honest review. Sometimes a review appears a month, two months, maybe more down the road. Sometimes a review never appears.

I've spent almost as much money promoting Loathsome as I've received in royalties. This is not a complaint--Jodi and the rest of the Belfire crew are top notch. This is reality. I can't really afford to spend another dime for my little book to find an audience--at some point, I must rely on the goodly power of word of mouth.Hopefully readers will stumble across me online and find I'm an all right dude.

How much would you spend (in time and/or money) to promote your work? At what point do you feel it is counterproductive (e.g., cuts into your writing time)?

Me to You, for Free to Celebrate Spider and I

2011-09-10T06:30:00.000-05:00

Spider and I is loose in the wild (i.e., available in e-book format from Amazon and Smashwords) for only 99 cents.

Less than a buck for a bucket-o-blood novella from this Polson joker? How can you beat that? Well, if you buy Spider and I for your e-reading device during September, let me know and I'll gift you any of my books available for Kindle, Nook, or Smashwords for free. Yep, just drop an email to aaron.polson(at)gmail.com and let me know what e-book you'd like.

It's that simple.

About Spider and I: Jack wants nothing more than a normal life after his parents' untimely deaths. He bounces from foster home to foster home, haunted at each stop by a monster he thinks of only as "the shadow man". As Jack grows older, he learns "the shadow man" isn't the only monster in his life...

Five Question Friday: Shayne Parkinson

2011-09-09T10:01:00.006-05:00

Five questions with Shayne Parkinson...

1. What do you think makes a good story?
Something that's hard to put down, and keeps me thinking about it long after I've finished. Characters I care about. A story that takes me out of the here-and-now, and draws me into its own reality.

2. What is the last book you read?
The Help

3. If you could live in anywhere in the world, where would it be?
Right here in New Zealand, but in a part that has cooler weather and a lake.

4. What is on the floor of your car?
Except when it's just come home from the garage, dirt.

5. What's your favorite thing to eat or drink while writing?
Coffee - what we in New Zealand (and Australia) call a Flat White.

Links:
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Shayne-Parkinson/e/B003RF8LDI
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/shaynep
Blog http://shayneparkinson.blogspot.com/
Web site http://sites.google.com/site/shayneparkinson/

Irony: Enough Already

2011-09-08T08:28:00.000-05:00

As a language monger, few things upset me as much as the misuse of irony.

Somehow, in common language, folks believe irony to be synonymous with coincidence. Listen to this NPR piece about Billy, a San Fransisco Giants fan gone missing. (you have to listen or read the transcript--it isn't in the article text) Did you hear Robert Siegel try to correct Giants manager Bruce Bochy at one point? SIEGEL: Just before you go, you mentioned that by coincidence... Bochy goes on to abuse irony one more time.

Enough folks.

Irony does not equal coincidence. In fact, the two are almost opposites.

Take this definition of irony: an outcome of events contrary to what was, or might have been, expected. Read more at Dictionary.com.

In the Giants story, one might have expected a team's "good luck charm" to cause a problem for the team after he disappeared. Irony? Not hardly.

I love teaching Edgar Allan Poe's "The Cask of Amontillado" along with irony; few stories have such robust examples of true irony which are accessible to average high school students. Within this short piece, students can find dramatic irony, situational irony, and verbal irony. A triple play.

Read "The Cask of Amontillado" online for free. Nothing fortunate about Fortunato's experience, is there?

By the way, Billy, wherever you are, the Giants miss you. Take care, okay?

WIP Wednesday: How Did I Get Here?

2011-09-07T08:37:00.000-05:00

My "House" novel, now going by the name In the Memory House is nearing first draft completion. First draft completion doesn't mean much in my book. As a writer, I am a "pantser" for the most part, one of those free spirits wandering through the plot, dropping suspense and characterization along the way. The characters tend to reveal themselves better this way...

But then I have to pick up the pieces. My lead, a graduate student in psychology, has really shown me dark and secret corners of her life.

Now I have to go back and makes sure the early, more "private" chapters work.

From one of the final chapters:

Kelsey glanced once more at the door, took a breath, and plunged into the dark, groping with both hands now, reaching in front of her and to the sides to find the layout of the space. Her knuckles dragged against stone. She stopped, felt on both sides, and noted a rough, circular cavern. Her hands played with its boundaries. Behind her, the door had vanished, leaving no lingering ambient light.

She found herself in a cave. She hadn't stepped inside a cave since she was eight.

What are some of your most-powerful childhood memories?

Teaser Tuesday: Spider and I

2011-09-06T08:25:00.000-05:00

I wrote a short story entitled "Spider and I" a few years ago. It originally saw publication in The Devil's Food, an ill-fated anthology which never paid a single contributor. Some didn't even receive a copy of the book.

