All Hallow's Read - a short horror story for your enjoyment

 

It's All Hallow's Read (aka Halloween...with scary books).  So, as I have done intermittently these past several years, here's a piece of horror flash fiction I had published in issue #2 of Firewords Quarterly, a literary magazine out of the United Kingdom.  

Enjoy, and a have a spooky Halloween.

-chris

I GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE

By C. M. Beckett

I need to get outta here.  Winter ain’t even here an’ it’s already too effin’ cold even with the friggin’ global warming.

Sorry, but I won’t curse in front of my Ma, don’t matter how old I get.  A mom takes care o’ you, provides for ya, keeps food on your plate.  You gotta appreciate that and show some respect. 

Of course, things changed with the Little Big One.  We could feel it all the way over here.  Some folks didn’t believe me.  Little tremors, like a shiver runnin’ through your boots.  And then when it hit the news sites.  Nobody knew what to do.  Sittin’ at home watchin’ crazies freakin’ out, killin’ their neighbors, drownin’ their kids.  What the heck?! 

We did what we do best up here – hunker down and cut ourselves off from everything else.  It wasn’t too hard, livin’ on a farm an’ all.  Generations before us had done all right with it, and with the government goin’ ta hell (sorry, Mom) it seemed the best thing to do.  Most people never knew what to make of us up here anyway – ninety percent woods and nothin’ much ta do ‘cept drink and terrorize. 

At first, things were good.  We didn’t need for much, just had ta be smart, use what we found and not waste nothin’.  Things’d be back to normal soon enough and then we’d get back to headin’ down to the mall and such. 

That was a pipe dream.

Goin’ on twenty years now since it all went to crap, and still no end in sight.  Most o’ the woods is gone now.  At least around here.  When the oil prices spiked durin’ the War, poachers swept in like huge vultures, layin’ waste to practically the whole state.  Now we got no resources ta speak of.  No forests.  No topsoil.  No birds, no animals.  Nothin’ worth a damn.  Not here anyway.

So I need to move.  No way to survive another winter here.

Tonight’s my last night.  I managed to gather a few saplings for one last meal before I hit the road.  They’re still raw an’ smoke more than burn, so I didn’t even bother with a pan, just threw it on the fire.  I like the skin blackened anyway, gives it more flavor.

Should be done soon.  It was hard the first time, with Gramps.  Everybody squeamish, not wantin’ to partake an’ all.  My sister – she was always a bitch (sorry, Ma) – got up and walked outside.  Wouldn’t eat nothin’ and upset my Ma no end. 

It’s how Gramps woulda wanted it.  He’d lived a good life and died o’ natural causes.  He would'na wanted us to waste away too just because o’ some old-school civilities.  The rules had changed and we did what we had to do to live.

My sister was next o’ course, but that wasn’t for quite a few months.  I dug right in that night.  She’d fallen and hurt herself somethin’ fierce.  Not much we could do.  No doctors left, and little in the way o’ supplies.  We did what we could.  Made her comfortable.  Said some words over her from the Good Book.  But it wasn’t long before she was gone too. 

That was last winter, which was pretty tough on all of us.  Not many made it to summer.  We all knew what was comin’ but didn’t talk much about it.  How could we?  We had to look each other in the eye every day. 

Now I’m it.  The last one.  I put that off as long as I could.  It was too hard.  I mean, she’s my Ma.  She brought me into this shitfuck (sorry, Ma) world.  But in the end, she understood which one of us had a better chance o’ makin’ it. 

And she knew that a mom takes care o’ ya, provides for ya, keeps food on your plate.

Novel #2 is complete

 2020 was a different kind of year. My goal is to write every day, with weekends off unless I find myself with free time. But in the middle of the year, as the pandemic was spreading more rapidly than our understanding of it, I just stopped writing for three months. And I didn't expect to ever get back to it. 

Every time I've taken more than two days off from writing, over the past decade-plus, there's always been this gnawing in my core urging me to get back to writing, making me irritable and quick tempered. There was none of that. I was happy to be able to just read whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and not think about when to carve out time for writing. 

BUT, I had a novel waiting for one final pass. And my friend, Matt, had taken the time to read it and give me some notes on it. I couldn't leave it to just lay fallow on my hard drive, and I couldn't let Matt down. So, eventually, I got back to it. And now, 93,000 words, and a few years and five drafts later, I have a final draft of my second novel. Now, I need to distill those 93,000 words down to 200 and begin querying agents. (the first novel went nowhere, as far as querying, though I did have one agent ask for a full manuscript, which led me to believe I was on the right track)

So, it's time to get that summary done and begin throwing this story out into the world. Because I already know what is next in the queue, and I would like to have that completed by the end of 2021. 

I'm writing a New Story

Day #10 of the return to the writing habit, and a byproduct of getting back to work and writing all those blogposts is that the fiction side of my brain has turned back on. During the three-plus months of my writing drought, this was the most frustrating and unfamiliar aspect. Typically, when I've gone through a spell of no writing, my mind was still working on story ideas. But nothing like that occurred. Now that I'm making the time to write again, though, it seems The Muse TM has returned. Which isn't that surprising. I already wrote about that, here. 

So, to offer something other than self-congratulations, here's the opening sentence for the new story (I hope it does the job I stated it should in this recent piece):

Andre Johnson was seven years old when he stepped into another world.   

Thanks for indulging me. I mean, it is my blog, so I suppose I'm entitled. 

__wink_emoji__ 

-chris

ON WRITING: The Habit's the Thing

Day 3 of working to get back into the habit of writing. Here we go:

I've written about this before, but you can't allow yourself, if you want to write, to fall into the trap of waiting for the muse. That's a mug's game, a romantic notion that sounds lofty and artistic but will only hamper you, if you truly want to be a writer. [And note, being a writer is many things, but at its core, as Harlan Ellison stated and I will paraphrase: if you write, then you're a writer, full stop. Other good advice, from Neil Gaiman:  finish what you begin.]

