Around the time my first book was accepted by RP, I was thinking about the power of Myspace as a promotional tool and had a rather strange idea. I’m sure we’ve all seen pages set up to promote books with a blurb, the cover and a bit of news about release dates and special offers, etc.
I decided to create a page for two of my characters from The Dance. Though I created one for my hearo, I thought it would be more fun to focus on the villain, Kyle…the serial killer and arguably the true star of The Dance.
I created the page, made reference to The Dance, filled in plenty of detail that screamed of the evils in Kyle’s mind and even listed serial killer as his occupation. I added a few friend requests and sat back to see what would happen. He instantly became quite popular. It has evolved into a rather intriguing social experiment.
I think I know where the problem lies and before I go any further, I should probably explain. Kyle is big. He’s tall, muscle bound and has a smile that could melt the heart of a nun. I searched for a pic to use in the profile that would be representative of these attributes. I found something close and inserted it. It’s just a picture of a very brawny chest and arms.
Well, I believe several people have become blinded by biceps. People obviously don’t take the time to read the profiles before they initiate contact. Not only has Kyle received several friend requests he already has a mailbox full of messages from young women wanting to get to know him better. All this despite the fact that in his interests he lists among other details fear and screams, I live for the sweet song of terror realized.
It’s enough to boggle the mind. How often do we read about Cyber-predators in this day and age? The Craig’s List killer comes to mind most recently. And yet, here is someone who is clearly off his rocker getting asked for discreet rendezvous.
As a person, it freaks me out, but as a parent I am mortified, what if one of these thrill seekers were my child? It gives me the chills just thinking about it. I’ve since become even more stringent in regulating what my son does on the internet. He may think I’m being overprotective, but I venture there is no such thing when it comes to shielding him from the hunters of the net.
I’d be very interested to hear your thoughts on both the experiment and measure you take to protect your children.
Oh and here are the links to both characters pages: Kyle and Detective Tom Wiley
Showing posts with label James Goodman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label James Goodman. Show all posts
Monday, October 19, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
A Day in the Life
I had a rather interesting conversation the other day and thought I would share. I was speaking with a woman who turned out to be an avid romance reader. The meat of the conversation went something like this:
Me: “Would it surprise you to know that I write romance novels?”
She responded with a snort and a derisive “Yeah, right.”
Me: “No really, it’s true.”
Madam X: “Ok, so tell me about some of your books.”
I proceeded to give her a brief rundown of The Dance, Pixels and Pain, and Tuttle’s House of Horror. Sure I have others, but I figured that was enough to give her a good idea of the range I write in.
Madam X: “Sounds more scary than romantic.”
ME: “Oh, sure I have some dark elements and yes, my characters often experience horrific moments, but they all have a strong romantic element to them.”
Madam X: “I don’t know, that sounds like a perverse mix to me.”
ME: “Think about it… romance really comes down to the bond between two people… what better way to form a lasting bond than through a shared intense ordeal?”
Madam X: “I can think of a few better ways to develop that bond.”
ME: “Ok, there may be better ways, but you can’t deny that people who survive most trauma’s have forged a relationship that will stand the ages.”
Madam X: “If you say so… it still doesn’t make it romance.”
ME: “It does in my books. What’s the point of dragging these characters through the wringer if I can’t give them a happy ending?”
Madam X: “So, you dabble at romance...”
ME: “Ok, my books may not be hard core romances, but I would hardly call what I do dabbling.”
Madam X: “Well, whatever you call it… you’re no romance writer.”
ME: “Excuse me…”
Madam X: “You can’t be…”
ME: “Why the hell not?”
Madam X: “Because you’re a man.”
ME: “So, because I’m a man, I have no idea what romance is?”
Madam X: “Oh, don’t get me wrong, men can be romantic.” She paused to laugh. “It’s the only reason we let you live, but there is more to a good romance novel than the pursuit and the happy ending.”
ME: “Do tell…”
Madam X: “Look what do you think the ration of men to women is when it comes to reading romances?”
ME: “I have no idea.”
Madam X: “Well, I don’t have exact numbers, but I can assure you that the majority of readers are women.”
ME: “Ok, for arguments sake, I’ll give you that.”
Madam X: “The reason men can’t be real romance writers boils down to one thing… sex.”
ME: “I don’t see your point.”
