Saturday, October 31, 2015

Happy Halloween!

Since it's Halloween, I'll put two poems up.
Happy Hauntings!


A Haunting

The leaves are changing the way they always do; the sky grows dimmer.
Streetlights flicker on; my memories are reflected in the shadows.
It was under this darkened sky by the dim light of the moon that I met my ghost.
He came with no warning; caught me by surprise as ghosts often do. 

Streetlights flicker on; my memories are reflected in the shadows.
The ghost lurked in those shadows, frightened of the resolution in the light.
He came with no warning; caught me by surprise as ghosts often do. 
I didn’t know he was a ghost, but the blood he shed was a beacon.

The ghost lurked in those shadows, frightened of the resolution of the light.
When he came into my night, my lights stayed on; the shadows were destroyed. 
I didn’t know he was a ghost, but the blood that he shed…it was a beacon.
I once was afraid of ghosts, but when his darkness hit me, all I gave was love.

When he came into my night, my lights stayed on; his shadows were destroyed. 
The resolution no longer burned his eyes and he left his pain behind.
I’m not afraid of ghosts, because when his darkness hit me, all I felt was love.
His love came with no warning. Caught me by surprise, as love often does.

The resolution no longer burned his eyes and he left my pain behind.
The leaves are changing; as they do the sky grows dimmer.
My love came with no warning.  Caught me by surprise, as love often does.
It was under this darkened sky by the dim light of the moon that I lost my ghost.



Molly

Molly was an only child whose parents gave her everything but love.
The wealthy couple hired nanny after nanny to raise their darling.
The help soon quit, for in Molly’s wake were dead pets and even one dead maid.
For her deeds she was made to see a shrink, but Molly swore her innocence.
Words like attachment disorder and conduct disorder were thrown about.
So Molly’s parents showered her with more gifts and even their attention.

Molly lost all trust in her parents when they wouldn’t believe her version.
So she turned to the man she’d feared, the one in the attic lurking about.
It was only she who could see him, but she knew what she saw made no sense.
When she finally spoke to him, she wondered why she’d ever been afraid.
He believed in her innocence, and she thought that Teddy was quite charming.
Teddy became Molly’s best friend, whom to others she never did speak of.

Molly knew that unlike her parents, Teddy actually gave her his love.
Molly shared with him all her secrets, even when her health started ailing.
She grew sicker as her thirteenth birthday neared; each night before bed she prayed.
For her party, her parents invited twelve of her friends and spared no expense. 
But on that night, Molly and all her friends were killed when a fire broke out.
From the ashes of the thirteen dead girls
Ted rose again
And he had lots ‘o killin’ to catch up on.


















Friday, October 30, 2015

Happy almost Halloween!

I've been so busy with finishing my draft that I've neglected writing creepy Halloween short stories and poems, so I'll have to share an old one.
A few years ago I co-moderated an online poetry group. The other moderator was this guy in California who sometimes seemed utterly brilliant and other times seemed like a crazy bitter dude who never got anywhere in life and took that bitterness out on others. He liked to keep me guessing. Anyway, he got me into writing poetry through the POV of psychopaths and other crazy people. It's good practice for getting into the minds of your antagonists when it comes time to put them in your novel. And also, it's fun.

So, a warning, this one's a bit on the disturbing side. Read at your own risk and happy almost Halloween!

Cameron's Dream

Cotton candy bubblegum is the best
Pops it in his mouth and reaches in the desk
He stares at the sharp point of the scissors
Still stained with the beginnings of rivers
Of her blood when he sliced the witch open
But in his mind, he’d only just begun
If only he could take her to the dungeon
To tie her up and start to have some fun
Knives sharper than scissors along her body
Pushing deeper as she screams like a banshee
Hot wax from Mother’s precious candles
In her wounds is his ice cream with sprinkles
He pauses, thinking of what he’ll do next
And jumps as the ruler slaps down on his desk
Cameron! Pay attention and spit the gum out!
He glares at Teach, wishing he could slap that witches snout
Becky turns around, finger-bandaged and eyes wide
He flashes the scissors and she wishes she could hide
She scoots her desk forward and whispers a prayer 
But Cameron still spits his gum right in the center of Becky's hair.