But it's an easy trap to fall into. I did, when I first had the idea of writing. Of course, I have a tendency to romanticize things, which is probably why my reading and entertainment choices have leaned toward fantasy and the fantastical -- Star Wars being the prime example of this, with comic books a close second. So, when I first considered writing as something I could do, I though it was necessary to just wait for the ideas to come, to allow the muse to fill me up with creativity and direct me on the proper path. I had this one story idea that I believe was a good one. I would work on that, whenever I felt like it, with days and weeks and months passing in between writing spurts, those gaps expanding once I got into the revising phase. And here, as well, I had no idea what I was doing. I thought you needed to revise the fuck [sorry, Mom] out of a story before submitting it. I was into my 13th or 14th revision, at which point I am certain I was just changing words back to ones I'd had in previous drafts, when I finally stopped, put it aside, and tried to figure out what I was doing, and, more importantly, what I was doing wrong. 

Writing is work. Harlan Ellison, my favorite author, famously would write stories in bookstore windows, from ideas offered by friends or attendees, without any foreknowledge of the subject. He wanted to prove that writing was just like plumbing or teaching or any other job. You worked at it, you became better, it was something you were able to do with some facility, But, like any job, you had to work at it, otherwise, what was the point? 

If you want to be a writer, you need to write. That's advice #1 from any author. You have to write. Every day. It's not easy, because there are plenty of distractions calling out for our attention. You have to sit down, in the chair, spark up the computer, and begin smacking those keys. You have to do it regularly, every single day (though I like to take weekends off to be with my family), and, most importantly, you need to have a goal in mind toward which you're working. This goal will keep you honest, and it will allow you to forge ahead and finish those stories you start. Your goal can be a timed one, or a quantity one, whatever works for you -- write for an hour, write until you've gotten 500 words down, write until you have a full scene completed. Anything that gives you something to shoot for and keeps you moving forward. Consider:  if you write 1,000 words a day, after three months you will have written 90,000 words, roughly, which equates to a standard sized novel. Of course, there would still be revising to finish, but once you have a rough draft to work from, the writing is a bit easier. 

The most important thing about making your writing a habit -- and this is probably obvious, but bear with me -- is to make it a regular thing, within your personal schedule. Set a time, the same time, every day, for when you're going to write. Set up a writing space, dedicated to just that, and it can be at the dining room table, in a home office, on your porch, wherever, but utilize the same space very day. Your mind, and your body, will come to recognize this as the writing space, and when you sit down to the keyboard you will know, subconsciously, that it is your writing time. Patterns can be important, especially when beginning a habit. Choose some music, something that will relax you and focus you, that won't be distracting. I prefer to use soundtracks or classical music or jazz, something without lyrics. Currently I'm listening to the John Wick soundtracks. The music energizes me, and it drowns out distractions (I used to do this in high school, when I did my homework); it keeps me focused on the task at hand and allows me to work toward my goal, which has changed over time. Used to be I would try to write for 2 hours a day, then I worked to a 1000 words a day goal, now I've taken on something Joe Hill does, which is to work on a single scene and finish that scene, during my writing time. It's not always doable, but it does give me something to aspire to. 

In the end, the only person who can make you write is you, and whatever means you utilize to get to that place, I applaud you. Just remember, you need to write on a daily (regular) basis, and you need to finish what you begin. Other than that, everything else is fair game. 

-chris

Succeeding (or Failing) in public

So, this is the week where I am working to get back into the habit of writing. And my plan is to do it in public (at least, as public as this blog may be . . . not overly public, though technically it's totally public, but one must take into account one). 

It's not enough just to spit out something onto a screen, as it were, though that's apparently where I'm heading with this. I had a few ideas of what I could do:  write about something I'd recently read or maybe craft a scene or a setting just as an exercise; of course, I could be doing THE WORK -- revising one of my stories, or going through that novel manuscript on a final pass, or working on the synopsis I need for that (87,000 summed up in less than 200, please). Any of these would be good. 

But I also considered writing extemporaneously . . . like I'm doing right (write?) now. Annnnnnnnnd, I'm not feeling it (most especially because it just feels like an exercise in futility with nothing to gain, either for you the reader [singular for multiple reasons, hahaha!] or for me.  So, a scene or a setting. Let's see if I can do that. 

Cue music: 

And, let's begin.

Antoine opened his eyes. Darkness. 

He could feel a chill on the back of his neck, a soft breeze licking the skin just below his hairline, coming from . . . somewhere. Sitting in a wooden chair, his arms were pulled back; he tried to move his hands, found they were bound. Rope or wire or plastic cut into his wrists, he couldn't help but let out a tiny scream. Eyes pinched closed with the pain, Antoine took a breath, tried to fill his lungs with air, but found it impossible. 

On his left, a sound, something moving. He turned, looked. 

The darkness looked back. 

"Who's there?" Antoine's voice cracked, was weak. Questions tumbled through his mind, refused to congeal into anything coherent. He opened his mouth again:  "What do you want?" 

Nothing. 

Antoine sucked at the air again, tried to regain some control of the situation. His breaths were quick, shallow, unfulfilled. He could feel himself panicking, worked to push that thought down, continued to grasp for oxygen and finally managed to calm down his lungs. He took three long, slow breaths, then opened his eyes wide. 

A slight glimmer on his right. An outline -- tall, square, a window(?), maybe. 

A thicker shadow to his left. Heavy. Solid. A piece of furniture -- a bookcase or a dresser. 