Madam X: “It’s a proven fact that men concentrate more on the mechanics, point A to point B and the visual and physical aspects of sex, where as women are more concerned with the how you make us feel, the desire, the emotional aspect of it all.”
ME: “That’s a pretty sweeping generalization.”
Madam X: “Well, I think if you bother to do a bit of research, you’ll find I’m right. Having said that, when it comes to writing, doesn’t a writer draw on their on experiences to create their stories?”
ME: “I suppose to a certain extent that’s right.”
Madam X: “Then when it comes to writing a love scene, wouldn’t it stand to reason it would be nothing more than an extension of real life? Man takes woman, admires well endowed body, slips part A into part B and so on and so forth, describing the act itself?”
Before I can respond she continues. “I could really give a rat’s ass about what positions they are doing it in, I want to know how she feels about it. I want to feel something emotional when I read about them. I want to be carried away.”
ME: “So, you want to live vicariously through the characters?”
Madam X: “Something like that…”
The conversation went on, but I think you get the gist of it. I never was able to convince her that not everyone fit into her black and white definitions. But she raised some points that had me curious. What are you feelings on men writing romance? Is it just not the same? Are we missing some key aspect? Are we not able to convey emotion as well as a woman? What are your thoughts on the subject?
Oh, and just in the interest of full disclosure, here is a “love scene” from my latest novel Tuttle’s House of Horror as an example. Enjoy…
The radio sprang to life when the engine started. The Dandy Warhols poured from the speakers, crooning a catchy tune called Minnesoter. Ty deftly maneuvered the car in and out of the late evening traffic and onto US 169. Fifteen minutes later they rolled through the outskirts of Owasso and turned on to the back road that would lead them to the overlook, a parking area on the large hill to the East of the city. Just past the lot, the hill dropped off so steeply that it was nearly as sheer as a cliff. At the bottom was the Port of Catoosa, but the view of the city of Tulsa from that vantage was fantastic. The lights lit up the horizon and the cluster of skyscrapers that comprised downtown was like a multi - peaked beacon in the night.
They rolled to a stop in the deserted parking lot and Ty killed the motor. He leaned back, put his arm across the seat and his hand on her shoulder. “So…”
“Oh, wait,” she said, reaching for her purse.
She rummaged briefly and produced a CD case. “Here, put this in.”
Ty took the disc and read the spine aloud, “Kala… by M.I.A.” He flipped it over and appeared to read the track listing on the back. “Oh, yeah! I’ve heard of them.”
He slid the CD into the stereo and the hypnotic beat of Bamboo Banga filled the car.
“Good choice.” He nodded approvingly.
She leaned over in the seat until her face was only inches from his and whispered huskily, “wanna climb in the back?”
“More than anything else in this world,” he said before kissing her tenderly.
“Race ya!” she taunted and clambered through the narrow opening between the headrests and hood.
Ty drove a Chrysler 300, so the car was quite roomy, but when he joined her in the backseat they nearly bumped heads. She was still giggling about the near collision as she nestled down on the leather upholstery. He leaned close, his lips brushed hers, hovered just out of reach, teasing. Her hands roamed down both sides of his chest. She pulled at the hem of his shirt. “Take this off.”
He rose to his knees and bumped his head against the roof. “Could’ve done without that,” he laughed. “Take yours off too.”
They struggled out of their clothes, normal movements hampered by the cramped quarters. Maggie was nearly breathless from the effort when she finally collapsed back on the seat. Ty lowered himself on top of her, a knee on the floor board, the other stretched behind him. She lifted her legs, pressed her right foot against the back window, and locked her left around the headrest on the driver’s seat. Face to face, chest to chest, skin on skin, this was the feeling she wanted… needed to carry her away from her fears.
They fell into an easy rhythm. The car rocked back and forth in time to their gyrations, lending its unique sound to the music that sifted over her as she gave herself to him with utter abandon.
Her mind was set adrift on a sea of pulsing sensations. Her building climax fell into a cycle of ebb and flow. She couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus. The pleasure was there, but she couldn’t shake free of intruding thoughts of being in the Tuttle House.
He suddenly switched positions, pushed himself up on his arms, their bodies still joined at the hips. He was a vision. His face wracked with pleasure, his bare chest glistening with sweat, illuminated by moonlight. It was enough. Her fears, reservations and thoughts were washed away in an orgasmic rush. Her body quivered, her eyes closed. When he finally collapsed around her, she lost herself in a wave of post - coital bliss.
