A New Short Story For You, Prayer Shawls

Prayer Shawls

“Bitch!”

The word was mouthed soundlessly into folded hands, so that anyone who might have seen Betty Volk would have believed the old woman was deep in prayer.

Her eyes were cast forwards, but it was not the crucifix in front of her which held her gaze. To the left of the altar was a display of shawls, made by women of the church to be donated to patients at the local hospital. But there was one in particular that demanded her attention. That shawl, that bright, gaudy shawl captured her attention like a neon sign, making all else about it seem drab by comparison. Everything else—the other shawls that were on display, the green pennants behind the altar, the chalice into which Christ’s own blood soon would be poured—nothing else mattered. Those garish colors stung at her heart like knitting needs plunged by hateful hands.

She closed her eyes, trying to drive away the malice it aroused in her. But closing her eyes she saw the face of Mabel, the woman responsible for her pain. She saw that glib smile that passed for kindliness to so many who knew her superficially. She saw the woman who bought her clothes new rather than from Goodwill and rummage sales the way she and most of the others in the knitting club did. She saw Mabel’s hands, hands that had not been worn down by years of work the way her own had.

She opened her eyes again, saw her own gnarled and misshapen fingers in front of her. Once she had been capable of producing such finery that she would have put anyone of them to shame. Now pain gripped her hands so tightly it brought tears to her eyes while she had knitted the prayer shawl that was on display with the rest of them.

Hers was a simple blue shawl, tasteful, but thick and well constructed. Mabel’s was a flimsy thing, made more for show than comfort. Dear God, it looked more like something a lady of the evening might wear, not something to keep an old person warm. Betty had used yarn donated by a parishioner, but Mabel… Where did she even find such yarn?

It betrayed the whole idea of charity, betrayed those who had contributed yarn for the project. It was all about vanity for that…Bitch…Mabel. The hatred rose again in her, a hatred so burning and alive it almost made her feel young again, almost made her feel capable of things she had never even considered in so many years. She was old—oh, so old—but there were passions that were still sharp in her. It seemed that all that was once good in her had been taken by time, while those passions that should have mellowed with age, should have been conquered at long last by maturity or simply dissipated with the ebb of vitality, still lingered in her.

Lust. Dear God, it still possessed her, though nobody would ever want to consider the idea. Pride. It still determined her behavior, though there was precious little for her to take pride in at this stage of life. Jealousy. She prayed that she might be free of it, but somehow it seemed more difficult to pray with any degree of focus nowadays. Age and human frailty had overridden and overcome all that was once best in her. And while she once believed in the superiority of spirituality over the physical, time had taught her many bitter lessons. It seemed as if her inability to straighten her fingers to pray somehow prevented her prayers from coming out straight. She was merely clay, a poor vessel for holding the virtues she wished to possess.

She had spent the better part of mass obsessing over the shawls, over her hatred of Mabel. She mumbled the required responses and amens without really being aware of what she was saying. At some point the priest had pointed to the shawls and explained to the parishioners that they were to be donated to the sick at the local hospital, but Betty took no pride in her accomplishment, spoiled as it was by thoughts of Mabel.

Lost in thoughts that had taken hold of her despite her attempts to drive them out with prayer, she suddenly became aware that the priest was now in front of her. It was time for communion, and he was delivering the host first to those in the front row, those like herself who were too old and infirm to stand in line like the rest. She opened her mouth to have the host placed upon her tongue, then took hold of the chalice and drank perhaps deeper than she should have of the wine.

A thought flashed through her mind, powerful and compelling. For an instant, the idea of spitting into the chalice so that Mabel might unwittingly drink from it came to her. It filled her with revulsion, and she choked it down quickly into the dark recesses of her mind. She concentrated on the host within her mouth, hoped to find strength and salvation from its presence within her.

She swallowed determinedly, lowering her gaze once more to her hands folded in prayer. But the thoughts continued to come from the dark areas within her.

Her eyes closed, the blackness within her became more overpowering. The prayers she silently uttered seemed to be lost somewhere in parts of her mind no longer accessible by her aged spirit. Within a gap where memory could no longer find the words, she heard the voice of Henry talking soothingly to his mother.

Henry. What a despicable little lickspittle. Mabel’s youngest, her special child, her baby. Spoiled brat, more like it. She had ruined that child. She never allowed him to grow up, never let him become his own man. And now here he was, middle aged, and still living at home. Taking pleasures in things someone with a bit of youth to them should not be bothered with.

He should have had a wife, should have had a life. Instead, his life centered around his mother. And when she passed, what would he have then? Bah, what a waste of life.

She turned her head to see Henry arm in arm with Mabel. It was disgusting. It looked more like man and wife than mother and son. It was unnatural, that’s what it was. And Mabel, she was lapping it all up. Her child was like the shawl, not something with a value in and of itself but a thing to garner attention for her.

Henry stood back so that Mabel might receive the host, then he followed. Such a dutiful child. You could see the thought in Mabel’s eyes, could see the pride she took from his debasement. Anything to get attention, anything to have all eyes on her.

Bitch.

Very well, thought Betty. If it’s attention you want, it’s attention you will receive.

Having received the Eucharist, Mabel moved to the left where a deacon awaited her with chalice held in front of him. She walked right in front of Betty, noticed her and gave her one of her fake smiles. And in that moment the darkness took control of Betty.

Betty had her cane in one hand. Henry was now taking communion. For a moment, Mabel was without the support of her son, without which she might well have needed a cane, just like Betty. With a deftness that surprised her, Betty moved her cane subtly in front of her, directly between the legs of Mabel, throwing her off balance. Betty looked up at Mabel’s face to see the smile die, turn to surprise and then fear.

It pleased Betty. For a moment she felt young again, felt the thrill of excitement and accomplishment. She could still make her mark on the world.

Betty watched it all as if it was occurring in slow motion, as if at last time had slowed down for her, as if time was finally giving something back. Mabel came down hard, harder than even Betty would have imagined. The surprise and fear that was on Mabel’s face was now wiped away and replaced by agony. She lay there, motionless.

Apparently, beneath the fine clothes she wore, she was every bit as frail as Betty. In that moment, the regret began to well up in her, but the thrill she felt at what she had done never really left her. She felt that she was still alive, still capable of doing big things, even if what she had done was horrible. She was alive, she could right injustices. She still had power.

Henry was hunched over his mother now, who was lying face down. He attempted to roll her over but his actions were accompanied by a piteous shriek, the old woman’s voice an insufficient tool to express the pain it must have caused her. Betty looked at Mabel, whose face was now turned towards her. Blood dripped from her nose in gobs, but she knew that was not the main source of her pain. It was a hip, Betty could see that by the way she responded when Henry had sought to move her. She could sense that it had shattered like an old piece of stained glass.

Gone was any semblance of pride or sense of superiority from Mabel’s countenance. So wrapped up was she in her own pain she didn’t even care about how undignified she appeared with the blood pouring down her face, the grimace of agony on her face that rivaled the one carved into the face upon the crucifix. Pity rose in Betty once again. Like a pendulum, pity and satisfaction moved through her. She had the natural revulsion at seeing another human being in pain. And then she remembered the smile that had been on Mabel’s face and the pendulum swung back again. Betty preferred the look Mabel had upon her face now.

For a brief moment, she forgot where she was, and permitted a smile to come to her lips. Then she remembered and wiped any sign of satisfaction from her appearance. She looked at Mabel, but she hadn’t noticed, so wrapped up was she in her pain. Henry too, had no attention for anyone other than his dear mother. Relief surged in her, until she averted her gaze and saw another member of her knitting circle. Flora had a look of horror on her face, but it was not Mabel she was looking at. She was looking at Betty.

Flora knew. Betty was certain of it. Betty could tell by the way Flora could not avert her gaze, although she tried to look away.