The chair he was in. Wood, with delicately carved decorations on its back (he could feel the empty spaces scattered across his shoulder blades, down the rest of his back; he could almost picture a similar chair from his childhood, in his grandmother's apartment). The legs were narrow, the seat solid. Antoine felt like he should be able to break it if he could get the right leverage to lift it from the floor and topple it over. Of course, this thought led to the discovery that his legs were bound as well, at the ankles and the knees. 

FUCK!

"What are doing?" 

A soft laugh, so low Antoine thought it might be his imagination. 

The female voice following it told him it was genuine. "Isn't it obvious?" the voice said. "We want to kill you. But first, we want to play." 

So, roughly 350 words. Not bad for a first draft. At least, I hope it's not too bad. I only had an image, of someone locked in a room, when I started. I didn't know it was pitch black until I began writing. In my mind, I wanted to write something that might elicit the anxiety one would experience if in this situation. I don't know that I succeeded in that regard. I would need to know what I'm doing in order to achieve that with a quick first draft. I'm not even sure if could achieve it on a third pass. But I feel like I may have crafted something that is, at the very least, interesting. And, given the opportunity to revise it and flesh out a larger narrative around it, I believe I could come up with something worthwhile. Maybe I'll try that someday. But, for now, I got a chance to flex the "fictive" muscles for the first time in a long time. 

I'll be back tomorrow with something else. Not sure what it'll be, but hopefully it will be engaging. 

-chris

You're either in the game . . .

On May 22, 2020, I completed the first draft of a new short story (looking in my files it might be "Life Giver," though I'm not one hundred percent certain). The next day, I started a string of 108 consecutive days of no writing. I haven't had a drought like that for at least a decade and a half. And that might be the problem. 

Sure, we are all dealing with the COVID pandemic, and it has turned everything inside out. Maybe that contributed to this dry spell. But I think, more likely, it's the fact that I've been writing on a fairly regular basis for at least 15 years now, and it's tiring pushing against that tide and finding that the weight of water can be overwhelming (if I may be allowed to extend that metaphor). 

Always before, when I would put off writing for a short while -- a few days up to a week -- there would be an anxiety that would churn in my gut, telling me to get back to the keyboard, urging me not to waste all the time I've put into this by just giving up. I would become irritable, though at a low level, because of this urge to write. And eventually, I would sit back down and start that habit all over again. Because that's the key:  you have to make it a habit, and you can only do that by sitting down to do the work. That's how the muse comes to you, how the words get written, how inspiration sparks in your brain -- not through divine intervention but through sitting in your chair banging away at the keys. I know this; I've experienced it, and I know how simple it can be to get back into that habit (for me, the threshold tends to be 3 days; once I've "done the work" for three days straight, then it becomes easier and the sitting down isn't such a chore, BUT the ugly flipside is:  it only takes one days to break that habit, and easing into that as a new habit is way too easy). 

I'm a full-time dad, full-time husband, full-time employee, which means carving out time to write is a challenge. But that doesn't mean it's impossible. I just need to take time from other aspects of my life, aspects revolving around my free time (put that in scare quotes, because free time is at a premium in this game of life), and during these past few months, I've really enjoyed reading some old comics, reading Alan Moore's JERUSALEM (what a beast, and brilliant!), watching baseball on TV now that it's back, and generally just appreciating my free time. It's been good, especially since I haven't experienced any of that anxiety I would, when I stopped writing before. 

But now, I am hoping to get back on that horse. It won't be easy (I know that) because I've really enjoyed grabbing comics from my longboxes and creating stacks of books to cycle through. But I have a novel just about ready for querying, and I'm halfway through the first draft of another novel (I'm looking at you, Dan; we're gonna finish this, and maybe I'll take on the balance of this initial draft, once I set up my synopsis and stuff for contacting agents), and there are any number of short stories I want to write or revise or just submit. There's plenty on my plate. I just need to get cracking. 

Like I've noted many times before in my writing posts, if you want to write you need to write. 

Just. 

Do. 

It.

-chris

You Gotta Give Good...

Here's one of the first stories I had published (of the very small number I can say that about). I saw a call for submissions that Greg Rucka had retweeted, seeking stories of the steampunk genre set in Civil War-era New Orleans, and thought that sounded promising. I chose to include voudou in my story, and knowing little of that subject -- while also wanting to depict it in a serious manner -- or steampunk, I set to work doing my research. Luckily, I work at Fogler Library at the University of Maine. Reading furiously while taking notes, I eventually came up with a spine for my story, and once I'd completed my reading, I went to work writing. 

When it was accepted for publication in the New Orleans by Gaslight anthology, I was surprised along with being excited. It always feels good to get validation on something you've put a lot of work into. I'm quite proud of this story. I hope you enjoy it.  

 

 

 

YOU GOTTA GIVE GOOD...

 

By C.M. Beckett

Shadows rippled across the page of Charlotte Lacroix’s book as the flame of the gaslamp fluttered above her head.  Outside, she could hear a clamor of voices.  Charlotte closed her book and got up to investigate.  As she did, a spring released and clockwork gears churned to life in the corner of the room. 

“It’s okay T.O.M.A.S.  There’s no need for you to get up,” said Charlotte, and she stepped outside.

The heavy air pressed against her dark flesh, popping beads of sweat down the backs of her arms.  The surrounding homes were quiet, Charlotte’s neighbors more forgiving of the hot New Orleans nights than she. 

A few minutes later Charlotte came to the edge of town where a small mob had formed – as many men holding pints of beer as pitchforks and torches.  Charlotte – lean and wiry with long braids and sharp, piercing eyes – approached the men, who were focused toward the middle of their circle. 

