Saturday, November 18, 2017

Fall and The Empty Nest V

Time, it moves quickly for most of us as we near our years of wisdom, our "older" years. Some begin to doubt everything in life, their beliefs, their way, and some of us don't deny these doubts and come full circle. Some of us embrace what has become, what will be, and we accept it. The character here in this tale is somewhere in between, lost in a universe that he can't explain, but hasn't quite come to the realization, yet. Please lift your proverbial shot glasses and down another shot of my story, thanks. Again, this never gets old, buy a book with some similar shorts here: Blood, Dreams & Tears 

It moved closer and then sniffed. I hunkered tighter to the bow of the sagging pine tree branches, and it squatted, peering into the thick brush of the tree squinting its piercing yellow eyes until they were slits. I shivered and backed up a bit and it turned to walk away. I blew out a sigh of release, and it exited in a slight whistle. The thing turned around to look again, and then ran away. Just as my eyes began to follow it, the screech came, and this time it came from further back towards the wood line of the property.

I was exhausted, my legs two noodles cooked for too long. Everything was groggy and fog like, the fog that was my mind surrounded me. It was thick and hung in the air so thickly that I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face. I wiggled my fingers around trying to see them;  it seemed like a bizarre magic trick. All the while, I had forgotten the car was left running and that I was going to be late for work. I started to walk through the thick misty air of the fog, leaving the screech behind in the woods for another morning, or another night that may bring it to me again. I immediately forgot what I was doing and I was sitting back in my car. The time never changed, my coffee steamed. Time had not moved in minutes. 

Monday, November 13, 2017

Fall and The Empty Nest IV

I've been surprisingly consistent with this one, so will feed all of you another installment, albeit, short and sweet. I truly hope the monstrosity that visits this character isn't real, but I've heard stories. The kind told at our family campfires while downing a couple Coors Lights, or just relaxing in the dim lit living room of our Nest. Hopefully you're getting pulled in, and if not, by all means, dammit, tell me...I don't bite, unless you're a close family pet or family member. Indulge in this freebie, and if you want more, and don't mind forking over some clams, buy a book full of tales, almost, just like it, Blood Dreams & Tears. Thanks.

I’d heard of the creatures of Stevats. I knew the lore, in fact when I was writing stories in my youth, I often wrote about these creatures, known to some as shadow people, others in the geography of the city, as Tattlerats. I ran. I ran as fast as my feeble legs could carry me. I needed shelter. These things were vicious; at least that’s what the myths said. They consumed souls, ate flesh, tormented small children and most of all opened up the very gates of hell for the observers. The biggest difference was that Tattlerats were usually black, and camouflaged by their surroundings, which was typical to be dark at nighttime. Dark was their hiding place. This couldn’t have been what I was seeing.

There was a large old pine tree with a lot of coverage, I was winded as I hunkered under the thick branches and watched as the befuddled creature confusedly looked around. If it could sniff, if it had a nose, that’s what it was doing, but it was too far away for me to see the features of its face. If my memory, which hadn’t been working all that great, served me right, they had only eyes and sharp incisors in a makeshift mouth; this could be something my scared mind conjured up to justify the morning’s misadventure.

Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Fall and The Empty Nest III

A magical spell settles in with the crisp Autumn and that crazy cold transition towards the season of dark. I hope all of you are getting pulled into the story a couple of paragraphs at a time. This story is merely a reflection I imagine an older gentlemen goes through, those trials of age, mind, and the struggles of remembering, not to forget the horrors he's about to face. If you like my horror, please indulge in a paperback of Blood, Dreams & Tears . It's a collection of tales that will stay with you for years to come. Enjoy!

The night creatures were gone except for a rare cricket and some frogs confused by the warm up. The shed was at the back of the two acre yard that had been getting harder to maintain in my older years. The sensor light on the front didn’t go off as the back end of whatever I was following squished beneath the doors. Halfway to the shed, there was a sound near the rear of the property, a screeching noise. It wasn’t a bird of prey, it wasn’t anything I could identify, but it sent chills up my arms, up my back, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. A chilly breeze began to flit through the air. I had forgotten my coat back at the car, and a wave of gooseflesh surfaced on my bear arms. It was chilling, and I shivered.

The screech, that creepy high pitch that fell to a low staccato, and then repeated, chilled me again, but it was exiting the shed and echoing to that part of the property. There was scratching on the other side of the shed doors, the thing I was following got my attention. The shrill sound started again and I walked to the back of the property toward its location. The screech, although terrifying, was going off in a pattern, something I’d heard before, but couldn’t identify. The shed doors flew open, and the white thing that had scraped the doors open had grown, and it was ambling towards me. I could see bright glowing yellow eyes, and it ambled toward me on two legs. I froze. My bowels churned, the thing was bigger, brighter, and with dawn on the brink, I could make out its claws at the end of its stubbed hands. They were more like long unkempt fingernails.