Yes, Flora knew. It was time to close her eyes, to appear deep in prayer as she contemplated what to do about Flora. She would have to be dealt with.

My New Novel, Horror Films, Self-Pormotion and War

See that little image over there to the right of the screen? It’s right below where it asks for you to subscribe to my mailing list (which I’m sure you've already done so that you can get notices of new releases and sometimes free stuff. It’s really worth it and I promise not to bother you more than once or twice a year). That picture of a book cover with the title Shell Shock signifies that I have released my 5^th novel. Quite a small and unassuming little image, hidden away on an almost unknown blog-site.

And yet to me it signifies the result of all my spare energies for over a year now. It signifies a heck of a lot of research into areas that showed in gory detail some of the bleaker aspects of humanity. That’s what I do, I stare into the abyss and try to bring forth hope from it. I think that’s the essence of the horror genre, at least for me: to stare into the darkness and see something other than what our fears awaken in us. To shine the light into the dark places rather than turn away and pretend the darkness doesn’t exist.

Horror to me is not a means of distracting myself from reality. I remember as a child peering through slightly-parted fingers at many a movie that both terrified and excited me. Perhaps my favorite story was that of Frankenstein. The story has been told many times and often the creature was not always called Frankenstein, but the similarities were there. A scientist, who is blind to everything except his ability to do what no one has done before, creates an abomination. Through genius and hubris he brings to life something God and nature never intended. The creature, ill-equipped for the world, becomes a monster through no fault of its own and must be destroyed.

There were lessons to be drawn from such stories, lessons that have always stayed with me. One important lesson I learned from such stories was that the monster was not really the monster, that he was an object of pity who may have harmed others but did so not because he was evil but because he was misunderstood and ill-fashioned for the world he was brought into. I could even feel pity for the creator of such a being, because his intentions were ambitious and noble, though they were taken too far.

The other lesson I learned from the Frankenstein story—whether the monster went by the name of Godzilla, The Amazing Colossal Man, The Fly, or countless other movies—was that the use of technology always brought with it unintended consequences, that there were powers too great for man to control. They warned against the perils that our technological progress would bring with it, warned against the sin of too-great pride and self-importance.

Pity for others and humility in oneself. Not bad lessons to be learned from works of horror. You see, not all horror stories need be escapist, in fact the best ones aren’t. The best ones don’t end up distracting you from what you fear but causing you to look at what most frightens you so that you can overcome it. That’s what I try to write, about real-life problems we would rather not face head-on. That’s where horror lurks in real-life, in those problems we stuff into our subconscious because we don’t feel brave enough or strong enough to overcome them. They become monsters there, always lurking in the darkness to pounce upon us in our moment of weakness. I deal with them through fiction so that perhaps the reader will dare to chance a peek at them even as they cover their eyes. That maybe what we fear is not insurmountable and we are in fact capable of perceiving it for what it truly is and perhaps even be stronger in the end for having dared.

But I’ve strayed far from my original intention, which was to announce the release of my new novel, Shell Shock, and have you sign up for my mailing list. For all of my high-minded talk, I’m still just a writer who’d like to be read and perhaps even rewarded a little for my efforts, however modestly. But there is more to it than just that, as you will see when you crack open one of my books. The monster I deal with in Shell Shock is war, and it kills more than Jason, Freddy, Godzilla, Dracula, The Wolfman, and every-zombie-that-ever-was combined. There’s an element of Frankenstein in it too, in that man has managed to create horrors with technology he never should have toyed with.

While I have employed supernatural aspects in Shell Shock, I assure you the horror is all too real and 100% man-made. And if we try to avoid it, if we shove it deep into our sub-conscious, it will fester and grow in the darkness until one day it eats us in our sleep.

Shell Shock-Another Sample

Here are 1,200 words I wrote tonight, fresh of the press. Totally unedited, so please don't mind whatever mistakes there might be.

A cannon sounded from somewhere far behind the German lines, the start of a bombardment to weaken the Allied lines. Soon a hundred other cannons echoed the first. And before the last was done the first was firing again. The bombardment would last an undetermined amount of time, a day or more. A sleepless twenty-four hour time where there was nothing to be done but endure.

It was a prelude to an attack. The goal was to soften them up, to destroy every bit of them they could, to blow up the barbed wire and machine gun posts that would hold up and cut down any charge. The bombing continued drowning out any other noise. There was nothing to do but listen to the explosions as they blasted earth that had already been blasted many times before, to pray if one could still believe in a God that listened to the prayers of soldiers.

Steve crawled into a small hole dug into the side of the trench, large enough only for one man. Each of them would be on his own now. There was nothing any of them could do to help another, save tend to their wounds should a shell fall too close.

It was times like this Steve prayed for courage. But his fear distanced him from any chance at real communion with either his own thoughts or feelings or some sense of an outer divinity. But he knew his prayers were merely a way to distract his thoughts from the reality around him. They were no different than the babbling of an inmate in an asylum, the repetition of empty phrases that were nevertheless useful in soothing his neuroses.

His prayers went absent-mindedly on as his mind disconnected from his surroundings. He was losing himself, cutting off the outside world in order to protect his mind from the fear that sought to overwhelm him. The bombs continued to fall but never did they establish any kind of rhythm, never did they fall when expected nor cease from falling when he felt he could take no more. Sometimes, as he sat in his dugout clutching his knees to his chest, he tried to will the bombs not to fall, as if he merely thought hard enough he could have some control over the world in which he was forced to live. He would pray and try to will away the destruction that always threatened horrors still worse than those he was living through.

But prayers and mental distractions could never keep away the dark thoughts for long.

He had seen bodies, too many to count, that had been near the spot where a shell came to earth. He had seen men, some he knew, lying lifeless, their bodies in contorted positions that might have been humorous had it not been so real. He had seen bits and pieces of men lying all about and it all seemed so arbitrary. How does a man’s arm get torn from his body and still look to be in good shape?

Other times a man could be killed by the mere force of a blast, so that he looks perfectly okay and yet something vital deep within has been stopped.

The thing was, the first time he had seen a man torn apart by an explosion it affected him viscerally. But now he had seen it so many times, it was only some new spin upon the standard death by explosion could make him react in the same way, and there were only so many different ways a man could be scattered by the force of an explosion or by shrapnel. The others, those who died in ways similar to those he had seen before, well their deaths just seemed to accumulate in his subconscious, never bothering to register in his conscious mind.

It was only in his dreams that he became aware of the dead he had no time to notice in his waking moments. In his sleep they were given his full attention. They haunted him, though he did not know why. He had not killed them, did not wish them ill. Perhaps it was that they were jealous that they had been taken while he yet lived. Perhaps, being dead, they knew things he did not know. Maybe they stayed with him because they knew he was destined to join them.

In calm moments, on leave away from the front, he knew such thoughts were nonsensical. But here at the front, there was no sense, there was only madness. The laws of the other world, the one he had known his entire life, did not apply here. And the world he learned of here was encroaching more and more upon that other life, making it less real. The two worlds could not both exist. There could not be a world of forests when his eyes stared at the cratered wasteland that separated the warring parties. He no longer remembered what a tree looked like with leaves on it, could only visualize charred stubs that reminded him of the blasted men who had passed through this way.

It would only be two days before he rotated out of the front lines, but it was quite realistic that he would not live that long. And so his entire world was a hole in the ground and the raining missiles that were sent to destroy and kill.

It just started. It only just started. It would go on even when the sun had set, would perhaps continue until the sun rose again. And then the soldiers would come, hoping to sweep away all that opposed them.

The whistling of a shell brought his mind out of his dark thoughts and into his dismal present. It was close. But not close enough to be a danger, he decided after a moment. The anxiety that had risen in him began to recede somewhat. He heard it fall to earth and explode with a violence that raked his nerves even though he knew he was physically safe. Each bomb that fell added to the anxiety that never left him, just as each bomb did some damage to the Allied lines, their ability to defend themselves when the attack began.

