Thursday, December 14, 2017

Fall and The Empty Nest Part VIII

During the blustering snow fall that was, I had to give everyone something to cuddle up to. This may warm you, it may not, but hopefully you're growing attached to this elder in his life. He reminds me of so many characters who I've met, got to know and even loved, yet is his own person, in his own fictional right. Sometimes when I'm writing this piece I get a little melancholic, thinking of those people who have come and gone in my life, hell, this time of year is notorious for stirring the emotional melting pot. Please indulge and by all means leave some comments for me. Thanks for reading! More fiction, not so cheap, here: Blood, Dreams & Tears

It was three a.m.
My wife was snoring. I was exhausted, it felt like I had been asleep for days, yet was running a marathon. I didn’t want to roll on top of her. How could I? Not after the stunts I’ve been pulling chasing the Tattlerat through the yard and hiding from it. I got up, shut the alarm clock off and heard her talk in her sleep. I was floating through a dilemma and not speaking about it, I was unplugged, and that confusion was worsening. This nightmare was my life, this day walk was my future, my being, my existence, and I had to deal with it.
“You weren’t a bad man, we love you.” My wife whispered hauntingly.
She may have been having fevered dreams about her father. She had them often, and never discussed them, but that loss hurt her deeply and came out on a subconscious level.
“I love you.” I kissed her forehead; she smiled and stopped sleep talking.
In the back of my head I thought I wanted to hop into bed, hug her tightly, and say I’m calling in, we should just be bums today, something she always said to me, but I didn’t say a word. The reality of my job and life outside of the house was too much of a pull; it was that damn dangling carrot that limply wiggled in the forefront. I ambled through and poured my coffee.

Friday, December 8, 2017

Fall and The Empty Nest VII

In a world where children are given entitlements and they don't earn them, and a world where children are not held accountable, by most, this is the world where I escape. This is the comfortable warm arms of life, the little place of fiction. It's not a place where everything is perfect, it's a place of terror, a terror that emphasizes what's truly going on in the large pool of craziness that is life. Truth in fiction? Take from it what you will, all I ask in return is that you enjoy it, and if not, find your place of escape. After all, I can please some of the people some of the time, but I can't please them all. Thanks again, for visiting...please indulge in my shameless plug here: Blood, Dreams & Tears .

If I could only close my eyes, go back to sleep, and start over, it would be so much better, so much clearer. I closed my eyes. It was a serene darkness as the dome lights dimmed leaving my mind a blank black slate. I’m a father, a husband; my parents have long left the world. My kids were no longer kids. My wife, she was my wife, my beauty, the woman I loved and thought of daily, she was usually nestled under a layer of blankets on our bed; she was always cold, so cold that she’d cover up with a blanket no matter the season. Where had they all gone? Had I pushed them away, like always, with my silence, with my machoism, without connecting?
*
Those days, the days of vigor and planning, goals set forth, and motion on each goal. Getting up for work, leaving the nest, jumping into the void of every day, it was a ritual that led me. Sucked into what the world deemed normal and accepting the normalcy. Communication with my kids as they grew older was sparse, but I thought a lot. Those thoughts whirring in my head, screaming, really, screaming to be spoken, just disappeared after they were nurtured, they had lived the life cycle, as quick as a fickle flame blown out by a gushing wind.
I bridged the gap the best I could.
Still failure as a father was always eminent in my head. Just because I went to work gave me no true excuse to turn into the man I had become. The world had helped shape it; the world had helped me become unbecoming. It was an idea, perfect in the black and white spiral that often confuses people into a submission that they never thought possible. I was a free thinker, my kids the same way. They were resilient, when they got stuck inside the box, each one of them would jump out of it, to return to that free thought. The free that everyone longed to be, while I sheltered my thoughts and kept them from each of them silently, selfishly. In hindsight, I wish I hadn’t become that man. The man always sang about, always written about, the man with regrets. 

Friday, November 24, 2017

Fall and The Empty Nest VI

Amidst a crazy schedule of life, family, and the news media promoting spending those dollars, here's something to take the mind off the ignorance in the world. This blog, this horror, is here for you, dear reader, take a deep breath, put your wallet back in your purse or pocket, for something of quality. Before throwing cash at a problem of pressure, poke at the dangling carrot that grips us, and then punch it away. It's not fear, and it's not the existing terrors of an influx of passive activists with our youth, it's the social pressure to chase what other's have and and continue to loop ourselves into the ring of stupidity. Take a break, read some horror, it's a great escape. Enjoy! And here's my redundant attempt to drive sales on a collection of similar horror, here: Blood, Dreams & Tears.

How could it be?
How did time freeze?
My arms were bumpy with a streak of dark pine sap clinging to the hairs, as the dreaded pine trees always did. I wiped at the viscous sap and it smeared darkly across my arm. The coffee, usually cool in that amount of time was still steaming and burned my tongue when I sipped it. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and when I opened them up.
The alarm clock bleated.
It was three a.m.
I rolled over to my wife, on top of what I thought was my wife, and it was the comforter wadded up on her side of the bed. The bed was cold.
“What are you doing, you old fool?” It was her voice, but it wasn’t in the room, it echoed, and sounded like it came from a tunnel.
It was haunting; maybe she was in the basement? I didn’t know, so got up and headed through the house looking for my bride. I called her name, quietly at first, a habit of coexisting in a house of others, a family.
“You’re not going to work today.” Her voice whispered from the walls, from somewhere other than where I was, it trailed of.
“No, come out, now, I’m done playing games.” I said to an empty house.
“I’m not playing. I’m here for you. I need you I can’t live without you. Don’t do this to us.”
“I’m going to get ready for work.” I responded. In my head the my voice sounded muffled and unclear.
It was four a.m.

I sat in the car, the coffee steaming, and the house was dark. Had the day changed? The white thing scurried again, and I went to follow it. This time it was taller, even taller than before, my height, actually. Was my mind really, truly getting worse? I couldn’t remember my morning ritual; I barely remembered the dark thoughts that swallowed my mind so frequently. It was confusion that I’d never felt. Maybe this was all a bad dream? I wanted to open the car door, but my fingernails, long and curling lost the grip on the handle, and one long curvature broke. I winced, even though there was no pain or nerves in them. They resembled long brittle twigs at the end of my fingers.

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.