Me: “Would it surprise you to know that I write romance novels?”
She responded with a snort and a derisive “Yeah, right.”
Me: “No really, it’s true.”
Madam X: “Ok, so tell me about some of your books.”
I proceeded to give her a brief rundown of The Dance, Pixels and Pain, and Tuttle’s House of Horror. Sure I have others, but I figured that was enough to give her a good idea of the range I write in.
Madam X: “Sounds more scary than romantic.”
ME: “Oh, sure I have some dark elements and yes, my characters often experience horrific moments, but they all have a strong romantic element to them.”
Madam X: “I don’t know, that sounds like a perverse mix to me.”
ME: “Think about it… romance really comes down to the bond between two people… what better way to form a lasting bond than through a shared intense ordeal?”
Madam X: “I can think of a few better ways to develop that bond.”
ME: “Ok, there may be better ways, but you can’t deny that people who survive most trauma’s have forged a relationship that will stand the ages.”
Madam X: “If you say so… it still doesn’t make it romance.”
ME: “It does in my books. What’s the point of dragging these characters through the wringer if I can’t give them a happy ending?”
Madam X: “So, you dabble at romance...”
ME: “Ok, my books may not be hard core romances, but I would hardly call what I do dabbling.”
Madam X: “Well, whatever you call it… you’re no romance writer.”
ME: “Excuse me…”
Madam X: “You can’t be…”
ME: “Why the hell not?”
Madam X: “Because you’re a man.”
ME: “So, because I’m a man, I have no idea what romance is?”
Madam X: “Oh, don’t get me wrong, men can be romantic.” She paused to laugh. “It’s the only reason we let you live, but there is more to a good romance novel than the pursuit and the happy ending.”
ME: “Do tell…”
Madam X: “Look what do you think the ration of men to women is when it comes to reading romances?”
ME: “I have no idea.”
Madam X: “Well, I don’t have exact numbers, but I can assure you that the majority of readers are women.”
ME: “Ok, for arguments sake, I’ll give you that.”
Madam X: “The reason men can’t be real romance writers boils down to one thing… sex.”
ME: “I don’t see your point.”
Madam X: “It’s a proven fact that men concentrate more on the mechanics, point A to point B and the visual and physical aspects of sex, where as women are more concerned with the how you make us feel, the desire, the emotional aspect of it all.”
ME: “That’s a pretty sweeping generalization.”
Madam X: “Well, I think if you bother to do a bit of research, you’ll find I’m right. Having said that, when it comes to writing, doesn’t a writer draw on their on experiences to create their stories?”
ME: “I suppose to a certain extent that’s right.”
Madam X: “Then when it comes to writing a love scene, wouldn’t it stand to reason it would be nothing more than an extension of real life? Man takes woman, admires well endowed body, slips part A into part B and so on and so forth, describing the act itself?”
Before I can respond she continues. “I could really give a rat’s ass about what positions they are doing it in, I want to know how she feels about it. I want to feel something emotional when I read about them. I want to be carried away.”
ME: “So, you want to live vicariously through the characters?”
Madam X: “Something like that…”
The conversation went on, but I think you get the gist of it. I never was able to convince her that not everyone fit into her black and white definitions. But she raised some points that had me curious. What are you feelings on men writing romance? Is it just not the same? Are we missing some key aspect? Are we not able to convey emotion as well as a woman? What are your thoughts on the subject?
Oh, and just in the interest of full disclosure, here is a “love scene” from my latest novel Tuttle’s House of Horror as an example. Enjoy…
The radio sprang to life when the engine started. The Dandy Warhols poured from the speakers, crooning a catchy tune called Minnesoter. Ty deftly maneuvered the car in and out of the late evening traffic and onto US 169. Fifteen minutes later they rolled through the outskirts of Owasso and turned on to the back road that would lead them to the overlook, a parking area on the large hill to the East of the city. Just past the lot, the hill dropped off so steeply that it was nearly as sheer as a cliff. At the bottom was the Port of Catoosa, but the view of the city of Tulsa from that vantage was fantastic. The lights lit up the horizon and the cluster of skyscrapers that comprised downtown was like a multi - peaked beacon in the night.
They rolled to a stop in the deserted parking lot and Ty killed the motor. He leaned back, put his arm across the seat and his hand on her shoulder. “So…”
“Oh, wait,” she said, reaching for her purse.