Hours into the bombardment, he began to feel a degree of numbness. It was the most he could hope for, that the terror eventually surrendered to a certain emptiness within him. He felt a great weariness, as though he might be unable to stand up should the need arise. The intensity was too much for a human to endure for long, so that the body began to shut down. It was only the missile that seemed to approach too closely that snapped him from his torpor.

The earth shook when a shell hit nearby. It was at such times that the dead earth seemed the victim of the living, that all it wanted to do was lie peacefully but was tortured by the living. It almost seemed a cosmic dance, wherein the living allowed the dead no peace, while the dead claimed more than its share of those who sought to disturb them. It was hard to choose a side, hard to know whether it was life or death who was the enemy. It was getting hard to know what side he was on, which he was fighting for.

Shell Shock Sample

This is darker than the last sample I shared, but similar. I've had a productive week of writing and am eager to share a little of what I've accomplished. All you really need to now is that Emily plays piano for the silent movies in 1917:


The images appeared on the screen, preparation for a major offensive. It was not the United States at war, not yet. Then the bombing began, a saturation of cannon fire in order to soften the enemy’s resistance. It was rather more graphic than Doug would have imagined.

He had seen people killed before. He had seen horrors equal to battle, but not on this scale. And never before had he sat and watched helplessly.

He heard in the music that the film was affecting Emily as well. Each bomb that fell onscreen was accompanied by chords hammered upon lower notes. It was amazing what she was able to add to the score, the ability she had to bring the horror of war to senses beyond his sight. She played with such strength he could actually feel the resonance from the soundboard. It was Chopin again, but she was adapting it to what she saw onscreen, stretching it beyond anything the composer intended.

Somewhere in the rhythm was a beating heart, the frantic heart of a soldier at the edge of panic. The terror of the combatants was translated through mere notes, and Doug knew that she must be surrendering herself to the full range of emotion in order for her to be playing what she was. There was no holding back, but he wished that she did. He wanted to spare her the pain, as well as himself.

He had to look away from the screen for a moment, had to turn away from the tragedy of war. He hoped Emily would too, but her playing merely increased its intensity. He could see in his mind’s eye the violence that was occurring onscreen, each note a detail of destruction and death.

It frightened him, her capacity to tell a tale so dark. It was as if the violence was playing her, using her to spread beyond the celluloid into the small little theater.

The violence on the screen ended and the music became somber. The wounded of both sides were shown, as if the camera could not distinguish which camp the wounded soldiers belonged to. A temporary lull in fighting allowed both sides to clear the dead from the battlefield.

All of what Doug saw was accompanied by music so subtle he hardly identified it as such. Instead, it was a mood, a depression that fell upon him. It was the wails of children who would never see their fathers, the mourning of mothers who had given birth to soldiers destined to die on foreign soil. Again he would have turned away but he lacked the volition to do so. There was so much destruction and yet Doug knew they would run out of film before they ever ran out of carnage to record. The lack of color kept from him the full sensory impression of the blood that was everywhere, but no color was required to see the emptiness in the stares of men who had seen too much.

Then he thought of Emily again. It was in the music, there was no denying it. She too must be experiencing the full horror of it, must be taking upon herself all of what the soldiers were feeling in order to translate it so fully in the music. It was no longer Chopin at all, now, it was emotion ripped from her guts and drawn with all the skill and feeling within her.

At length the music drifted to silence as cameras panned across forests blasted into ruin by endless missiles, soldiers resting from the battle but never really recovering. The silence spoke as eloquently as the music: there was nothing more to say.

From the mass devastation the camera turned to the face of a single soldier, a face that reflected everything the movie had shown. He appeared uninjured but his eyes… His eyes betrayed a vacancy as if he was staring at something in the distance that simply wasn’t there. Somehow the man’s face seemed to melt away so that all Doug saw was the blackness in the soldier’s eyes. Whatever he saw was not what was in front of him. The eyes seemed to reflect an endless emptiness inside, as if all that had made him human had fled from what he had been forced to experience. The silence matched the emptiness.

Everything on the screen faded from Doug’s sight, insignificant compared to the depths of the soldier’s eyes. And then a second set of eyes caught his attention, as if he was seeing double. But the eyes he saw seemed to come towards him as if they were emerging from the flat screen.

Slowly Doug realized who the eyes belonged to, saw the face that framed them. It was Emily, standing up in front of the screen. The image on the screen moved from the soldier but the dead eyes remained, Emily’s eyes, that stared at something no one else would be able to see. Images moved about the screen, scenes of death and destruction, but somehow they were not as vivid as what those eyes expressed. Gone was the woman he loved, drowned in a sea of organized violence that resulted in random death. For all the precision that went into the making of armaments, where they landed and what they destroyed was up to chance. And bombs that fall in Europe can yet destroy a heart that thinks it is safe an ocean away.

From her mouth came a voice that was not hers but the voice of war, of mindless, purposeless death.

Love In The Time Of The First World War

My first attempt at writing of love. The year is 1917, and silent movies were accompanied by live musicians, in this case a pianist.

Soon houses thinned into farmland and wilderness. Doug turned around, desiring the company and the light the town provided. How long he walked he did not know, not conscious of where he was going but merely trying to stay on whatever road seemed most well-travelled. Here and there were people headed towards their destinations, but Doug did not know what they were. Perhaps they were on their way to visit family and friends, on their way to houses that provided comfort and camaraderie to those who knew the owners.

For the first time in recent memory, Doug felt alone. Whatever the downsides of a lumber camp, there existed within it a certain comradeship. Interdependence required as much. And before that, even though alone, there were other words more apt to describe what he had been feeling. Fear, frustration, despair, but not a longing for human companionship. Perhaps his time in the woods had achieved the desired aim—he was thinking and feeling normal human thoughts and emotions again. Even the events of the last few months had not been able to prevent the healing that had taken place. Whatever might be wrong with the outside world, it did not have to leave its mark on his soul. He was beginning to feel whole again, and feeling whole, he realized that man was not meant to spend all his time alone.

Music drifted into his mind that seemed to accompany his thoughts. Elegant, beautiful music that stirred in him subtle and wonderful emotions. Anonymous longings sprang up in him like long-dormant flora, feelings universal and timeless. Another soul was touching his, telling him of deep mysteries beyond the understanding of man.

Music. It was a language that spoke of things over which words had no power.

Chopin! Tears came to his eyes and he did not know why. It was beauty, beautiful music beautifully played.

He did not realize it but he began to walk towards the source of the music. It was only a piano, but each note reverberated in him. It was another thing entirely than the music he had been used to of late, a fiddle played by oversized hands accompanied by a concertina and doggerel verses.

And just as suddenly the music changed. It was as if at once a chase began, and if to accompany it came a hunting song or a madcap dance. Looking up to the source of the sound he saw a rather large building and upon it read the sign for a moving picture show. He had come upon a theater, albeit a very humble one. A woman sat at a window, distractedly. The show had apparently already started, but Doug was able to get her attention and purchase a ticket. He entered into a small dark room with perhaps no more than fifty chairs arranged in front of a silver screen no more than ten feet across. And upon it played some drama concocted by one of the major studios. But while in other circumstances he might have been interested in the movie, it was the piano that called to him. It was too dark to see the people inside the theater as more than shadows, but he could see the movement of the pianist. It appeared to him a ballet dance, so fluid and lovely was the body as it swayed to the notes. She was positioned to the right of the screen, facing it so that she could respond musically to what was being shown. Every act and emotion upon the screen was played out more convincingly in the movements she made, more so in the music itself.

Doug could not even recall the movie he was watching, only that it was the most moving he had ever seen. Not the story itself nor the actors but the accompaniment. It lifted everything, from the simplest movement to the look of longing on the starlet’s face. Music infused the story, making it sublime.