Edmand Renaud, a large, pale man with bushy white hair and piercing eyes, turned to address Ms. Lacroix.  “We don’t need your kind here,” he said, as he moved to block her path. 

“I be goin’ through you if I cain’t go around,” said Charlotte. 

The large man hesitated, but quickly relented.  Charlotte pushed to the edge of the mob and all eyes turned to her – the vigor draining from their faces. 

Jacques Renaud – Chief Constable, younger brother to Edmand, taller and leaner than his elder sibling – stood in the middle of the group, his truncheon swinging ominously over a black man wearing a frayed Confederate uniform. 

Charlotte stepped into the middle of the circle and glared at the constable.  “I see,” she said.  “This man be some great and powerful threat, all beat and bloodied as he is.”

“You have no right being here,” said Jacques.

“I gots every right,” said Charlotte.  “We a free city and ain’t nobody turned away if they need help.”

Charlotte pushed past the younger Renaud and knelt by the soldier.  Close up, she could see welts covering his bare arms and dried blood caked on his face.  The man was haggard, struggling for breath.  She ran her fingers over his shoulders.

“He gots a hex on him,” said Charlotte.  She turned to the crowd, found a friendly face.  “Isaac.  Bring some o’ dem peaches,” she said to an older man, nodding to the tree behind him.  “Hurry.”

Jacques Renaud stepped closer, glaring down at Charlotte.  “Do not act in a manner you may regret later.”

“I gots no worries, Constable,” said Charlotte.  “What your conscience tellin’ you?”

Jacques Renaud raised his truncheon and held it for a long moment, but chose not to act on his rage.

Isaac knelt down beside Charlotte and handed her the fruit.  “Thank Papa you come,” he said.

“We see if Papa watchin’ over us tonight,” said Charlotte.  She took the peaches and passed them over the soldier’s body. 

When she finished, Charlotte threw the peaches into the tall grass, disposing of the evil spirits that now clung to the fruit.  Then she leaned in close to the beaten soldier.  “You hear me, son?” she said.

The man nodded and opened his eyes.

“What your name?” she said.

“Abram.”  His voice was hardly a whisper. 

“Okay, Abram.  We gonna take care o’ ya, all right?”

He nodded and let his eyes fall shut again.

“Isaac,” Charlotte said.  “Take this one ta my place.  He need rest.”

Isaac lifted the man onto his back. 

“And be quick,” Charlotte said.  “There’s somethin’ on the wind I don’t like.”

 

***

Captain Seward rode to the front of the company, which had stopped without explanation.  “Sergeant Major!” he bellowed.

The clattering of steel rippled through the blackness as Sergeant Major Campbell raced to where Captain Seward sat on his horse. 

“Yes, Captain,” said the Sergeant Major, out of breath.

“Why are we not moving forward, Sergeant Major?” said the Captain.

The Sergeant Major hesitated.

“Don’t stand there like some imbecile.   What is keeping us from our duty?” said the Captain.

“The city is a haven for magicks,” said the Sergeant Major.  “The men are scared.”

“Are they sucklings still in need of their Mama’s teat?”

“No,” said the Sergeant Major.

“No!” said Captain Seward.  “They are soldiers of the Confederacy.  And I want them moving now, or by God, I’ll know why not.” 

 “There is another problem,” said Sergeant Major Campbell.

Captain Seward could only stare at his Sergeant Major.

“New Orleans is a free city,” he said.  “We cannot just march in there without provocation.”

“Without provocation?” bellowed Captain Seward.  “They have my property, and I aim to get it back or receive reparations.”

“Yes, Captain,” said the Sergeant Major.  “But I expect Colonel Radcliffe would relish an opportunity to cite you for insubordination if we circumvented the free city ordinance.”

The Captain was silent.  He stared across the black fields to New Orleans, torches like pinpricks on the dark canvass. 

“We could send in Corporal Butters to parlay with city elders,” said the Sergeant Major.

The Captain looked down from his horse, his teeth clenched.  “You have one day, Sergeant Major.  One day.  Then we do it my way.”

***

Charlotte Lacroix stood off to one side, arms crossed, as Corporal Butters entered the clearing on his horse.  Jacques Renaud was at the head of the group, while his brother stood back in the shadows. 

“Ho!  I speak for Captain John G. Seward of the Second Virginia Army. Who speaks for this crowd?” said the Corporal.

“Jacques Renaud.  Constable,” said the younger Renaud.  “I speak for this group.  And what might your name be?”

“That be no need of yours,” said the Corporal.

“But it be mine,” said Charlotte, stepping over to the center of the group.  “’Spect you lookin’ for that poor man come runnin’ in earlier.” 

“Who might you be?” said the Corporal.

“Charlotte Lacroix.   And you be the one needs ta explain how that man come to be as sickly as he is,” said Charlotte. 

“He’s a deserter,” said the Corporal.  “His health means little to me.”

“He may be a deserter, but I don’t imagine he signed up hisself,” said Charlotte.  “’Spect he had nothin’ to say in the matter.”

 “You impudent bitch!”  Corporal Butters rose up in his saddle.  “How dare you address your betters in that manner.”

“New Orleans a free city,” said Charlotte.  “We don’ answer to you.”

The Corporal threw one leg over his saddle and made to jump down, but Jacques Renaud stepped between the soldier and Charlotte.  “Now, now,” he said.  “No need for violence.  I expect we can all come to some agreement.”

“Only agreement the Captain’ll grant you is one sees his property returned,” said the Corporal.

“She has a point,” said Edmand, his soft voice wending through the tiny crowd.  “We are a free city.” 

“What?”  Jacques turned on his brother, grabbing the older Renaud by his lapels.  “What is wrong with you?” 