She rummaged briefly and produced a CD case. “Here, put this in.”
Ty took the disc and read the spine aloud, “Kala… by M.I.A.” He flipped it over and appeared to read the track listing on the back. “Oh, yeah! I’ve heard of them.”
He slid the CD into the stereo and the hypnotic beat of Bamboo Banga filled the car.
“Good choice.” He nodded approvingly.
She leaned over in the seat until her face was only inches from his and whispered huskily, “wanna climb in the back?”
“More than anything else in this world,” he said before kissing her tenderly.
“Race ya!” she taunted and clambered through the narrow opening between the headrests and hood.
Ty drove a Chrysler 300, so the car was quite roomy, but when he joined her in the backseat they nearly bumped heads. She was still giggling about the near collision as she nestled down on the leather upholstery. He leaned close, his lips brushed hers, hovered just out of reach, teasing. Her hands roamed down both sides of his chest. She pulled at the hem of his shirt. “Take this off.”
He rose to his knees and bumped his head against the roof. “Could’ve done without that,” he laughed. “Take yours off too.”
They struggled out of their clothes, normal movements hampered by the cramped quarters. Maggie was nearly breathless from the effort when she finally collapsed back on the seat. Ty lowered himself on top of her, a knee on the floor board, the other stretched behind him. She lifted her legs, pressed her right foot against the back window, and locked her left around the headrest on the driver’s seat. Face to face, chest to chest, skin on skin, this was the feeling she wanted… needed to carry her away from her fears.
They fell into an easy rhythm. The car rocked back and forth in time to their gyrations, lending its unique sound to the music that sifted over her as she gave herself to him with utter abandon.
Her mind was set adrift on a sea of pulsing sensations. Her building climax fell into a cycle of ebb and flow. She couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus. The pleasure was there, but she couldn’t shake free of intruding thoughts of being in the Tuttle House.
He suddenly switched positions, pushed himself up on his arms, their bodies still joined at the hips. He was a vision. His face wracked with pleasure, his bare chest glistening with sweat, illuminated by moonlight. It was enough. Her fears, reservations and thoughts were washed away in an orgasmic rush. Her body quivered, her eyes closed. When he finally collapsed around her, she lost herself in a wave of post - coital bliss.
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Friday, December 19, 2008
The Sweet Release
Well, since it is so close to the holidays, I thought I would give you all a gift. Below is a short story written to commemorate another day that is special to me this month. I hope you enjoy it…
The Sweet Release
The pain rouses me. I’m aware of every inch of my body. I search for some part of me that is unharmed. I come up short. I feel cold steel beneath me. I wish its caress would soothe my battered limbs. The bright lights of the room make world look pink through my shut lids. I don’t dare open them.
It hurts to breath. I will myself to take small draws. The flesh of my lips break open as I pull them apart. The moisture is welcome. The pain in my chest lessens. The air rattles as it comes up my throat, escapes from my mouth. I barely resist the urge to cough. My lungs are full of something…I don’t dare guess what.
My tongue is swollen; my teeth won’t meet. How many of them are still whole? I feel the jagged edges as they scratch the sides of my tongue. I taste copper at the back of my throat. Fluid pools there, blood, saliva…Lord only knows what else. I don’t dare swallow.
I listen for movement. I can hear nothing but the pound of my heart and the buzz of a fluorescent light. The room is still. Am I alone? I don’t dare hope.
My tiny breaths are coming faster, harder to control. I chance the pain, take a deep gulp, trying to calm myself. The smell of blood and urine assault my nostrils. I gag. My chest threatens to explode from the movement.
My eyes open. The light burns, blinding me. I resist the urge to slam them shut. I have to see. I need to see. My vision adjusts to the brightness of the room. I’m not sure whether I should be thankful or not. I let my face fall to the left. I shudder as I study the bizarre looking instruments laid neatly on the table beside my head. I look beyond them to the wall. I focus on the calendar. Ducks rise from a pond, forever frozen mid flight in the picture of the month.
It’s December. Three days of the third line bear brown, crusty Xs. Two days are blank. The 19th is marked with a smiley face, drawn in blue Sharpie. The 19th is my birthday…my death day. The end is near.