I've ressurrected Jack and Spider, wrote two earlier chapters to their story, and significantly changed the ending. They now star in their very own 16,000 word novella...

From Part 1: Jack is Almost Eight

When Jack slept, his dreams brought monsters of steel and rubber and glass, hulking things which screamed and cried frigid tears. The monsters clashed, flailing body against body until both slumped against trees on either side of the asphalt arena. Smoke rose into the sky. The tears became rain, and Jack found himself staring into a downpour from black and indifferent clouds. Another howl rose, sharp and shrill and panicked. A siren. The red lights flashed until Jack started from the dream. When he woke, his bed was soaked with urine and the shadow man skittered through his window.

“Cathy.”

The boy’s heart banged against his chest. Thump-thump-thump…

“Cathy!”

A muffled curse sounded through the thin walls, too deep for Cathy’s honeyed voice. Feet stomped in the hallway. Jack clutched the stained comforter in front of him like a shield. The door wrenched open, and a hulking black mass slouched against the door jamb. Rick. Not Cathy. Jack cowered, shivering.

“What is it?” Rick’s voice was big and deep like a sustained rumble of thunder. Smoke and whiskey rolled off his body.

“I want Cathy.”

“Fuck.” Rick’s silhouette straightened. “I smell piss. Did you piss yourself again? God-damn, kid. You’re six for fuck’s sake.”

Coming soon...

Five Question Friday: Aimee Laine

2011-09-02T06:45:00.003-05:00

Five Questions with Aimee Laine:

1. If you could write in any color ink, what would it be?
Raspberry. It's my most favorite color in the world. Well ... besides teal. Can I mix the two? Maybe a combination of raspberry AND teal?

2. Is the book always better than the movie?
Absolutely, yes because books play like movies in my head. And I get to be the only one seeing it. So I can make up exactly what the characters look like and how they sound and even somewhat how they act. I get to 'direct' them the way a Director does for actors. Even though the words are written on the page, my mind conjures up interpretations that only I am privy to.

3. Cats or dogs? Why?
Cats! Cats are independent, soft, purry and ... independent. They don't have to be walked or taken outside to use the bathroom on an ice-cold morning at 5am when I'm not awake yet. They can be left alone for a weekend with a bowl of food and a dish of water without supervision or hiring a pet sitter. Cats. 100%. :)

4. What is on the floor of your bedroom?
Clean clothes. I do have a dresser, but I can't stand putting away my clothes more than once a month. Or so it seems. So there is always a pile of freshly laundered clothes. Often there is a cat on top of them. Sometimes that cat carries with it a raspberry ribbon.

5. Describe the ideal meal.
Pepperoni and Mushroom pizza with a big glass bottle of Coca-Cola. Follow that with a banana split with chocolate, whipped cream, peanuts and ice cream. Oh and make it all NO calories. I don't mean fat-free stuff ... I mean if this were ideal ... it would be loaded with fat and sugar ... but be calorie free. THAT would be idea.

Aimee Laine
Photographic Artist & Author of paranormal romance

Little White Lies now available!
Find it online: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | AllRomance | Goodreads

Find me online : Web | Blog | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads
www.aimeelaine.com | 919-362-9039

The August "Big Experiment" Report

2011-09-01T08:40:00.000-05:00

My August ebook sales eclipsed my previous record by at least 52 books*, powered by a strong showing from We are the Monsters after the price increased from free to $0.99. As I said before, I won't be retiring soon on these numbers, but I sold 227 books* in August. In the past ten days, I've sold more than the entire month of July. No complaints, really--I've been selling 10-15 books a day for the past week and a half.

Granted, most of my sales were for $0.99 books. Much has been said about this lowly price point, so I won't rehash. What I've learned so far:

A Feast of Flesh sold 14 copies (burning up the charts, baby), at $0.99 while These Darkened Streets sold 6 at $1.99
at that rate, A Feast of Flesh earned $0.70 more; I've lowered These Darkened Streets to $0.99 in September to see what happens
I write in a genre which doesn't sell as well as Thrillers, Mysteries, Romance, and Erotica
Most of my books are story collections, which, in general, don't sell all that well, either
but seven different ebooks sold in double figures
I'm still happy with every dime I make selling ebooks

What I plan to do in September:

experiment with price a bit more: raise The House Eaters to $2.99 and see what happens by the end of the month
release a novella for $0.99
repackage Black Medicine Thunder as Sons of Chaos Book 1 (since book 2, The Desert Dead, is coming to Red Penny Papers in October--squee!)
prepare for October, which I hope can be a good month (um, Halloween)

That's the report as I see it.

Thanks for reading.

*I'm not sure how many copies of We are the Monsters were "paid" until I receive my monthly report; my estimate is low

WIP Wednesday: The Reason for my Mad, Mad Summer

2011-08-31T08:29:00.000-05:00

I spent the summer in feverish home improvement because, yes, we're having another baby.