Charlotte stepped over to the brothers.   “Jacques.”  Her voice was soft but firm as she placed a hand on his shoulder.  He turned to look at Charlotte and eased his grip on Edmand.  “Don’t try to work your magicks on me, witch,” he said. 

“I do no such thing,” said Charlotte.  “I put out good causes, good feelings.  I no wanna hurt you, Jacques.” 

Charlotte turned back to the corporal.  “That your camp?” she said, pointing past him to the fires along the tree line. 

Corporal Butters said nothing.

“I be there in an hour,” said Charlotte.

“Not without me,” said Jacques.

“You free to go where you want,” said Charlotte.

The Corporal nodded in Renaud’s direction, then turned his steed and slipped back into the night.

Jacques moved up behind Charlotte.  “I hope you don’t believe that soldier will be getting out of this city alive,” he said.

“We see ‘bout that,” said Charlotte.  “We see.  I best go get T.O.M.A.S.  Then we head out.”

***

Captain Seward strode through the tall grass with Corporal Butters at his side.  “Well, what do we have here?” he said.  “A man of worth and…”  His voice trailed off as he eyed Charlotte and the large automaton by her side.  T.O.M.A.S. was a collection of gears, springs, and formed sheet metal that resembled a seven-foot-man in the abstract.  He (it) was Charlotte’s assistant and her confidant – one for which loyalty was never a question.

“Sir,” said Corporal Butters.  “These are the two who have come to speak on behalf of the city.”

“That is quaint,” said the Captain.  “But I see no reason to negotiate for what is rightly mine.”

“Cain’t own a man ‘ceptin when he wants ta be,” said Charlotte, taking a step forward. 

“Is that so?” said the Captain.  “You are an uppity one.”

“Captain,” said Jacques.  “I believe there is a way for us all to prosper here.”

“You do?” said the Captain.  “I find that almost humorous.”

“You aims ta kill that boy, don’t ya?” said Charlotte. 

“What?” said the Captain.

“I know what you be,” said Charlotte.  “How you treat us.”

“What exactly do you mean?” said the Captain.  “What am I?”

“A killer,” said Charlotte. 

“But isn’t that a soldier’s job?” said Captain Seward. 

“Yes,” said Jacques, trying to wedge himself into the conversation.

“I din’t know we was the enemy,” said Charlotte.  “Unless you ain’t got the courage ta go North.”

Captain Seward stepped right up to Charlotte, his breath hot on her face.  “You overstep your bounds,” said the Captain, resting a hand on the hilt of his saber.

T.O.M.A.S.’s gears screeched to action beside Charlotte, startling many of the soldiers.  The clockwork automaton raised its arms and aimed the miniature steam cannons housed there at the Captain and his corporal.  Seward took a step back.  “Do you truly believe a single tin man can stand against an entire company of Confederate soldiers?”

“What I believe is that you plan ta kill that boy,” said Charlotte.  She stared hard at the Captain, as she squeezed the gris-gris in her hand.  The small pouch was filled with secret herbs, and it radiated a warmth across Charlotte’s palm.  The silence built for a long minute before Charlotte finally reached out to T.O.M.A.S.  The automaton lowered its arms and powered down. 

Captain Seward looked from Charlotte to the clockwork man and back.  “You do a disservice to the honor of the uniform I wear,” he said.  “As much as I might like to be rid of my problem immediately, there are protocols to follow.  A deserter may speak on his own behalf.  For whatever good it will do.”

“That don’t reassure me none,” said Charlotte.

“I care little about your reassurances,” said the Captain.  “But,” he continued, “You’d be foolish not to consider the persuasive quality of a hundred armed soldiers who would do whatever their captain ordered.” 

“You plan to kill him, yes?” said Charlotte.

“Will you stop,” said Jacques.  “That slave belongs to the Captain.  It is his, by right, to do with as he wants.”

Captain Seward acted as if he didn’t hear Jacques.  “I expect I will kill him,” he said to Charlotte. 

“Why you so venomous?” said Charlotte.

“I only want what’s mine,” he said.

“And then you’ll leave us be?” said Charlotte.

Captain Seward nodded, his eyes twinkling in the firelight.

“Let me give the boy some comfort first,” said Charlotte. 

“If you try to whisk him away, I will bring my company of men down on your head,” said Captain Seward.

“We be back at first light,” said Charlotte. 

“No later,” said the captain.

“Don’t you worry.  You get what’s yours come sunup,” Charlotte said.  Then she turned and, with T.O.M.A.S., headed back across the dark field to the city.  Jacques hesitated but soon followed.

None of the soldiers noticed the gris-gris she dropped into one of the campfires as they left.

***

“How you feelin?” said Charlotte.

Abram sat up a little straighter on the simple bench in Charlotte’s front room.  “Better,” he said.

“Good,” said Charlotte.  “Cuz we got some work to do.”  She opened her front door and motioned for him to join her.

Ten minutes later they returned to the clearing where they first met hours before.  A group of citizens, larger than earlier with more women than men, was already gathered – some faces familiar to Abram, ones who had watched Jacques Renaud beat him. 

Abram stopped short of the circle, shunning the illumination of the torches.   

“What is it?” said Charlotte.

“I won’t do this again,” he said.  “You offered help.  This ain’t no help.”

“These my people” said Charlotte.  “You gots nothin’ to fear.”

Abram refused to move.  Charlotte waited before continuing into the circle, where a simple altar became visible beyond the parting crowd.

Charlotte nodded to the darkness beyond the altar.  Jacques Renaud was led into the circle by T.O.M.A.S. – the clockwork man’s metal arms holding the struggling man with little effort. 