I want to sit up, but the leather straps bite into the skin of my chest and thighs. The movement causes me to release the pent up cough. Blood and mucus spray the shiny metal table. I watch as it pools and oozes back towards me. I scream out as the force of the cough clenches the muscles around my broken ribs.
I lie still; I hold my breath. Maybe he didn’t hear me. I can’t keep the tears from rolling down my face as I hear the footsteps cross the floor above me. A door slams. I flinch with each creak of the stairs as he makes his way to me. Another door opens. He still has a smile for me.
He whistles to himself as he opens a cabinet over the sink. The tune is familiar, but I can’t quite place it. He pulls out a syringe and a small brown vial. He pushes the needle through the stopper on top. He pulls back on the plunger; the chamber fills with something the color of honey. He flicks the tip of chamber with his free hand as he walks toward me, still whistling.
He takes a long look at me, his gaze traveling from my feet to my eyes. His head moves slightly form side to side in rhythm to the song he whistles. He holds the needle over my face.
“I’m not ready for you yet,” he whispers, placing a hand on my forehead to hold me still as the needle moves closer slowly, deliberately. “I haven’t even finished my dinner. I would think you’d have learned a bit more patience by now.”
“Don’t…Please!”
“Oh, don’t worry, my dear boy; we’ll have plenty of quality time soon, but for now…you need your rest.”
I struggle to pull away from him. I turn my head, but his voice draws my gaze back to him.
“Save your strength, Ray.” His laugh is a low rumble. “You’re gonna need it.”
His eyes are bright. He licks his lips in anticipation. It is apparent that he is still enjoying his petty torments. He resumes his song as I watch the needle grow. The plastic chamber looks enormous as it slides to the left of my nose, into my eye socket. I barely feel it; my body has greater pains with which to occupy my mind.
“Pop goes the weasel,” he sings the last verse of his song as he empties the syringe into me.
Cold builds around the needle in my flesh. I feel it spread, numbing my face, numbing my mind. The darkness grows in my peripheral vision, consuming me, carrying me away. The pain is fading; it’s almost a distant memory. I dream of the knock on my door, the smiling face that greets me, the little white carrier filled with plastic bottles. He wants to sell me cleaners. He offers a demonstration. His face is too charming to deny. He wants to know when my birthday is. His hands are like stone on my throat. I feel the coffee table break beneath me. My eyes water from the fumes as he presses the towel over my nose and mouth.
“Will you please stop passing out? We have a lot to do today and our birthday is almost over,” his voice fills my mind as he gentle taps my cheek with the back of his hand.
“It’s already my birthday?”
“Would I lie to you?”
His smile seems so innocent.
“Wh-wh-why?”
“Because this is the day you were born.”
“No,” I find it increasingly difficult to concentrate through the pain. “Why are you doing this?”
“I have to.” He rests his elbows on the table, leaning closer to my face. “This isn’t just your birthday, but mine and the anniversary of…my salvation.”
“I don’t understand,” I admit, blinking away his breath as it washes over my lashes.
“Have you already forgotten? Everyday you ask me and everyday I tell you the same thing. Do I really have to tell you again?” He waits for an answer, but I can only nod. “I was killed six years ago today.”
“But you’re not dead.”
“Yes, My Gods spared me. They gave me back my life and in return--”
“You give Them mine?”
“Bingo! I pay tribute to them once a year…a life for a life”
“Will they save me?”
“No, you’re not worthy. I died doing what I love. I died fighting. I died in Their honor.” He throws his head back, laughs. “You’re a victim. You were born for this and you will die for me.”
“How did you die?”
“With a blade in my chest and smile on my lips, but then…who wouldn’t smile when they look into the face of their Gods?”
He pushes himself up from my side. I can hear the rattle of steel on steel as he searches for just the right blade to resume his games.
I can barely focus my thoughts. My body is on fire. He has been working on me for days it seems. Bits and pieces of memories flutter in my mind. I shut them out; they’re too much to relive. He has been a busy boy. His laughter is infuriating, intoxicating. I am adrift; the pain is pushing me away. His voice is an anchor drawing me back. I can no longer make out his words, but his meaning is driven home with each puncture to my flesh. I try to detach myself, flee inside my mind. It is futile; there is no escape for me. All I have is my pain and his smile.