Friday, November 3, 2017

Fall and The Empty Nest... Part II

I hope everyone enjoyed the intro to another piece that I started, another start to a story yet to be finished. Yes, I ended after a few paragraphs, and it ended on some sexuality. By no means did this sexuality mean to offend anyone, it was a rare moment in the story, of a bigger picture, inducing the mundane of this character's life. He's in a rut, aren't we all at times, and can't figure out what to do with it. The story does unfold in my typical style, and will gain some momentum with my lore. The lore and mythos of Stevats. Stevats being the town I've written about since the dawn of my writing. It's more real in my head than in the readers, only due to the fact that not many read my fiction. Some of it may seem redundant to those who have travelled down the unworn path of my past collection, Blood, Dreams & Tears, but it is and will end in a truly unique way. The way of the ending, it storms inside my head, changing daily, like most endings to an unwritten tale, it will hopefully bring joy, sorry, grief, or all of the above, ultimately ending without the shock, gore or ghost in the machine. Thanks so much for paying attention to the last installment, albeit, short. To redeem, and in an attempt to clear the almost objectionalized sexuality displayed in a dark lit corner of this man's world, here is another couple paragraphs to chew on. Please leave feedback, if you are so inclined. Enjoy!

It was four a.m.
My coffee steamed in the cup holder, a light fog wafted ethereally around the property, steaming off the pond in the back, and the grass was heavy with dew. Memories of the morning ritual had dissipated, so quickly, it seemed. The moon brightly lit the yard and everything around the car; the stars were getting ready to leave, to be over brightened by the blue hue of sky and yellow sunshine of daylight. I sipped the coffee, the car hummed, there was nothing better than letting the oil and the engine get all lubed up before taking off, “ it prolonged the life of the engine”, a wise man once told me, it had been years since I’ve spoken to him, he had passed on. I don’t remember his name, but he was wise. A part of aging is that the mind doesn’t act the same, it doesn’t think the same. Most times, it exists with you, and you get more arrogant, you rant more, you’re more passionate about the opinions that surface. The brain gets stimulated by other things, and in my case it wasn’t acting and dressing up like the other fools in the world do, my mind hummed like the engine was doing, it wasn’t fluttering around like an annoying mosquito desperately trying to suck blood again, oblivious to the cold around it. It was lubed, but confused sometimes, it hummed, but never sang. It whistled inside, but all thoughts stayed in there, safe behind the walls of conscious.

I saw something scurry in the fog. It was distant, white, and I couldn’t tell if it had been the critter that had found the way into our house’s basement. I got out of the car, leaving it running, and followed it. The grass was wet, a soak from the dew. It clung to my shoes and the bottom of my pants, and I saw the glimpse of that white thing, by the last of the light of the moon, scurry into the shed at toward the back of the property. I followed it.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Fall and The Empty Nest

Hindsight, it's twenty twenty. Drinking a cup of coffee, I begin to write, it's dark and it's light, it's emotional and non-biographical, I must fill my time to entertain my head and entertain those of you following this blog. Please enjoy, while I gather my mind and get back into the world of "semi-retirement" and the blog that should not be. This is the beginning of a Thriller I've been working on. Thanks. Let me know what you think...

It was fall, finally. I was so tired of the heat of summer, it was driving me mad. I knew when the grass started drying up at the beginning of July that it was going to be a scorcher, and it was. Sweat, humidity, and the obnoxious hot nights in our overstuffed house, with all the overstuffed shelves of knick- knacks, furniture, and way too much shit. Personally, I liked to minimize, it was the compromise, that fine line in marriage that you both agree, so I learned to live with it all. This season was my favorite. The horror shows airing on the television, the apple cider, the donuts, and the weather, dealing and leading into Halloween, I adored it all.
I used to be quite the thespian, as a young man. I liked to act, put on shows for the kids, God, those days are long gone. I even dressed up for Halloween, every year, endlessly, entertaining. This year was different. It was serene, yes, crisp at night and warm during the day, nothing new this fall, but something bothered me. I don’t know if it was the humdrum day in day out of work, the lack of life in the house, we were down to just me and the wife. There was something that hit home this year, and it wasn’t a very happy bubbly season, I was disturbed at a level that hadn’t been in my head since my young angst filled years of my adolescence.
It was three a.m.

I had got up to get a jump to my day. There was some sinus drainage characteristic to the season, and within minutes of waking I rolled on top of the wife, it was typical Wednesday morning sex. Her legs propped up on my shoulders, her eyes shut, hell she was barely awake, and ten minutes later, we finished our “old faithful” act of sex, making love, bumping monsters, whatever you wish to call it. She fell back to sleep, moaning about me being an asshole for waking her up, and then snored to accentuate her annoyance. I walked through the morning rituals, and made it out to the car, but there was that darkness drifting through, and usually those thoughts stopped after sex, the mind usually cleared and ready for my day, sex was the eraser to the dry erase board that had become my mind. 