No, we don't know the gender (nor do we find out--few surprises hold so much joy in our world).

Yes, I'm excited and scared and happy and nervous and...

You fill in the blank.

End of line.

Wanted: Personal Assistant

2011-08-30T09:55:00.002-05:00

Well, not really, because I would have to pay and/or feed and clothe him/her.

But I need some organization in my writing life.

I hit 40K on The House, my as-yet-untitled WIP and would like to finish sometime in September. I'm editing a novella about a boy and his monster (a flesh-consuming, not-quite-vampire). I have ideas in place (and a few words) for a sci-fi noir. Have I mentioned the new ending and revisions to Borrowed Saints? What about the Halloween ghost story I'd like to have done and released in October? The story seed for a mutant anthology now open for submissions?

Ack!

Not to mention my life is going to change--drastically--in December.

More soon.

Promise.

The Power of Anonymous

2011-08-29T09:57:00.003-05:00

Traditional wisdom dictates a writer shouldn't respond to reviews, positive or negative. I agree, however, we now live and work in a world of instant reviews from a wide array of unqualified sources. I'm not suggesting the "reviewer" who left the following "review" of The Bottom Feeders (the free edition, FYI) at Barnes & Nobel was unqualified:

Total BS

Each story was crap, the mere idea this is thought of horror is a joke, and frankly free or not it's a horrid read. The plot of each story is crude and the endings are rushed leaving you feel like you just read a middle schoolers ELA story.

Gee, thanks anonymous. Oh, I'm sorry, Anonymous. It is your proper name.

Remember when I wrote a post about all reviews being equal on the internet? Well, I rescind part of my statement. Anonymous reviews are more equal than others.

(By the way, Anon, you forgot the apostrophe before the second 's' on the possessive "schoolers"; just saying you might want to pay more attention in ELA class. I haven't even mentioned comma use...but that would just be snarky.)

Five Question Friday: James Everington

2011-08-26T06:45:00.002-05:00

Five questions with James Everington:

What is the hardest part of being a writer?

It's all quite easy apart from the damn words...

What is on the floor of your bedroom?

My lazy cat, normally.

What is your favorite kind of cheese?

A proper Cropwell Bishop Stilton

If you couldn't write, how would you spend the time you now use for writing?

Bitching about writers, probably.

What is your perfect Sunday?

Coffee & fry up
Write for the length of time it takes to play She Hangs Brightly by Mazzy Star, Giant Steps by The Boo Radleys, and Highway 61 by Bob Dylan
Coffee and sit outside reading good book
Start cooking curry from scratch
Drink nice Bitter for majority of lengthy curry cooking and eating process
Zzzzz.

Find James Everington online:

Blog: http://www.jameseverington.blogspot.com/

Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/The-Other-Room/dp/B004Z1CUN0/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1304533999&sr=8-2

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Other-Room/dp/B004Z1CUN0/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1304533999&sr=8-2

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/69127

WIP Wednesday: Wednesday, Bloody Wednesday

2011-08-24T08:28:00.002-05:00

I quizzed my students about horror yesterday as a lead in to our study of Beowulf. I asked them to list, and rank-order, the top five elements they expect to see in a horror movie or read in a story.

The answers were telling--and somewhat funny: sex, darkness, dark scenery, fornication, death, nudity, scary music, stupidity... One group even mentioned "creepy-ass-mofos".

Okay...

All but one group included blood as the first item on their list. This speaks to the kind of movies they're used to watching, doesn't it? Would their be no Saw XVII without blood? Can there be a true horror story without blood?

I think so. Some of the best horror doesn't even play in the realm of blood. My "not-quite-haunted house" WIP doesn't have (much) blood, and I've been scaring my own pants off for weeks.

We'll see how readers feel later this year.

Give Fred a Day Off, He Comes Back with Vengeance

2011-08-22T06:45:00.002-05:00

Fred, the moniker I've given my subconscious/muse, was stumped with my "not exactly a haunted house" book. I gave him the day off last week and wrote a little on a science fiction/future noir story I've been kicking around.

And then Fred came back from vacation, sipping a piña colada and wearing a vintage "I Survived the Orient Express"* t-shirt. His little imaginary head was filled to the brim with ideas for the house story (heretofore only known as "the house book").

He suggested several titles, too, some with "smoke" in them, others with "fog". The house, it seems, plays with those inside, toying with their memories.

Especially memories which elicit fear, sadness, or outright paranoia.

So... The House of Smoke and Fog?

Maybe.

It sounds a bit too much like The House of Sand and Fog, a much different story altogether.

Suggestions?

*The Orient Express was the bad-ass roller coaster at Worlds of Fun, a Kansas City amusement park, when I was a boy. It's gone now, but the memory remains.