Light flashes from something he’s picked up, blinding me. Shadows swim; purple dots fade. I see his arm, he his holding something above my head, out of my line of sight. His hand moves; I catch my first glimpse of the blade. It’s length stretches beyond both my shoulders. It’s as thick as my hand is wide. I see a reflection as it passes over my eyes, a sunken face, vacant stare. My stubble has nearly grown into a beard. Is that really me? The edge of the blade is even with my chin. He pauses; turns the blade vertical. He rests it on my chin. I can see myself again. My breath fogs my reflection.
He moves to stand behind me, his smiling face inverted over mine. His left hand is still on the handle. He rests the palm of his other hand on the dull side of the blade. He lifts the blade from my chin, holds calmly in the air between my chin and chest. He pushes down hard. The blade meets my throat; then moves on to the table beneath it with a clang.
I hear my body thrash and twitch. I can no longer feel it. My throat throbs; I try to swallow. Is that the ocean I hear? My vision narrows. The room fades. Only his smile remains. The pain is gone. I am free.
The pain rouses me. I’m aware of every inch of my body. I search for some part of me that is unharmed. I come up short. I feel cold steel beneath me. I wish its caress would soothe my battered limbs. The bright lights of the room make world look pink through my shut lids. I don’t dare open them.
It hurts to breath. I will myself to take small draws. The flesh of my lips break open as I pull them apart. The moisture is welcome. The pain in my chest lessens. The air rattles as it comes up my throat, escapes from my mouth. I barely resist the urge to cough. My lungs are full of something…I don’t dare guess what.
My tongue is swollen; my teeth won’t meet. How many of them are still whole? I feel the jagged edges as they scratch the sides of my tongue. I taste copper at the back of my throat. Fluid pools there, blood, saliva…Lord only knows what else. I don’t dare swallow.
I listen for movement. I can hear nothing but the pound of my heart and the buzz of a fluorescent light. The room is still. Am I alone? I don’t dare hope.
My tiny breaths are coming faster, harder to control. I chance the pain, take a deep gulp, trying to calm myself. The smell of blood and urine assault my nostrils. I gag. My chest threatens to explode from the movement.
My eyes open. The light burns, blinding me. I resist the urge to slam them shut. I have to see. I need to see. My vision adjusts to the brightness of the room. I’m not sure whether I should be thankful or not. I let my face fall to the left. I shudder as I study the bizarre looking instruments laid neatly on the table beside my head. I look beyond them to the wall. I focus on the calendar. Ducks rise from a pond, forever frozen mid flight in the picture of the month.
It’s December. Three days of the third line bear brown, crusty Xs. Two days are blank. The 19th is marked with a smiley face, drawn in blue Sharpie. The 19th is my birthday…my death day. The end is near.
I want to sit up, but the leather straps bite into the skin of my chest and thighs. The movement causes me to release the pent up cough. Blood and mucus spray the shiny metal table. I watch as it pools and oozes back towards me. I scream out as the force of the cough clenches the muscles around my broken ribs.
I lie still; I hold my breath. Maybe he didn’t hear me. I can’t keep the tears from rolling down my face as I hear the footsteps cross the floor above me. A door slams. I flinch with each creak of the stairs as he makes his way to me. Another door opens. He still has a smile for me.
He whistles to himself as he opens a cabinet over the sink. The tune is familiar, but I can’t quite place it. He pulls out a syringe and a small brown vial. He pushes the needle through the stopper on top. He pulls back on the plunger; the chamber fills with something the color of honey. He flicks the tip of chamber with his free hand as he walks toward me, still whistling.
He takes a long look at me, his gaze traveling from my feet to my eyes. His head moves slightly form side to side in rhythm to the song he whistles. He holds the needle over my face.
“I’m not ready for you yet,” he whispers, placing a hand on my forehead to hold me still as the needle moves closer slowly, deliberately. “I haven’t even finished my dinner. I would think you’d have learned a bit more patience by now.”
“Don’t…Please!”
“Oh, don’t worry, my dear boy; we’ll have plenty of quality time soon, but for now…you need your rest.”
I struggle to pull away from him. I turn my head, but his voice draws my gaze back to him.
“Save your strength, Ray.” His laugh is a low rumble. “You’re gonna need it.”
His eyes are bright. He licks his lips in anticipation. It is apparent that he is still enjoying his petty torments. He resumes his song as I watch the needle grow. The plastic chamber looks enormous as it slides to the left of my nose, into my eye socket. I barely feel it; my body has greater pains with which to occupy my mind.