Sometimes as the light on the screen was brightest, he could make out her fingers touching down gracefully upon the keys and it appeared to him in his enchantment they moved like tiny faeries in an intricate dance.

He did not see her face and yet he was convinced he loved her. Her grace and gentle soul, the playfulness that let drop hints of her depths like ripples on a pond. He was content to sit in the dark, alone with the music she played.

It was over far too soon. The film ended and the lights came on and-lo and behold! She was beautiful. Beautiful as the music she played, lovelier far than the starlet that had been on the screen. Long brown hair pulled back into a pony tail, with here and there a strand escaping like non-conformists. Her entire person seemed to radiate grace, as though you could not feel uncomfortable in her presence.

And yet Doug felt extremely uncomfortable at the moment. He wished to approach her, make her aware of his existence, and yet knew no way of doing so. He was a stranger in a small community and knew such forwardness would be quite unacceptable. He knew of nothing he could do to catch her eye. Already she was surrounded by others from the audience. And yet Doug could not help noticing there was no one who seemed to be either suitor or husband.

She was young, younger than Doug by several years, but seemed in possession of a maturity beyond her age. His eyes slid from her face as she happened to glance in his direction and in that moment he noticed no ring on those fingers that had danced so eloquently on the ivory keys.

She left amid a group of people, family he couldn’t help thinking, judging by a similar look among a few of them. Doug too exited into the darkness, alone but with thoughts of another, one whose name he did not even know. And all the events of the last few months receded in his memory, and all the concerns of the last few years slipped away. He had sought to flee what had been haunting him, the inescapable truths of a world too large for him, and at last he knew what he had been seeking.

Love was the answer. Love was the cure for all the sickness and ugliness in the world. The revelation came not as a thought but as an emotional welling up within him, like the passionate passages of a nocturne.

A Sample From Shell Shock, The Sequel To Seven Stones

I had a busy week writing this week and thought I'd share a snippet:

Shuffling was heard, paws padding on soft snow. Doug found himself in the middle of the group mind, a mind whose purpose was to kill. It was an alien intelligence, an intelligence unknown but knowable, if fear and loathing did not prevent him from trying. It was not hatred, not evil, it was merely the sort of fear that caused one to kill in order to preserve the life of the pack. And Doug was incidental to it all, he sensed it. The scene acting itself out in front of him was one in which he was just an accidental observer. Blood would be spilled in order that order would be preserved, the pack allowed to survive.

Gagnon seemed to have heard something, as suddenly he raised his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and fired. A piercing howl went up in the direction where Gagnon fired. Again, he surveyed the forest’s edge, seeming to see what Doug could not. Again a shot, again a howl.

But the movement within the woods seemed to increase. His shots were merely stirring up a swarm of angry hornets. Doug was within the caldron, could do nothing but stand and stare. Gagnon’s behavior began to grow more and more erratic, turning again and again to confront foes he could not possibly see. He turned in Doug’s direction, looked straight at him, but did not seem to see him. Still, Gagnon raised his rifle. The futility of his situation almost made him stay where he was, but a thought of inspiration made him fall to the ground.

The bullet flew over his head and again a howl could be heard from the woods, a sickening howl that conveyed all the horror of the situation. As the pack seemed to work together, so too did the entire pack seem to howl through the voice of the wolf that had been shot. But the movement in the woods only increased. Doug looked up, saw Gagnon swirling around now, attempting to ward off a threat that seemed to come from all around him. He was in the middle of a semi-circle of woods, twenty feet in all directions.

And then the first wolf came out from its hiding, a great, grey wolf with eyes that shown yellow in the moonlight. Gagnon was not looking at it, could no longer seemed to focus, instead swirling around, looking for the enemy everywhere but not seeing the danger. Soon another wolf, then another, slowly crept out of the shadows of the woods into the clearing. Three, five, ten, a score, all of them larger than Doug could have imagined. Still Gagnon turned in circles, looking for unseen dangers as the wolves slowly circled their prey, closing their distances as they moved.

At last a black wolf slipped from the shadows, seemed to be part of the shadows himself. Larger even than the others, he appeared to be the alpha-wolf. One eye only glistened a sickly yellow in the moon’s light, but its white teeth shown brightly. At last Gagnon’s focus seemed to return, as if finally seeing what it was that has been haunting him. He raised his rifle and aimed it at the black wolf, that looked at him with the one yellow eye. But there was nothing more than a click as he pulled the trigger. He had spent his ammunition.

The black wolf worked its way among the others, still part of the pack, not its driving force but the leading weapon of whatever force drove the pack on. Doug was within the circle that focused on Gagnon. He gripped the axe but had no hopes for himself other than delaying his death by a few seconds. But the wolves paid no more attention to him than Gagnon had.

The pack was continuing to close in, so close that one brushed against Doug’s leg. Doug lowered the axe in its direction but missed. Still the pack seemed unaware or uninterested in him, as if he were no more than a tree or a stone to be worked around. The occasional growl could was emitted, teeth exposed in order to get its preys attention and fear. Taking the only chance he saw, Doug started to work his way outward from the circle, picking his way slowly through the throng. He anticipated sharp teeth attaching themselves to his arm or leg at any moment, but he was able to pick his way through the throng unmolested. His back was turned to Gagnon, but he could hear him talking to the pack as if he expected them to listen. But the authority he had always had in his tone was gone now, it was full of fear, marking him as the kind of prey that was an easy mark.

Free from the circle, Doug walked slowly to the forest line, nearly as slowly as he had walked away from it. He found a pine that seemed hospitable and jumped to the lowest branch. He climbed, higher than he needed to, as high as he could. When he felt at last secure, he turned his gaze towards the clearing, saw the wolves continue their encirclement. As Gagnon turned, the occasional wolf would make a lunge at his back, forcing him to turn again. The pine branches obstructed Doug’s view so that Gagnon was one moment visible, the next hidden with reaction he made towards a wolf. He did not see when the first wolf took him down, only heard the scream of pain. The rest he only partially saw. Doug would not have been able to look away, but he was grateful he could not see it all. The screaming abated and soon after so did the snarls. He couldn’t tell for sure—perhaps he only imagined it—but he thought he saw Gagnon gaze up to his spot in the tree as he was on the ground, a resigned look in his eyes the same as Doug had seen in the deer’s.

Chapter 1 Of Seven Stones

Chapter 1

September 24, 1913 Chicago

     The table rocked slightly in the darkness. Each of those sitting around it held the hands of those next to them.

     “Do not break the circle,” intoned the medium. “Do not let go of the hand you hold.”

     They were all dependent upon each other to ensure not only their safety but to create the necessary link to the other world. They were all at the mercy of the medium, who alone had some experience in such matters. He alone had power to communicate with the spirit world. He spoke as one who was already halfway between this world and the next.

     “If you notice movement above you, if you feel anything touch your cheek, say nothing, do nothing. Do not call attention to yourself and they will not pay undue attention to you.”

     “A moment please,” spoke another member of the gathering, timidly. “I wish to remove my spectacles. I won’t be needing them in the dark and I fear they may be broken.”

     “Do it if you must,” came the voice of the medium, obviously perturbed, “but do not delay or disturb the forces around us again.”

     There was a fumbling in the dark for a moment as the man could be heard removing his glasses and then hands reached out again to re-form the circle.

     The medium intoned the spirits to make themselves known. Over and over he chanted, until his utterances were nothing more than low moans. Soon, even the low moans drifted away into a silence. And then the table began to move, slowly at first, and then more violently, lifting and dropping to the floor. Each of them could feel it through their elbows and hands that rested on the table. A slight audible bump as it fell back to the floor sent shivers up spines.

     Before long there seemed to be motion above the heads of those who sat at the table, the stagnant air of the attic being stirred by unknown forces.