Charlotte reached behind the altar and produced a rooster.  She turned toward Abram and nodded in his direction.  A shiver ran up the man’s back, and Abram walked over to the altar.

Charlotte held the bird like a chalice, its red crest a stain of blood in the flickering light, and ran it over Abram’s body, drawing away the evil spirits. 

Jacques strained against the automaton.  “You witch!  You’ll pay for this!  My brother will see to that.”

“Your brother done seen to this already,” said Charlotte.  “You want good, you gotta give good in this world.” 

She turned to the altar and began to chant, raising the chicken high above her head as she prayed in Yoruba to Elegba, Ogun, Obatala, and Oshund.  Others joined in, a soft chorus that sailed into the darkness.  And then…

Charlotte held the rooster away from her body with one hand and twisted the bird’s neck with the other, followed by a second quick motion that ripped its head from its body. 

Charlotte dropped the head and held the body above the altar, blood pouring over it all. 

Then Charlotte turned and walked to Abram, the decapitated rooster in her left hand.  She dipped the middle finger of her right into the neck socket and placed the bloody finger onto the soldier’s brow, tracing a line all the way around his head.  Dipping the finger again, she knelt down to mark each of Abram’s big toes with the rooster’s blood. 

Charlotte rose, turned on Jacques Renaud, and did the same to him.  Renaud struggled, spitting in Charlotte’s face multiple times, but he couldn’t hope to break from T.O.M.A.S. 

When she finished, Charlotte laid the carcass on the altar, offered more prayers to the spirits, then plucked some feathers and scattered them over the altar.  Next, she took up a jug of homemade gin – the favored libation of Elegba – sucked deeply from its neck and spattered that across the altar.  Charlotte took another long draught of the gin and misted that over Abram’s feet and the top of his head.  She did the same to Jacques, who continued to struggle as he spat expletives at the voudou priestess. 

Charlotte set the gin down and washed her hands in a small bucket off to the side.  In the water were floating four coconut shells – divination implements known as obi – which she retrieved and threw.  The first throw was black – all four husk side up, Oyekun – a bad omen.  She threw them again.  And again.  And again.  These next three times, they came up ejife – two black and two white – a very good sign.  Charlotte was pleased. 

She rose and placed the rooster into a small gunnysack in front of the altar.  She then poured palm oil and honey into the sack and spit another mouthful of gin over the rooster.  Charlotte brought the sack to Abram.

“Seal it,” she said. 

Then she walked back to the altar and retrieved a small bucket filled with a thick grayish liquid.  Charlotte handed it to Abram.  “Take this,” she said.  “You bring it back to my place, where you be staying tonight, and you clean yourself with it.  Pour it all over your naked body and don’t wash it off until just before dawn.  And make sure you throw away that gunnysack on your way back to be rid of them bad spirits.”

Abram nodded.

“Now scoot,” said Charlotte.  She turned and looked at Jacques Renaud.  “We got other business to finish here.” 

***

Mist burned off the grasses as Charlotte and her two companions – T.O.M.A.S. and Abram, whose face was hidden by a gunnysack as he struggled against the grip of the clockwork man – approached the soldiers.  The sun, a deep orange that burned the eyes, broke over the tree line – dawn, when the spirits are most restless. The trio stopped a hundred yards from the edge of the Confederate camp. 

Charlotte stepped over to Abram and placed a gris-gris in his shirt pocket as she leaned up and whispered through the gunnysack, “I sorry for this.  But to get good you need to give good.”  She kissed the rough cloth and then turned for the encampment. 

Charlotte searched the faces, but did not see Captain Seward.  One of the soldiers, working to get his suspenders over his shoulders, locked eyes with her and immediately took off into the woods. 

Shortly, Captain Seward arrived in full uniform, clean-shaven, and more alert than any of his company.

“I must admit,” he said, “I am mighty surprised.”  The Captain looked as if he’d just screwed a two-dollar whore and then gotten her to return the money on his way out. 

“We all get what we deserve,” said Charlotte.  “And I ‘spect that’s as should be.” 

“That’s wiser thinking than I would have given your kind credit for,” said Captain Seward.

Charlotte, ignoring the knot forming in her stomach, said, “You be killin’ him this morning?”

“If that were your business, I might feel obliged to share,” said the Captain.  “But…” 

He let the word trail off as he turned his attention to the bound refugee in the automaton’s steel arms.  “I do not mean to cast aspersions,” he said, “but might I be able to see the face of that which you brought?  Just to make certain this is indeed the one I seek.” 

Charlotte turned and nodded to T.O.M.A.S.  The clockwork man lifted the sack, revealing the bloodied visage of Abram.  A thick stitch of cloth was tied around his mouth, stifling protests.

“That be him?” said Charlotte. 

“Indeed it is,” said Captain Seward.  He walked over and punched Abram hard across his face. 

Blood trickled from the slave’s nose as he pulled his head back up, eyes wide, fear trying to claw its way out. 

“Corporal Butters!”  The young soldier came running, his saber rattling against his leg as he worked to keep his balance through the tall grass.  “Yes, sir,” he said. 

“Take this and prepare for the ceremony.  We need to meet up with Captain Jackson’s company in Baton Rouge by mid-afternoon, so we haven’t much time.”

“Yes, sir.”  The corporal motioned for two soldiers to take the deserter away. 

Abram shook his head fiercely, eyes pleading with Charlotte as he disappeared into the forest shadows. 

“You best leave now, before I forget my manners,” said Captain Seward, and he turned and walked away.

 “’Spect you’ll hang him,” said Charlotte.  “’Spect that’s right.” 

***

That afternoon, Charlotte Lacroix returned with a handful of others to the soldiers’ deserted encampment.  She peered into the shadows as she cautiously stepped into the forest.  Soon enough, Charlotte found what she was looking for.