“Pop goes the weasel,” he sings the last verse of his song as he empties the syringe into me.
Cold builds around the needle in my flesh. I feel it spread, numbing my face, numbing my mind. The darkness grows in my peripheral vision, consuming me, carrying me away. The pain is fading; it’s almost a distant memory. I dream of the knock on my door, the smiling face that greets me, the little white carrier filled with plastic bottles. He wants to sell me cleaners. He offers a demonstration. His face is too charming to deny. He wants to know when my birthday is. His hands are like stone on my throat. I feel the coffee table break beneath me. My eyes water from the fumes as he presses the towel over my nose and mouth.
“Will you please stop passing out? We have a lot to do today and our birthday is almost over,” his voice fills my mind as he gentle taps my cheek with the back of his hand.
“It’s already my birthday?”
“Would I lie to you?”
His smile seems so innocent.
“Wh-wh-why?”
“Because this is the day you were born.”
“No,” I find it increasingly difficult to concentrate through the pain. “Why are you doing this?”
“I have to.” He rests his elbows on the table, leaning closer to my face. “This isn’t just your birthday, but mine and the anniversary of…my salvation.”
“I don’t understand,” I admit, blinking away his breath as it washes over my lashes.
“Have you already forgotten? Everyday you ask me and everyday I tell you the same thing. Do I really have to tell you again?” He waits for an answer, but I can only nod. “I was killed six years ago today.”
“But you’re not dead.”
“Yes, My Gods spared me. They gave me back my life and in return--”
“You give Them mine?”
“Bingo! I pay tribute to them once a year…a life for a life”
“Will they save me?”
“No, you’re not worthy. I died doing what I love. I died fighting. I died in Their honor.” He throws his head back, laughs. “You’re a victim. You were born for this and you will die for me.”
“How did you die?”
“With a blade in my chest and smile on my lips, but then…who wouldn’t smile when they look into the face of their Gods?”
He pushes himself up from my side. I can hear the rattle of steel on steel as he searches for just the right blade to resume his games.
I can barely focus my thoughts. My body is on fire. He has been working on me for days it seems. Bits and pieces of memories flutter in my mind. I shut them out; they’re too much to relive. He has been a busy boy. His laughter is infuriating, intoxicating. I am adrift; the pain is pushing me away. His voice is an anchor drawing me back. I can no longer make out his words, but his meaning is driven home with each puncture to my flesh. I try to detach myself, flee inside my mind. It is futile; there is no escape for me. All I have is my pain and his smile.
Light flashes from something he’s picked up, blinding me. Shadows swim; purple dots fade. I see his arm, he his holding something above my head, out of my line of sight. His hand moves; I catch my first glimpse of the blade. It’s length stretches beyond both my shoulders. It’s as thick as my hand is wide. I see a reflection as it passes over my eyes, a sunken face, vacant stare. My stubble has nearly grown into a beard. Is that really me? The edge of the blade is even with my chin. He pauses; turns the blade vertical. He rests it on my chin. I can see myself again. My breath fogs my reflection.
He moves to stand behind me, his smiling face inverted over mine. His left hand is still on the handle. He rests the palm of his other hand on the dull side of the blade. He lifts the blade from my chin, holds calmly in the air between my chin and chest. He pushes down hard. The blade meets my throat; then moves on to the table beneath it with a clang.
I hear my body thrash and twitch. I can no longer feel it. My throat throbs; I try to swallow. Is that the ocean I hear? My vision narrows. The room fades. Only his smile remains. The pain is gone. I am free.
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Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Into the Dark
Well, as this is my first post, I suppose I should take a moment to introduce myself. I was born in Dover, Delaware in 1971, but have traveled extensively. Some of my travels around the world have been in service to my country, others have been in service to my family, but most have been in service to my heart. I now live just north of Tulsa, Oklahoma with my loving wife, our rambunctious son, and two of the sweetest dogs on the entire planet.
I guess you can say we are an active family. We spend our free time wakeboarding, hiking, singing, dancing, riding motorcycles, taking road trips and just generally enjoying life. Luckily, I rarely sleep or else I’d never get any writing done.
My writing tends to lean toward the darker side of life(suspense, horror, thrillers) but they most always balanced with a nice romantic element.
People often ask me how I could possibly spend so much time writing about death and the animals who bring it to the unsuspecting masses. After all, I appear to be quite the friendly, stable person. I have a smile for most everyone and I often go out of my way to help those in need. In short, it seems I just don’t fit the image of a person with such horrible characters running around in my head.