     “I feel contact,” the medium shouted suddenly, almost as though he had been stabbed.

     The table dropped and the medium could be heard gasping unevenly as though he was breathing for two.

     When the medium spoke again, it was no longer with the same voice.

     “Greetings from the world beyond the world,” the voice uttered in a sarcastic tone. “To those of you who are open to the truth, I wish you well,” the voice came a step towards pleasantness, for a moment, then changed to a hiss, “but you are unwise to allow those who dare disbelief to be among you. The circle is your one protection from forces even I cannot control. Do not allow that circle to be compromised by doubters.”

     There was silence. Then the table began to rock violently. In the darkness, it sounded as if the medium was convulsing. The madness grew. Soon a bell was ringing, a horn blew frantically.

     Without sight, neither imagination nor the senses could make sense of what was going on around and above and below them. It was an invitation to panic, to abandon any attempt to impose reason on the situation. Just when hearing began to place the source of the disturbance somewhere above their heads, there came again the rocking of the table that was felt beneath their clasped hands.

     As the rocking of the table reached new heights of intensity and the ringing of the bell became more frantic, a beam of light flickered on. For a moment, it only served to increase the chaos. But soon reason began to reclaim a foothold among the people gathered around the table. It was a flashlight held by a member of the circle and it was pointed directly at where the medium sat. Or, rather, it was pointed at where the medium should have been. In the circle of light that bathed his high-backed chair, no sign could be seen of the man responsible for all the noises in the dark.

     “You can come out, now,” came the voice of the man holding the flashlight. The head of the medium slowly rose above the table. On his chest an amulet with a large green stone reflected dimly the beam of light from the flashlight.

     “Using your head to move the table. I’ve seen such methods used many times before. And undoubtedly using a false-back shoe so that you could use your foot to ring a bell. Aided by a compatriot or two, no doubt.”

     The voice that came from behind the light was commanding, the face that stared into the light now timid in its unexpected exposure.

     “You expect these parlor games to fool me, Slatterini The Astounding? A magician trained in the art of deception?”

     Behind the beam of the flashlight, the figure holding it could be observed ripping off a false beard and glasses. The old gray-haired man who had slowly made his way up the stairs earlier that evening now revealed himself to be a clean-shaven man in his early twenties. The frailty had vanished and was replaced with a glare of certainty and vitality. He was young and of no more than average height, but had attitude and confidence enough to assert his authority.

     “By sleight of hand you fool people into believing the preposterous. You play upon people’s fears and longings, conning wealthy widows into giving you not only their wealth but their very ability to reason. You separate your followers from family and society by filling their heads with such nonsense they can no longer maintain normal relationships.”

     The people seated around the table were too surprised for the most part to say a word. The medium, a middle aged man with hair and mustache precisely oiled and styled, stared as much as possible his hatred past the glare of the flashlight. The woman seated next to him, obviously an accomplice, rose in her anger.

     “You don’t understand,” she screamed. “Of course a medium cannot be expected to achieve success with such skeptics to siphon off the proper psychic energy. It is your doubt that has caused the failure here tonight.”

     “And it is my doubt that caused Professor Munchin to make such a show of things, too, I suppose?”

     The accomplice would admit to nothing. With the hair piled atop her head, she seemed a good deal taller than she was. “Faith is of the utmost importance. Sometimes the faith must be encouraged. When there is doubt present, the spirits will not make the connection. Sometimes those in attendance must be given something to stir their faith before the spirits deem the circle worthy of an appearance. Sometimes—“

     “Bosh!” exclaimed the man with the flashlight. “Utter and complete claptrap, coming from the crudest of cons. Not only shall I write an explanation of all that I have witnessed here tonight and send it to the newspaper, I shall incorporate your practices into my stage act along with an explanation of how your tricks are done. The practices of those in your profession blacken the reputation of those in mine.”

     “Here is my card, sir,” he said to Munchin, producing it seemingly from mid-air. He walked towards the medium and placed it boldly into the other’s breast pocket. “You are formally invited to see my performance at the Aragon Ball Room, this weekend. It promises to prove quite instructive.”

     No longer walking like an old man in mourning, he walked towards the stairs that led from the attic with the practiced movements of an experienced showman. With no further words, he strode out of the house and into the gloom of twilight. As he walked, he whistled to himself as he twirled a chain that had on it a rather curious pendant with a green stone in its center.

     Back in the attic of the brownstone house, a lamp was lit. What had appeared a moment earlier to be a group of strangers now talked quite familiarly with one another.

     “He’s gone,” said a voice coming from the stairs.

     “Are you sure?”

     “Yes. He hopped a street car headed north.”

     “Damn magicians,” said the one who was called Professor Munchin, “they should stick to amusing children with card tricks.”

     “It’s Houdini who got them started,” said a heavyset man who was dressed in a suit of such finery that it left little doubt as to his wealth and position in society.

     “Houdini’s going to get his before long,” said Munchin. “But this Slatterini fellow has proven to be a rather useful idiot. Whatever publicity he provides should keep our real work from being discovered. No better cover than to have the world believe we’re scam artists, eh?” Munchin chuckled, as did the heavyset man, pleased with themselves.

     “Well, now that that’s taken care of, suppose we proceed with the real order of business for the evening,” said the woman who moments earlier was feigning outrage.

     “Are you sure you’re still up for it?”

     “The longer we delay, the more I fear to do it. Let us put it off no more.”

     “Very well, then. Let us gather around the table.”

     Removing one chair from the gathering, the six individuals resumed their seats at the table. Hands were once again clasped, heads bowed in the dim light of the gas lamp. Led by Munchin, the group began a low humming while swaying slightly to an unheard rhythm.

     Where the presence came from they did not know. Whether it made its appearance in the center through an opening they had created, or whether it wormed its way through their individual life forces to become a single entity in their midst was impossible to say. They only knew they felt a seventh spirit among them, separate from the group and yet oddly connected.

     It was hard to know where one of them stopped and the other started. Clenched hands reached deeper than the surface, seemed to merge into the other until it almost felt as if each was clutching the beating hearts of those next to him. And in the middle of all was this strange new entity, as though it were the solution that enabled them to dissolve one into the other. And as their hands seemed to reach deeper than the surface, so now this apparition seemed to reach into the hearts of each of them, like spokes in a wheel.

     “What’s happening?” said the woman to the left of Munchin, a concerned quiver in her voice.

     “Stay calm,” Munchin said, exhibiting none of what he preached.

     The members who sat about the table no longer swayed but began to shake as if in convulsions.

     “There’s something wrong!” screamed a member of the circle. “We can’t control it.”

     “Don’t worry,” said Munchin, “I have the amulet. Whatever I summon must respect it.”

     “Where is it?” screamed the woman.

     Munchin looked down, panic welling up on his features. But panic soon changed to pain as something seemed to grab a hold of him, as if a hand reached up inside his chest and around his heart. Soon, all of those around the table shared the same look of agony on their faces. A vague shape above the table was noticeable, its features indistinct except for a malevolent grin. It was only a few seconds before they all slumped forward dead onto the table.

     Seated on a wooden seat aboard a streetcar, a young man snuck a glimpse of a pendant that he half-pulled from his pocket. His expression was one of intense curiousity.

     “I hope they don’t notice this missing.”

If you like what you read, the book is available on Amazon. Simply click here to see more. And please sign up for my mailing list for future sales and giveaways.

How A New Novel Is Begun

I never would have dared share something like this before, but since I’m now on my fifth novel I’m comfortable enough with the process to know it’s going to work. It seems absurd on the face of it, to think that I take such crude, unrelated elements and weave them into a novel, but it’s the way it works for me. Some people couldn't imagine doing it on the fly and outline the entire story before they begin writing: such an approach is equally incomprehensible to me. For me, the story has to unfold itself, it has to grope its way from one location to the next. Sure, I’ll have my next destination somewhat in mind in order to guide me, but I always like to be surprised at how I get there and what direction it sparks me to head towards next. So here I am, throwing out a few things I have in my head which inspire me to write. And from them shall come another novel which I am confident I will be proud to say I wrote.