Tuesday, August 29, 2017

On the Road...Of Thought...

Time has almost come, for our trip, and my mind takes a spin back to the days when we were raising our kids. When there were soccer games to balance with the wife, when there were school lunches, all seven to be made. When we spent weekends, renovating our little piece of retirement and camping in the 34' foot Airstream in the back yard. They were good times, chaotic at some points, but good times all the same. Camp fires, stories, paint, drywall, stone, sanding, more camping, more working, more fun.

In those times, we barely had the time to think about redundancy, even though that's essentially sometimes what parenthood is, was, and often will always be. We thought about the issues or problems we faced, as miniscule, in hindsight, that they may have been, with vigor as if we were solving the world's problems, when in all actuality those problems were just a grain of sand in the larger scope of things. We loved all of our children, we love all the gray hair sprouted like some unwanted vegetable or plant growth, on our head, but it took time to get through it. It took tears, rejection of our ideas sometimes, and it took diligence to get our painting, that blank slate of life, the colors we needed to make it ours and get to the point of completion we are today.

It's ours, we own it now. The children, all grown, have sprouted their wings, making choices on their own, even though some we don't agree with, and others who fearlessly tackle something that scares us like a good horror story. It's a painting all the same, and it belongs to us. Those colors swirl in lights and darks, on that canvas of life that often goes unfinished until I imagine the ethereal comes to great us brightly or tarnished in an array of earth tones. Our life's canvas still has those rare blank spots where we insert our color, make it our own, and move forward, sitting back and enjoying the price we paid.

We are who we are, we think, we do, we move forward, for it is our marriage, our life, and our family that brings us full circle, starting over, only to move head long and forward again.

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Inspiration, Guts, and Image

There was an array of boondocking information, at the time, about five years ago, mostly listed as longitude and latitude, but I suffered through it, and found the place of our first destination, Bog Hot. It sounds like some foreign place in a sci-fi movie or book, but I assure you it's a place. I've seen actual videos of it, read newsfeeds of it, and have come to the conclusion that it's not as popular as, say, Disney, or anything. I bookmarked most of the information and just this morning over a cup of coffee, I am browsing over things.

It's funny how just years ago, browsing over things, meant reading some old articles you filed away. Picking up a letter that someone once wrote to you, and reading it. Watching old VHS-C or 8mm home movies, which today sit in some trunk, an old cabinet, collecting dust, unwatched. Browsing through things in the past had a different meaning, a nostalgic array. Watching those souls of energy that once lived as a part of your life in a movie, and realizing they're all gone on their own journeys. Now browsing through things brings nothing but vicarious feelings. You're looking at someone else, who most likely are faking something to get subscribers or views on their stint, or even watching one of your own short films from a cell phone that's stored in some internet cloud.

I'm trying to change that thinking up, I try to include all of it, make it one big puzzle. I have maps out, an atlas, my old GPS instead of the trusty smart phone. I do have my internet browser open on the laptop, just in case I come into a hiccup or have a dire urge of drudging up something I've already researched. I watch a video of a man taking a dip in the hot springs at Bog Hot. It looks refreshing even though the temperature can fluctuate according to the time of year. Winter being the best I can imagine the Airstream parked, a desert backdrop behind her, the awning down, our chairs underneath it. Maybe the grill set up on a small table. I could see the sun setting and reflecting off the Airstream illuminating the surrounding area with more light. I can feel the warm water of the springs as I take a soak in them. The image is so burned in my head, that there's that tingling in my gut, that pull which is just not letting go.

There's a rustling behind me, and I see Mary pouring a cup of coffee.

"Good morning," she says, sipping.

"Hey, babe, what are you doing up so early?"

"I'm looking at our first destination for this year."

"Why are we waiting? We have nothing left to do, the kids are all off to college." She sat down in her usual spot.

"I thought it'd be better to wait."

"It's  August, why wait. We'll just be sure to come back before November and the holiday festivities." She was already onto some social media site smirking at some video that was playing in the background.

That's how Mary operates. She gives me some inspiration, and I run with it like a madman. I make it happen, it was that balance we had with each other. I took in a deep breath. Opened up the contacts on my phone, and call some of the locals of the area. I like speaking to people, and the more I talk, the more comfortable I am of the surroundings that I'm going to be living in.

This was it. In a week or two, we're traveling to Bog Hot. I'm a ball of nerves, wound anxiety and like a kid on Christmas day, a conglomeration of it all. It has come. Our plans are in motion.