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Yay, I'm finished! (Sort of)

     The other day I finished the first draft of my young adult dark fantasy novel, Caribou Canyon. That is totally a working title. I hate titles, but that's a whole other topic of conversation. Today I'm calling the genre dark fantasy, as opposed to paranormal fantasy, partially because I like the ring of "dark fantasy." That is also a conversation for another time. The point is that I finished the first draft of my second novel.
     Yay!
     Time to celebrate!
     Cartwheels and confetti and back flips! (metaphorically speaking)
     Yay!
     This is a really exciting moment for many reasons. First, when I started writing seriously, I had this fear that my first novel was a fluke. I was certain that I would never have other ideas worthy of filling enough pages to be a novel. I also didn't think I'd continue to have the motivation to write entire novels, but it seems as though I had nothing to fear.
     Yay!
     This is also very exciting because I really wasn't sure I was going to be able to execute my little baby nugget of an idea that pretty much went like this: there are some people in a town and there are some ghosts and people get killed. But somehow I managed it and I'm very excited. Did I mention my excitement?
     Not only didn't I finish draft one, but I've already got ideas on how to improve it for the next draft and I have an idea for yet another novel.
     I'm going to take a little bit of a break from writing so I can breathe. Blogging doesn't count. I'm still allowed to blog. And write short stories. And plan my next novel. Okay, so I need to work on learning to relax. Topic for another post.
     Yay! I'm finished! Yay!

Thursday, October 15, 2015

A Sinfully Sinister Story of Epic Love

I feel like maybe I should lighten up some of this Halloween stuff with an icky little love poem.
Enjoy!


Untitled 

They met on a rainy Halloween night
Under a moonless sky in death’s hovel
Where fate led them to the same fresh fright:
She aimed the light and he wielded the shovel.

Their love was blessed only by the devil
And consummated over his Mother’s grave:
Desecrate, fornicate, and then gobble.
To one another, everything they gave.

He taught her to lure the victim’s to the cave,
And she showed him how to cook the hearts.
When they bore a child, they made it their slave,
Until they ate up its most delectable parts.

Happily ever after they lived, wreaking havoc and fright.








Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Hauntingly Horrific Halloween Haikus

Here's my little collection of dark and disturbing (and fun) haikus. Traditionally, haikus are about nature. These focus on the nature of darkness, the things we fear, the things that go bump in the night, and the things we'd rather not think about.

Have fun!

(Each of these is its own separate poem.)


Winter is the best -
when all is cold and frigid -
like pretty corpses.


They hide in darkness -
shapes emerge from the shadows
To swallow you up.


Blood isn’t like wine.
It’s clean refreshing water.
Yours is the purest.


I love a full moon
that’s hidden behind the clouds.
The prey think they’re safe.


She loves red roses.
They make her think of the blood
of her dead lovers.


Your screams give me thrills.
I'm only getting started.
Won't you scream louder? 


Sunday, October 11, 2015

I'm on a speeding train...

…And it's wonderful!
   Weeeee!
     Or maybe it's a helicopter, a rocket ship, or a roller coaster. Roller coasters are fun. I like roller coasters, so we'll go with that.
     I'm on a roller coaster, and it's wonderful. Weeee!
     I'm talking about my current drive for writing. I might've gotten hit in the head with a writing stick, or gotten possessed by a creativity demon. Whatever happened, I'm on a roll and it's wonderful.
     I didn't start writing regularly until I was 30, because I was sure there was no way I would have the motivation to finish a novel. Now that I've started, I can't stop. I think I'm making up for lost time. I have one "completed" novel, New Year's Revolution, with a beginning, a middle, and an end, and I'm almost finished with my first draft of my second novel, Caribou Canyon (totally a working title. I hate thinking of titles). I'm also ready to start writing my third novel, which will most likely happen in November. When I finish the first draft of that I will either start the second draft of Caribou Canyon or edit/rewrite New Year's Revolution. See what I mean? The ideas are happening faster than I can write them. It's overwhelming and wonderful. And then there's all the blog post ideas and the short stories which I have to squish in between all that other stuff.
    I probably ought to take some sort of a mental break between my current novel and my next novel, but I don't really want to. If I do, it will only be a couple of days because taking a break from writing is like taking a break from chocolate or coffee. It's possible that I'm a little crazy, but I swear it's the good kind of crazy.
     The story I want to start in November has been floating around my head for two years now. I was putting it on hold so I could finish other things, but now it's demanding to be written, so I'm going to write it. The only problem is the main character still hasn't told me his name. It might be Evan, but I'm still not entirely sure it isn't Dylan or Conner, or something else entirely. If he doesn't tell me soon, I'm just going to name him Rumple purely out of spite.
     All right, I'm off to finish Caribou Canyon. I'll do my best to spread the creativity cooties.
     Happy reading and writing everyone!