Opening Scene:

I have an image in my head of horses pulling a sled stacked with fallen trees up a big hill. Steam will be rising from their bodies as they exert themselves to the utmost. They are not sure why it is they must accomplish this task, but somehow the exertion seems to be what they were born to do. And so they labor and strive until at last the top is reached.

But as they reach the top they now realize that what once was a weight to be pulled is now a danger behind them. The weight of the sleigh is bearing down on them now with full force. They run madly to escape what is behind them, but in their madness they act individually and soon run into each other. One horse collapses, sending another and still another down, until the sled runs them down.

Our Main Character from the last novel, Seven Stones, will be witnessing the event. And to him he will see the world as it now is, a world that struggled to reach a higher summit only to see it all come crashing down upon them. It is 1917, and World War I is raging.

Doug Slattery is a draft dodger, avoiding the war by hiding in the woods of Northern Ontario. He has seen too much to view the fight as anything other than senseless. He has seen the promise of a better worlds slip away.

As a logger, he is part of the destruction of the natural habitat. So when odd things start happening in the region, he starts to think it is the result of the destruction he is a part of. Loggers go out in the woods but never come back. Their bodies are later found, horribly mangled. Is it some spirit of the woods out for revenge? Or is it some other form of butchery that is causing supernatural events? Gradually, Doug learns of an institution that is harboring veterans of the great war, shell-shocked wreckage from a devastation the likes of which the world has never known. The damage the war has done to them is still working its power through their war-ravaged minds. Doug will have to infiltrate the asylum disguised as a patient if he can hope to find the answers he will need to stop the horrors he has been witnessing. But the outside manifestations are but little compared to the madness within.

My Novel, Seven Stones Available (Sort Of)

My new novel, Seven Stones, is now available for pre-order for Kindle. So what’s it all about and why should you care? Because I’ve made a very conscious decision to bring you action from the get go while providing a portrait of life a century ago. The story begins a year before the start of World War I, touching upon many of the events and people of the day. It will take you to a Louisiana plantation where the owner still believes he has the right to own his workers, not only in life but also in death. The main character, Doug Slattery, encounters séances and acquaintances of Harry Houdini. Sister ships Mauretania and Lusitania cross The Atlantic with speed and in style, while The Trans Siberian Railway brings prisoners East to populate a bleak and ungiving land, where Joseph Stalin sits in exile. The South Pole has just been reached, and in the process, evidence is found in The Antarctic of a time when all the continents were united in a single Urcontinent. Physician Max Planck and novelist Jack London are using science to reinterpret the world in which they live. And through it all, the status quo is being threatened by those who would hurl bombs in order to advance their agenda. The old world is dying. What will survive, and what will come from the ashes? And what happens when mankind plays with powers beyond its reckoning?

A Prelude To My Next Blog,Which Shall Be Called "In Defense Of The Horror Genre"

     It was more or less by chance that I wrote The Amazing Morse as my first novel. I had been bouncing a couple of different ideas around when I by chance talked to my brother about writing a book. And somehow it occurred to me that my story would work really well if the main character was a magician. You see, my brother has been a magician all his life and because of that I was fairly well versed in the craft and history of magic. It was quite a happy accident that my plot idea of a man haunted by dreams following a visit to a psychic was a natural match with the idea of a magician as a main character. You see, magicians have always had a connection with spiritualists, especially Houdini, who spent the latter part of his career exposing their secrets. And so it was that my first novel was one that could be placed in the genre known as horror.

     When the story of that book had come to its conclusion, I was rather sad to leave it. It wasn’t the characters so much as the ideas and themes that I had developed had only been briefly sketched. They raised so many questions in my own mind that I was really interested in pursuing them. Still, I was ready to move on to my next novel, one set in a future that accentuated the worst aspects of our current society. It was intended to be a warning, a vision of what the seeds we are sowing today will become in the future. It still will be, eventually, unless that future arrives before my book does.

     But an author I respect for his knowledge, success, and willingness to share with others said somewhere that the key to making sales for him was writing a series. Now please don’t consider me shallow, but the idea of sales is in every writer’s mind to some degree. It is the dream of us all that we can do for a living what we most love. And besides, the advice was urging me to do what I was wanting to do anyway.

     So I wrote a sequel to The Amazing Morse. It came comparatively easily. I committed it to the page relatively painlessly because I was chasing ideas that were of great interest to me. I was pushing my thought processes to the limit, I was expanding my view of the world the way a mountain climber does as he ascends to greater and greater heights. I was breathing rarified air and I was feeling very much alive. In short, I abandoned myself to a goal which I considered worthy of the effort and sacrifice. My second novel, Perchance To Dream, is something I am very proud of.

     It’s funny how ideas take a hold of you. Or rather (if you have read my books), it is funny how once starting upon a course you can get stuck in the ruts and be taken along on the journey without much consenting to it. And so I wrote The Association, which followed the themes of Perchance To Dream but instead of relating to an individual I placed the same ideas upon a society. Again I had a growth upon the books that had come before. Sure, I had character growth as well, I had an expansion of the characters and of the physical world they inhabited. But more than that I expanded the ideas that relate to the real world, the one that you and I are living in. Because that for me is what books are all about, understanding life rather than finding an escape from it.

     But here’s the problem I now face, the original idea I had when I started writing this post: I have now, after four novels, basically placed myself in a particular genre, I have stereotyped myself. I am a horror novelist, albeit not the kind many are looking for when they do a search. I don’t think I fit the genre neatly, but I can’t think of where else I would fit. And sometimes I realize that by fitting myself in that niche that I have cut myself off from all that lies outside it. I often realize that a church or a school is not a proper place to talk about my work. And I don’t like that at all! And yet at the same time, I am proud of what I have created. It is a worthy addition to the list of books that are available. And if you grant me my natural desire to have pride in my efforts, I will tell you that I honestly believe that my books have the potential to make the world a much better place than it is now. That was my intent when I started tonight, to explain why my writing is worthy of consideration despite a genre that might initially turn people off. Unfortunately, I felt compelled to explain things a little more deeply. So I will save it for my next blog post to explain the value of the horror genre.

A Free Copy Of Perchance To Dream For Kindle

If you have a Kindle Reader from Amazon, I urge you to download a free copy of my book, Perchance To Dream:

Deal is through Sunday, June 14. It's the second of a series but I think it works fine on its own. But if you insist on starting from the beginning, the first is only 99 cents: The Amazing Morse

Seven Stones (Another Tidbit)

Here is a sample of today's writing:

     “Ah, Doug, I do need your help. I could not do this without your help. Not to put things too unkindly, but you are the walking stick I need to aid me on my travels. You help to keep me balanced and on the right path. But failure and success are labels placed upon people’s lives the way a child values winning a game whether or not they have to bend the rules in order to do it. But life is not a game and the rules cannot be bent without repercussions that prove damaging later on. We must play the game for all we are worth, and we must play it fairly. We play and lose and play again, over and over. We lose and we pick up and start again a little wiser. We learn the game a little better in the playing, learn lessons for the next game. And should we lose today it is only a step towards the winning of the larger game. We move our piece on the board on step at a time, but it is all part of some larger process.”

     “So we’re all pawns in some giant game played by powers beyond our imagining?”

     “Our bodies, perhaps, but we are all a part of that will which moves the pieces on the board. Once we get beyond the idea that we are nothing more than the physical pieces, we realize we are forces, each and every one of us.”

     “I’ll be honest with you, Ashavan. It scares me when you talk like this. I don’t think I want to be some vague force without shape or substance.”