The creaking of an oak branch shuddered across the silence, a limp body a pendulum at the end of a thick noose.

“Damn.”  The muted exclamation came from just over Charlotte’s left shoulder.  She turned and looked at Abram.

“Yes,” she said.  “But you give good to get good in this world.”

“How will Edmand feel about this?” said another of the group.

“He knows,” said Charlotte. 

“Yeah, but –” 

Charlotte cut off the statement with a searing look that urged the rest of the group back a step.  Then she turned back to Jacques Renaud, in a tattered Confederate uniform, hanging above her.

“Someone hoist me up so we’n cut him down,” she said.

“Why?” said Abram, the venom obvious in his voice.

“Cuz,” said Charlotte, “every man deserve a proper burial.”

 

WHAT IT IS, week ending 3.2.2019

Week four of recommitting to this weekly check-in on what I've been reading, what I've been watching, what I've been writing, and how it all interweaves into a seamless whole of creativity and inspiration.  (see, when you're the one in charge of the writing, you can make anything sound good, even if the truth is a bit more . . . messy).  That's enough for a preamble, let get to it:

VISUAL MEDIA:


Columbo: Murder by the Book --
I introduced my 11-year-old son to Columbo this past week, and it was glorious.  (possibly more glorious for me than for him).  This is the classic episode directed by Stephen Spielberg and written by Steven Bochco.  Ken Franklin (played by Jack Cassidy, who starred in several Columbo episodes) is one-half of a writing team, famous for the series of mysteries starring Mrs. Melville.  His partner, Jim Ferris, has decided to end their partnership.  So, Franklin kills him, while carefully laying the groundwork for it to look like a mob hit.  It's an intricate plan involving luring his soon to be former partner away from the office, to come to his cabin a couple hours south, while convincing Ferris to call and tell his wife that he's working late, without letting on he's with Franklin.  It's a masterful plan.
But Columbo knows, right from the jump, that Franklin is the one who did it, and tiny inconsistencies pop up as he hangs around and drops in, uninvited, on Franklin, using his aloof manner to play the part of a doofus, while putting together the puzzle laid out for him.  In the end, Columbo enlists Ferris's wife, imploring her to talk extemporaneously about her husband's writing and his partnership with Franklin, hoping that some minor detail will clue him in to how he can catch the killer.
And it works, because it always does, because he's Columbo.
This is a different Columbo, though, not quite the character he became, that we know and love so much.  Falk is still shifting from the initial pilot's characterization, which had him berating and admonishing the murderer.  It's closer to the unassuming, quiet detective he becomes, but there's still a bit of assertiveness and forthrightness, particularly in the scene with Ferris's widow, toward the end, that feels like a bit of a hangover from those first, slightly faulty steps.  It's not a bad thing, and not even anything that would be unwelcome in the character; it's just a characteristic to which fans of Columbo might be unaccustomed.
I love this series, and this episode, in particular, is certainly a high point for the series.  The smartness of the plot, the timing from Columbo -- with his "gotchas" after setting up the murderer to incriminate himself by answering a previous, seemingly innocuous, question -- is priceless.  There's a ton I can take away from this episode and this show, to improve my writing.
Oh, and though I'm certain my son would tell you, now, that watching this episode was "boring," he was totally into every turn of the screw, while we watched.  So, there's that, too.

Babylon 5: Chrysalis (season 1, episode 22) --
I finished up season one of Babylon 5.  It, too, was great.  I'd forgotten about the subplot around Garibaldi being shot while pursuing a tip that someone was out to kill the Earth Alliance President, which leads to the successful assassination of President Santiago.
This episode is where everything changes.  Delenn performs a ritual that puts her into a chrysalis and will change her physical appearance, going forward, which will come with a renewed outlook on her race's role in the universe and how they relate to humans, specifically, and other races, in general.  Garibaldi is shot by one of his own, which will make him even more paranoid.  Londo unwittingly enlists the Shadows to destroy a Narn military base in a disputed area between the Narns and Centauri.  G'Kar will leave the station to look into this.  And with the Earth Alliance President dead, his VP, Morgan Clark, steps in and immediately announces a retrenchment and refocus on Earth and its priorities (not unlike the current U.S. regime under Trump, as well as other right-wing, nationalist political figures ascending across the globe).  As Kosh states, toward the end of the episode, "And so it begins."  Indeed it does.
One thing I've always kept at the back of my mind, in reference to this episode and to my own writing, is a statement from the commentary track by J. Michael Straczynski.  The bits surrounding Commander Sinclair in this episode are, for the most part, quiet, at least in the opening half of the show.  He and his on-again, off-again lover, Catherine Sakai, are getting a chance to spend time together, and Sinclair decides to pop the question.  She says yes.  This is followed by a nice dinner (for a quick moment, anyway) with Ivanova and Garibaldi, announcing their plans and asking these two to be their Maid of Honor and Best Man, respectively. 
As JMS points out, this was intentional.  The best way, he said, to lay the foundation for a big shake-up, as happens in the latter half of this episode, is to start with some quiet moments, to allow for a stark contrast between the quiet and the loud, allowing the impact of the dramatic events to be heightened by this contrast.  It's something I try to have in my "bag of tricks," but after watching this episode again, I realize it's something I need to be more aware of, when I'm writing dramatic scenes like this.