Thursday, October 8, 2015

The Gray - Halloween Flash Fiction



THE GRAY


     The blaring alarm breaks through the peaceful quiet. You chose the loudest alarm you could find. You like being snatched from your sleep by the psychotic shrieking of a siren that has the potential to wake the dead.
     You like it because it’s effective. You sit up on the second peal of the horn, shut it off, and climb out of bed.
     You are a creature of habit. Each day is much like the last. The slight smile on your sleep bleary face hints that you like it that way. You pour your coffee, which is already brewed because you programmed it the night before. You sip slowly while flipping through the paper that was waiting outside the door.
     You prefer the physical paper to the internet. You like to touch the dusty pages and breathe in the lingering smell of ink and outdoors. You don’t even object to the occasional paper cut that causes the black and white to be tinged in red. Most of all, you like the paper because the black and white blends together to make many shades of gray. The world is gray, and its news should be too.  
     You linger in the shower because the hot water feels exquisite. It warms you and wakens you more than the coffee did. The towel is soft against your skin. Your lotion is vanilla scented.
     Outside, you smile at the gray sky that others frowned at. There’s a skip in your step as you walk to your first class. Accounting. It was a surprising choice for you. Accounting is black and white, but maybe you chose it in a desperate attempt to search for the gray. Ethics is next, followed by psychology. Now there’s a pair of classes that are all about the gray. No wonder they’re your favorites.
     It’s raining as you make your way back to your apartment. You love the feel of the cool droplets on your skin as much as you loved the stream of warm water from the shower. Your smile lightens up the gray of the sky.
     You grab the mail and flip through it as you go inside. Mostly bills. You set them on the table as you stare in interest at the plain gray envelope. Your name is written in neat block letters. There’s no return address.
     You open it, pull out the single sheet of paper, and read. As your ever-widening eyes move down the page your hands start to shake. Your breath comes out in short gasps. You haven’t even made it to the bottom of the page when you can no longer hold the paper in your trembling hands.
     It falls to the floor with a flutter…

     …My own hands tremble with anticipation as I watch her.
     I smile at the blood that drips down her finger. She’s prone to paper cuts. It’s an endearing quality, but maybe that’s just because I love the sight of blood. Or maybe it’s only the sight of her blood that I love. It pleases me that this particular paper cut came from the page of my letter. The letter that described the day she just had.
     I watch her everyday. What else do I have to do?
     She glances around with wide eyes that aren’t quite blue but a shadowed shade of gray. I imagine that I still have a heart, that it is beating fast, threatening to burst its way through my chest in a desperate attempt to reach her. Soon, I tell it.
     She looks right at me.
     And straight through me.
     She doesn’t see me yet. Soon, she will.
     Her purse sits on the table and she reaches inside. She clutches the gray canister of pepper spray in her long-fingered hand. She locks all the windows and closes all the curtains. She goes through each room and looks through every nook and every cranny. I almost don’t want the fun to end. If only she lived in a larger house, but it’s time to end this show and get what I came for.
     She steps out of the hall and back into the kitchen, where I stand holding the letter I sent her in my pale, ghostly hand…

     …Grace screams and falls back against the wall. Her ragged breath is in rhythm with her pounding heart. She wonders if the neighbors heard her scream, but she knows it doesn’t matter.
     Surely they heard Dave scream that fateful night. The moon was full and the stars were bright. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, making the night gray instead of black. He screamed long after he should’ve stopped. Someone must’ve heard, but no one came.
     Will they come now?
     “Dave,” Grace whispers.
     He smiles and opens his diaphanous fingers, letting the letter flitter to the floor.
     “Hello, Gracie,” Dave says, his voice echoing hollowly throughout the room.
     She flattens herself against the wall. “Y-your dead.”
     “Yes, I am.”
     She’s frozen in terror, unable to do anything but look into the everlasting eyes of the man whose life she stole. “Y-you aren’t supposed to be here.”
     He moves towards her, gliding gracefully across the room, leaving glistening glimmers in his wake. “And where should I be? Heaven? Hell?”
     Somewhere underneath her fear she finds that she’s fond of his voice. It isn’t harsh, but it isn’t soft. It’s neither black nor white. It’s somewhere in between.
     It’s gray, and she likes the gray.
     “Y-yes,” she answers, not sure where she thinks he should be.
     He is now mere inches from her frightened eyes. “It’s neither Heaven nor Hell. It’s somewhere in between. I’m in the gray, Gracie.”
     “Y-yes,” she whispers, lost in his eyes. Remembering them then, and seeing them now.
     “Shall we see where you shall go, Gracie?”
     “Yes,” she says, and this time there is no stutter.
     He slides up to her, skimming against her skin. His gossamer lips touch hers and he sucks, siphons, steals…snatching away her life until her body is a shell and only her soul is left.
     Somewhere.
     Else.  
     Somewhere in the gray.