     Ashavan laughed. “Fear is what keeps you a block of wood on a piece of cardboard. Once you see, then fear is left behind in the game piece you used to think was you.”

     “What is it you hope to accomplish, then?”

     “To be myself, to follow my desires to the best of my abilities. That’s the only end worth shooting for. Success and failure lie beyond us, they may be signposts that direct us, but they are foolish goals in themselves. To truly be who I have been made to be, made myself to be, ah, that is the only mission worthy of all the life that flows within.”

     Doug could not stay too long in the ideas that appeared to now be Ashavan’s native climate. And too, he wondered if it were not his purpose to keep Ashavan’s thoughts closer to the ground.

“But what do we do now? What’s our next move?”

“The jewel of Europe has been found. And within it is the accumulated selfishness and corruption of the stones. It alone lies as a barrier to the possibility of a world united. Not the Pangea which I had earlier imagined. That was the foolish perceptions of a man who understood little. No it is a unity of purpose, not of geography. It is what your friend Catherine was searching for in her own little way. It is what Evangeline was trying to accomplish in a divided way, what all the stones divided have been attempting. But each facet sees but a little, and in attempting to unify what lies within its grasp, stretches the greater whole. Think of it, we are a globe of little nations, each of them grasping as organisms trying to strengthen themselves. Each of them sees itself as an idealized state. The United States sees its manifest destiny is to stretch from sea to shining sea, believe it is God himself who has ordained it. Where we go now, we see a Serbia whose ideal boundaries spill over into the perceived boundaries of many other nations. Each nation overlaps the other in its vain perception of itself. Each sees unity within itself, each member believes himself part of something larger. But in their division they tear at the larger fabric. It is only in the unity that they will find the answers to their longings, only then that they will truly understand what it means to be part of something larger than themselves.”

     For a moment Doug could almost sense the stone that lie somewhere within the folds of Ashavan’s jacket. He could almost imagine he could see it in his breast pocket and suddenly he fancied he saw it not in Ashavan’s pocket but in his chest, a glowing light that pumped the life through him. And there was a glimpse, just a glimpse, of understanding.

     The glimpse of understanding seemed to open up something inside Doug, created a vent in whatever it was that differentiated who he was and everything that was outside of him. A door was opened—just a crack—and through it he could see an outside, a whole universe that was new to him. And even as the door closed he knew there was something out there, that he would never quite see things in the same way ever again. And that was okay. The world had not changed, he had. He was now just a little older, a little wiser. He had sacrificed nothing of himself in the deal. He had merely grown.

     From thoughts that were high in the air, he gradually returned to thoughts of his immediate surroundings, of the sound of rail cars endlessly turning again and again, too often to worry about, too steady to be of interest. They turned unendingly in the same circles but in their seemingly pointless revolutions that only brought themselves back to where they had begun, they managed to move the train across a continent.

Another Snippet From My New Novel, 7 Stones

A little sample from my forthcoming novel, 7 Stones. I'll try my hardest have it out in fall:

Ashavan was attempting to use his senses to bridge the gap, now, speaking softly in his deep resonant voice in order to tease out some kind of response from the seemingly comatose man lying on the bed in front of him.

“You have stared into the darkness, Douglas Slattery, and it has overwhelmed you. You have, as Freidrich Nietzche said, stared into the abyss, and the abyss has stared back into you. But what would happen, Doug, if while gazing into the emptiness we did not lose faith? What if, while traveling in the darkness that it so happened that we were the light we needed? The abyss exists, there is no denying, but so do we. That also is indisputable. We may be tiny, but as Tennyson said, ‘what we are, we are.’ It is perhaps the era we are now living in that has forgotten this. We are the first generation to have left the land and gone to live in cities of man’s creation, and so we have forgotten that we are still a part of all creation. Science has caused us to look at the world as outside observers, we see everything as scientific phenomena, but we have forgotten ‘self’.

He spoke on, in some way hoping the words might bridge the gap between himself and Doug. “I met a man aboard the ship we were on, a wonderfully intelligent physicist, Max Planck. One seldom gets the opportunity to come across a mind like his, even for one as well travelled as I. He told me that science cannot solve the ultimate mystery of nature, and that is because we are part of the mystery we are trying to solve.”

Ashavan looked down at Doug, hoping for signs of some kind of recognition. “Don’t you see, Doug, in the final analysis, it is up to you. And I. The abyss, the nothingness, it’s an empty stage for us to perform upon, an blank page waiting for you to write your story on it, a silence awaiting a song. Nothing doesn’t matter. You do, we all do. And it’s up to you, there is nothing that nothing can do to you. It is your choice to come back. You can be part of the nothing if you wish. But it is a choice. It is your story, Doug, you who write it.”

A Short Excerpt From My Novel In Progress, Seven Stones

Yesterday I shared a more contemplative piece of writing from the same book, today I offer this:

     They were entering through the door, obeying the call of their master. It was the stone that was the master, not Delavois, he knew that now. Delavois had put his own twist on the evil that radiated from it, but he was owned by it as well. He was just another meat puppet it commanded to carry out this horror.

     Doug looked around him,  at the shambling beings that entered the house, as well as the jellied remains of individuals that ran together in an obscene soup. Black ooze floated body parts in a semi-sentient slosh. Amongst it all was the sense of suffering. He could feel it now that he had possession of the stone. It was all the suffering the living could feel brought to another level. But as horrible as it was, he knew it was not the evil he felt. Suffering was not evil, it was that which caused it that was evil. He had mistaken the fear he had of suffering with the fear of evil, but he knew better now. He had learned at last—too late—something that would have served him well in life. Still, better than not to have learned it at all.

     The creatures were almost all through the door. One of the more ragged things was dragging itself through with one good hand and a stump. Doug recognized it as one of the creatures that had frightened him the most, now it elicited the most pity. Its suffering was more palpable than any of the others, though a small thing compared to the overall stew of tortured flesh. The flesh demanded release, but something flowing through their veins obeyed the will of the stone. Doug hazarded a glimpse at the stone and noticed its radiance seemed to throb. Looking away, he saw the accumulated filth that was once human flesh seemed to move in response to the pulsations. It called to them, pulsed within them, sought to command them without the use of the medium that Delavois had been, what it called out to Doug to be. It seemed as though the urge to die and the urge to obey the stone warred within each of them, jerking their bodies in a forbidden dance. Doug could feel the pulse within him too, as if a second heart had taken up residence in his chest, pumping fear and compulsion throughout his veins, but he choked it down as he might nervousness.

     He saw what he assumed was the last of the creatures enter the door, a desecrated hunk of flesh so obscene that Doug wondered how it made its way here. He had seen animals hit by trains look more possible of motion than the mass of exposed flesh and bone. In some part of it that Doug assumed was its head, two white eyeballs stared in his direction.

     It was time. He would go to the gas soaked curtain and light it with his torch. Then he would stand guard at the door as the house burned to ruins. It would be over soon. And as much as he feared death, he knew he was doing the best thing possible. But as he moved towards the window, attempting to avoid contact with the living corpses, he felt a strong grip on the arm that held the torch. The terror he had been able to keep at bay now flooded in on him and he instinctually tried to move away. He was halted by a less than sentient mound of flesh.

A Short Story

Here's the first story in my collection, Stories Light And Dark. Since Kindle allows you to read it for free anyhow, I may as well post it here as well. If you like this, you might want to check out the rest of the book, available here: Stories Light And Dark 1 If you are a member of Kindle Unlimited, you can borrow it for free. I always want to tell people my stories aren't all as dark as this. Or, if it's a spiritual story, I want to tell them they're not all like that. That's why I gave my compilation the title I did.

The Last Hours Of Brandon Kratz

The trail of corpses will lead them here. They’ll find their killer, they always do. But the reign of terror made it worthwhile, a few days of carnage that had the entire country glued to their television sets wondering how long it would last. And though it will all end at the cabin up ahead, the world will not soon forget the name of Brandon Kratz.