WRITTEN MATERIAL:

Anna Akhmatova: My Half Century --My reading of Anna Akhmatova's prose continues.  I've moved into a section where she writes about Pushkin, for which she became quite well known.  It has me intrigued to read his work now.
Akhmatova's prose continues to be engaging, whether writing matter-of-factly or poetically, and her incisive intellect is very appealing.  I have shared a few more quotes from my reading, on the site.  Links below:

Quotes part Two

Quotes part Three

I was particularly taken with the second link above, where Akhmatova talks of the village where she spent some of her early life, Slepnyovo.  She likened it to an arch in architecture, where it seems small at first, but it gets bigger and bigger until you find complete freedom, once you walk through.  It's a wonderful metaphor for life, living in a small village or a small town, as I did, but it also works with the mechanics of the words:  arch being the first, smaller section of architecture, a much larger word and idea.


INSPIRATION(s):

Moebius, always inspirational.

MUSIC:

Went back to a musician Warren Ellis introduced me to, through one of his e-newsletters, Kemper Norton.  Part ambient, part electronica, the music can be soothing one second and then become completely overwhelming, with harmonies vying for dominance and failing, while the collective pieces merge into a whole that is almost otherworldly.  His work is wholly distinct and great for writing.  Here's a sample:





WRITING:

I've mentioned before that I track my writing.  Used to be, I logged the number of words written per day, shooting for 1000 words a day.  Now, I log whether I have written or not, and right now I'm in the middle of what I am certain is my second longest streak of unbroken days of writing - 28.  Not bad.  6 more and I match my personal best of 34. 

This week I completed final revisions on a short story "Tommy & Marc," which acts as a prelude to the novel I need to do a heavy rewrite on, which is next in the queue.  The short story was a way for me to get a better feel for the main characters of my novel.  At the time, I'd already written up roughly 25,000 words of background material on them, as well as the setting and plot and such, but I still didn't really know how they might talk or act -- specifically, I needed to better understand what made the two of them different, and writing a story set during their first year of high school seemed a good way to do that. 

It was something I'd not done before, but which I had read about, from other writers, as a good way to delve into characters before embarking on a longer story with them.  It helped.  Though, obviously, writing 4000 words didn't give me a full picture of these characters, but it did help get things started and propelled me into the novel, which, at its first draft length, runs to about 120,000 words, and that experience, in turn, hopefully helped inform the rewrites for this story. 

I know these short stories aren't always written, by others, with the idea of publication in mind.  They're more an exercise, something to fill out the backstory while remaining in the crevices between paragraphs.  But I like what I wrote, and it stands well on its own.  So, now, I need to start looking for places where it might be a good fit.  But not until I fix the ending, which I realized, after getting it written, didn't work.  Or, didn't work as well as I would have liked.  I tried to be overly flowery and profound, when I all I need to be is direct with the writing, especially since I already know exactly how the story ends up.  This is something I struggle with -- though I find myself better able to recognize it, now -- attempting to overreach with my prose when all that's needed is a blunt directness.  So, I'll polish that up, start looking for journals to submit it to, and begin the task of whittling down 120,000 words to around 90K.  Oh, and I need to rework my query letter again for the first novel. 
That seems like enough to get me through another week of writing, without a break.  If so, I'll be back here next week, touting my new personal best streak of consecutive days of writing. 

-chris

WHAT IT IS, week ending February 9, 2019

It's been a while, a few years at least, but let's see if I can do this weekly roundup thing more than once . . . in a row.  Here we go:

My wife and I started watching the final season of THE AMERICANS.  Without spoiling, the writers managed to bring separated characters together, in a natural way, while also setting up an interesting dynamic between Elizabeth and Philip.  We're two episodes in, and already the tension is ratcheting up.  Looking forward to seeing how it all ends.

I've also been watching season 3 of BETTER CALL SAUL.  Vince Gilligan & Peter Gould continue to head a stellar writers room that continually manages to drive Jimmy McGill into a corner that seems impossible for him to extricate himself from, only to watch his wizardry with words and emotional manipulation do just that.  The characters, the settings, the reintroduction of characters from BREAKING BAD are all seamless and wonderful.  A master class in television writing.

I finished reading ZAMI: A NEW SPELLING OF MY NAME this past week.  You need to read this book.  My quick review of it leans heavily into hyperbole, and it's all warranted.  Audre Lorde's memoir, or biomythography as she calls it, is direct, unflinching, heartbreaking, and heartwarming, detailing her early childhood up through her early 20s, in the NYC of the 1940s-50s.  Essential!

And I started reading my first Amy Tan novel, THE HUNDRED SECRET SENSES.  I'm 200 pages in, in four days, and it's wonderful.  Her use of language and the way she connects up disparate scenes in a natural and poetic manner is laudable.  I know I can learn a lot from reading this, the only trouble will be how well I'm able to put those lessons into practice.

Most importantly, I figured out how the latest story I've been writing would end, you can learn a bit of that at the end of this post on writing I shared a couple of days ago.  This should allow me to wrap up this story in the next day or so.  After that, I can finally get to work on the second draft of my latest novel.  It's been percolating for well over a year, so I'm anxious to get to it and see what I wrote.  Then, it'll be onto the next thing.

Since I haven't updated here in a couple years, after revising my first novel to as high a polish as I could manage (note: the 5th novel I started, and the 2nd one I completed), followed by writing the first draft of the second novel (the one noted in the paragraph above, waiting for a heavy revision), I began querying literary agents in the spring of last year.  I got no bites with my initial efforts, so I revised my introductory letter with an emphasis on infusing more personality into the letter.  From that, an agent has asked for the full manuscript.  That was a number of weeks ago, and I'm still waiting.  But it feels like I'm on the right track with this writing thing.  So, onward and upward.

Also of note, I had a new short story recently accepted for publication as well, having gotten back into that game after focusing on novel writing.  It felt good, and the journal is available for purchase through the publisher, both digital and physical editions, in the sidebar.  It's the one titled "A Stone Wall Between Us," in MEAT FOR TEA.  Thanks!

-chris