I do not write about these things because I’m a dark person. I have no brooding soul. The things I write about come with the mother of all safety nets…they are purely fictional. I get to create an environment with all of the adrenaline rushing thrill (if I’ve done my job correctly) of jumping from a tower. The ground comes rushing at you. You see each object below with growing clarity. You are in the moment…lost to the sound of your pounding heart. Doubt tugs at the edges of your soul. You see the point of impact; you’ve marked your spot, but before you splatter and bounce, the tension on your left leg increases. Slowly at first, the grip of the bungee cord becomes incessant before you jerked back through the air and out of harm’s embrace.
No, I write about the topics I choose because it offers an escape, a glimpse into a world I have no desire to be part of in real life. If the things I commit to paper (or pixel) were true, I would surely end my days by dining on a bullet. Whose sanity could remain whole under such conditions? It’s just entertainment.
Would you like to be entertained?
Perhaps an evening in Tuttle’s House of Horror is just what the Dr. ordered.
Here is a blurb:
Tyler Duke has a plan. With the help of his closest friends, he will open the doors to the infamous Tuttle House on Halloween and provide a weekend of thrills and chills for curiosity seekers. Why is the house infamous? It was the sight of the largest mass murder in the history of Northeastern Oklahoma.
If all goes well, they’ll earn enough money to spend spring break in Cancun, but unbeknownst to them, someone has taken up residence in the old mansion and he has a plan of his own. Bobo hopes the weekend brings people in droves. Nothing would make this twisted clown happier than to put gaping smiles under the faces of the house’s patrons. If he can just maintain control of his inner demon until the grand opening, it will be his greatest achievement, a night so brutal even the Fallen will take notice.
Will Tyler and his friends discover the killer in their midst before it’s too late or will they become the main attraction in Tuttle’s House of Horror.
I guess you can say we are an active family. We spend our free time wakeboarding, hiking, singing, dancing, riding motorcycles, taking road trips and just generally enjoying life. Luckily, I rarely sleep or else I’d never get any writing done.
My writing tends to lean toward the darker side of life(suspense, horror, thrillers) but they most always balanced with a nice romantic element.
People often ask me how I could possibly spend so much time writing about death and the animals who bring it to the unsuspecting masses. After all, I appear to be quite the friendly, stable person. I have a smile for most everyone and I often go out of my way to help those in need. In short, it seems I just don’t fit the image of a person with such horrible characters running around in my head.
I do not write about these things because I’m a dark person. I have no brooding soul. The things I write about come with the mother of all safety nets…they are purely fictional. I get to create an environment with all of the adrenaline rushing thrill (if I’ve done my job correctly) of jumping from a tower. The ground comes rushing at you. You see each object below with growing clarity. You are in the moment…lost to the sound of your pounding heart. Doubt tugs at the edges of your soul. You see the point of impact; you’ve marked your spot, but before you splatter and bounce, the tension on your left leg increases. Slowly at first, the grip of the bungee cord becomes incessant before you jerked back through the air and out of harm’s embrace.
No, I write about the topics I choose because it offers an escape, a glimpse into a world I have no desire to be part of in real life. If the things I commit to paper (or pixel) were true, I would surely end my days by dining on a bullet. Whose sanity could remain whole under such conditions? It’s just entertainment.
Would you like to be entertained?
Perhaps an evening in Tuttle’s House of Horror is just what the Dr. ordered.
Here is a blurb:
Tyler Duke has a plan. With the help of his closest friends, he will open the doors to the infamous Tuttle House on Halloween and provide a weekend of thrills and chills for curiosity seekers. Why is the house infamous? It was the sight of the largest mass murder in the history of Northeastern Oklahoma.
If all goes well, they’ll earn enough money to spend spring break in Cancun, but unbeknownst to them, someone has taken up residence in the old mansion and he has a plan of his own. Bobo hopes the weekend brings people in droves. Nothing would make this twisted clown happier than to put gaping smiles under the faces of the house’s patrons. If he can just maintain control of his inner demon until the grand opening, it will be his greatest achievement, a night so brutal even the Fallen will take notice.
Will Tyler and his friends discover the killer in their midst before it’s too late or will they become the main attraction in Tuttle’s House of Horror.
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