The cabin cannot be too far now, I know these woods too well to be mistaken.

They will find their man, but they’ll never find the answers they’re looking for. They’ll never understand how a seemingly loving family man could have killed his wife and children and fed them to the neighbor’s dogs. They’ll never understand how a person who looked so normal could be capable of such evil. Sure, there’s the rambling manifesto they found on Facebook, but that will serve more to disturb than enlighten. They’ll talk to the neighbors and relatives, who will tell them what a friendly and helpful person Brandon Kratz had always been. But these answers are not the ones that will help them sleep soundly at night. These are answers that only serve the festering doubt and fear that will linger in their minds and hearts.

What they want is to think that there is something that separates unfeeling, uncaring killers from the rest of society, some distinction that they can make and so separate the horror from their own lives. But they will find no answers because there are none, at least not the kind that bring comfort. Many murderers have given their explanations for what they have done, but the average person is unwilling to accept the truth of such explanations. They want rational reasons and are unwilling to cross into the territory of insanity, which is where all the real answers lie. They like to believe in a rational world, but they are too cowardly to embrace the truth that the world is the better part irrational.

I continue on my way towards my final destination, keeping to the woods and shadows in case the helicopters come. There is a determination in my stride, and I will myself to confidence regarding the direction I take. There really is no point in doubting myself now.

Would you like my truth? I have done what I did because I am God to myself. Perhaps you feel the same way too: frankly, I don’t care. I only know that there is no reason not to take what I want, do what I want. I see no reason to care about a world that is outside of myself. What good is it if it is not there for my pleasure? I don’t care about you, nor would I ask you to care about me.

Ah, but you do care, don’t you? You and everybody in Southern California are very concerned about me, concerned that I am out there, somewhere, unchained by the laws of society. You will not rest soundly until Brandon Kratz is captured or dead. Have no fear, you will get your wish soon enough.

I estimate I have about a fifteen minute walk yet. The going is slower than I anticipated. But I cannot come up short now, not when I am so close to the end.

The life of a serial killer is brief but thrilling. I am like a force of nature that tears through a neighborhood, a city, the countryside. Like an approaching tornado, a community forgets about their normal lives and activities. I am the one concern. I am the center of the universe, mine and theirs. And for a brief time, I am the only thing that exists, the only thing that matters. Ayn Rand grasped merely a portion of the truth. If self-interest is the highest good, why stop at pursuing my own ends, why not bend all others to my own desires? Why not have the universe exist for me?

And so it began. If one starts out quietly, there is a lot of time to commit the initial murders before talk of a serial killer begins. I disposed of the wife and children first. I then quietly dispensed with the elderly woman across the street. With her blood I left a note on her wall in order to alert the authorities as to whom they were dealing with—the name Brandon Kratz was written in letters five feet tall, with every drop the old woman had in her. It took her lazy son two days to get around to paying her a visit, even after he must have heard about the murders in her neighborhood.

I guess I’m fortunate that I don’t look like a killer. People seem to trust me, maybe because I’m good at appearing caring. Even more important than not appearing threatening, I believe my features are generic enough to allow me to blend in with a crowd. If you saw me walking down the street, chances are you wouldn’t even notice me. Try it the next time you’re in a busy restaurant or a crowded mall. Take a look around you and see if you can spot the next Brandon Kratz that’s about to go off the deep end. See if you can spot the one carrying a weapon, see if you can catch a glimpse of murder in a stranger’s eye.

The temperature is warm and I am dressed for protection rather than comfort. The sweat makes my clothing cling to my body, making every movement an exertion. It occurs to me that I haven’t slept since this all started, more than three days now. I have been living on adrenaline, but that can only take you so far. I am tired. I’m glad that I am almost at the end of my journey. I think back on what a journey it has been.

There’ve been a lot of mass murders in the L.A. area recently. There’s been such a rash of murders that people are wondering if there is something in the air or in the water. There is a lot of talk and—typically—nothing will ever come of it. But even in this place and time, the name of Brandon Kratz will stand out. More than Billy Moreau’s four murders, more than Eric Cooper’s five. Even Ryan Kennedy’s seven murders don’t add up to Brandon Kratz’s total. I’ve been on quite a roll. Let’s see, now, Stefani Kratz, and Codi Kratz, and little Amber. Old lady Weathers. That hitchhiker, Chad, I think his name was. And then there was the mall shooting. I only killed two there, but I escaped, which was the important thing. I don’t think anybody even saw me there, although I’m sure I must be on some security camera somewhere wearing my trench coat and black military helmet. Kind of stupid of me, doing that at a crowded mall. Too easy to get caught. They could have got me alive, which would have been horrible. They would have stuck me under a microscope and viewed me like I was a bug. Much better this way, where they are searching for me with satellites.

Sorry, where was I? Six—no, seven, I’m forgetting Chad again. And then there were the two sheriff’s deputies that pulled me over. That was well done, they were armed and dangerous. But it cost me; I had to leave my car in the process and I’m pretty sure the cops will know where I am and that I’m on foot. I’m in the woods so they’ll be able to limit their search to a relatively small area. The road’s coming to an end for Brandon Kratz, but it will be the ending that I design. All I have to do is make it to the cabin.

It won’t be far now. I’d love to get rid of this riot facemask, but it’s part of the plan. There’s really no path anymore, just trees and undergrowth. Still, I know it can’t be far. I feel it in my bones.

I approach the cabin. It does not belong to me, but I know about it, planned to make it the end of my road. I open up the door and the terrified pleas begin.

“Where’s my family? Did you do something to them? Are they okay? Why are you doing this? Please, please don’t hurt them.”

“Now, Mr. Kratz,” I say “I’ve explained this to you before. There’s been a lot of killing and someone is going to have to take the blame for all the damage done.”

What society really wants is to get a hold of the psychopath and make him pay for what he’s done. But they rarely get the chance. Too often, the murderer kills himself rather than being taken alive. Such will be the case today.

“The people will need some kind of closure, no matter how unfulfilling,” I continue. “A corpse is better than nothing. At least that way they’ll be able to sleep tonight.

“Now if you’ll agree to open your mouth for me, I can promise to make your end short and painless. But it won’t look like suicide through clenched teeth. Are you going to cooperate?”

He looks at me with a clenched jaw and a look of defiance, as though anything he did mattered to me.

“No? Well, your loss. This might take a while longer, but the result will be the same.”

I place the gun to the side of Brandon Kratz’s head, wait for him to stop his futile head movements. I’m tempted to make the shot a poor one, make him suffer for his insolence. But I know I can only use one shot if it’s going to look like it is self-inflicted. I have to make it a good one. When I know I have a good shot, I pull the trigger. It’s a full cascade of blood, brain and bone that comes out the other side of his head, and Kratz quickly slumps in his chair. I untie my victim and allow him to drop to the floor. He’s lying in his ever-increasing pool of blood, his tongue hanging from his mouth as though he were a gibbering idiot. “It’s a pity they never count my final victim,” I think to myself. I always feel cheated by that.

According to news coverage, Brandon Kratz’s body was found in a cabin in the mountains last evening. He had shot himself in the head, it was reported, his suicide bringing to an end the latest and deadliest in a recent spate of killings. As for me, I’m busy clipping newspaper articles at the moment. After a little time off to rest up, I’ll be searching once again for another Brandon Kratz, the normal kind of person that no one would ever suspect could commit the horrible crimes he’ll be accused of.

The next time you’re in a busy restaurant or a crowded mall, take a look around, see if you can spot the next Brandon Kratz. Is it the tired-looking waitress that’s pouring your coffee, the man sitting next to you with his wife and kids, or the older gentleman at the bookstore who looks incapable of harming a fly? It could be anybody. It might even be you.