The good news is I've been accepted to Graduate School, finally. I applied two months ago and received an email today stating I'd been accepted. It feels good to finally know. I'd sent numerous emails and called and barely received any word back. Three weeks, I've been waiting to hear any word back. Well, now I know. I'm excited but not as nervous as I expected. I'm ready for what comes, ready to learn, ready to be back in the classroom as a student, for a little while, ready to become more than a paraprofessional. Feels like I'm finally taking a step forward, no longer stuck in a perpetual limbo of not knowing how to proceed. I guess, sometimes, when you don't know what to do, you just have to do something. Just do it. Stop thinking about so many things and just make a decision already. Do something. You'll learn something, you will gain something out of it, you just need to take a step and go for it, whatever it may be.
The bad news is I might have inadvertently broken our television, which my girlfriend paid for, with the christmas present I gave her...It sucks. My whole idea was to get a blu-ray player and blu-ray movies because we had a bunch of dvd's we could no longer play after my xbox stopped working. We'd lamented the fact that we couldn't play anything on our tv. She especially likes owning a copy of movies she really loves, and the fact was there was no point in buying any more movies or tv shows since we wouldn't be able to watch them. So, I thought a blu-ray player would be perfect. I was looking at Samsung because our tv was samsung and we generally liked the company, I suppose. I hemmed and hawed, having a couple on my amazon cart, never pulling the trigger, still wondering if this was a good gift idea, when I saw a bluray player for a good deal on another site. I thought of it as a sign, and ordered it.
We had our christmas and tried to watch a movie. An hour in, the tv turned itself off, then back on. THen it did it after five minutes, then after 60 seconds, etc. We disconnected the player, but the tv continued to have problems, turning off randomly. So far, we've tried everything we could think of and anything we could find online and nothing's worked. The choice is to have service done, which because the tv is out of order, could cost hundreds, or purchase a new tv, which would cost 7-900$.
It absolutely sucks.
Something I purchased to give someone happiness has now become a sinkhole for hundreds of dollars. It fucking blows. The past couple of days have not gone as I'd hoped. I wanted to be able to watch our movies on our tv, and now we can't watch anything on it. And it's essentially because of me.
What's worse? She got me something awesome, a google chromebook that I absolutely love. I guess she totally wins in the gift-giving department. She gave me an amazing laptop for writing, I spent money and broke her television. Woohoo.
But, you roll with the punches, right? When life gives you lemon, you make lemonade. When life breaks your tv, you....read, I guess? I don't know. Keep on keeping on.
Shit happens, though, and you just have to deal with it. That's life, that's the way things are. Just gotta do something and move on.
Take the bad with the good, I suppose. That's all, for now.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Monday, December 2, 2013
NaNoWriMo - The End
I lost Nanowrimo. I only wrote 43,000 words.
I WON NANOWRIMO! I WROTE 43,000 WORDS!!! WOOHOOO!!!
It's silly to talk about 'losing' nanowrimo. It's an activity, it's an event. It's based on honesty. It has no true verifying system. The goal of 50,000 words is simply there because it's a good number. 50,000 words is a pretty short novel, anyways. It's not really about winning, or writing a certain amount, ITS JUST ABOUT WRITING ITSELF. It's to get you to write. To do something you probably wouldn't otherwise. The only motivation it truly adds is a website word-tracker. You have to put the number in. You have to put in the effort to go to write-ins and meet others if you wish to. Essentially, nanowrimo motivates YOU to motivate YOURSELF. Which is a good thing. Which means you can't lose, not really, not if you wrote even one freaking word. Winning doesn't mean anything, writing does. And I wrote. 43,000 words. It felt good.
The truth is that the only way to win, for me, is to keep writing. To keep myself honest by writing a certain amount of words every other day or so. And if I don't write, I need to edit my shit. And if I'm not editing, I need to be shopping my shit to magazines or learning more about author(self)-publishing. The idea is to continue writing or doing something that involves me writing and getting it out there, somehow, someway, hopefully getting value of some sort in return, even if it's only the value of having others read my work and enjoy it.
Did I want to write 50k? Of course. I wanted to write more. I wanted to cross the finish line, there were three or four days in the last week where I wrote 2500 words a day. Those were wild days, where I put on the music and zoned out for an hour and two and just wrote. Didn't really know I could just do that. It's good to know, makes me think maybe I can make this a regular thing, instead of a once or twice a year thing. I need to get in the habit, which means writing more blog posts as well. I really had fun writing one per day for a week before Nanowrimo, but that's too hurried a pace. One every other day is much more manageable, and something I'll be attempting once I get over the post-nanowrimo blues/hangover. Forcing myself to come up with new blog post ideas was a creative exercise, a good old workout for my brain-pan, my mind-noggin, my thinkin' blob.
I'm also planning on shopping some things over at JukePop Serial. It's a website for readers and writers full of serial fiction. As a reader, you find stories you like and put them on your bookshelf, getting notified whenever the writer adds a new chapter, you also vote on the chapters you like, which help the authors get paid, and you can even pay the authors directly, sort of like a tip after you read a chapter or something. As an author, you submit a first chapter, and if they accept it, you're good to go. They pay for the first chapter but after that it's up to you and the readers you gather. It sounds very cool, and a good way to gain a following. We'll see when I edit my shit and actually send them something. I'm also trying to figure out grad school so free time is going to fly by, for me.
So those are my thoughts on this years nanowrimo, and plans for the future. Look for more in a week or so.
I WON NANOWRIMO! I WROTE 43,000 WORDS!!! WOOHOOO!!!
It's silly to talk about 'losing' nanowrimo. It's an activity, it's an event. It's based on honesty. It has no true verifying system. The goal of 50,000 words is simply there because it's a good number. 50,000 words is a pretty short novel, anyways. It's not really about winning, or writing a certain amount, ITS JUST ABOUT WRITING ITSELF. It's to get you to write. To do something you probably wouldn't otherwise. The only motivation it truly adds is a website word-tracker. You have to put the number in. You have to put in the effort to go to write-ins and meet others if you wish to. Essentially, nanowrimo motivates YOU to motivate YOURSELF. Which is a good thing. Which means you can't lose, not really, not if you wrote even one freaking word. Winning doesn't mean anything, writing does. And I wrote. 43,000 words. It felt good.
The truth is that the only way to win, for me, is to keep writing. To keep myself honest by writing a certain amount of words every other day or so. And if I don't write, I need to edit my shit. And if I'm not editing, I need to be shopping my shit to magazines or learning more about author(self)-publishing. The idea is to continue writing or doing something that involves me writing and getting it out there, somehow, someway, hopefully getting value of some sort in return, even if it's only the value of having others read my work and enjoy it.
Did I want to write 50k? Of course. I wanted to write more. I wanted to cross the finish line, there were three or four days in the last week where I wrote 2500 words a day. Those were wild days, where I put on the music and zoned out for an hour and two and just wrote. Didn't really know I could just do that. It's good to know, makes me think maybe I can make this a regular thing, instead of a once or twice a year thing. I need to get in the habit, which means writing more blog posts as well. I really had fun writing one per day for a week before Nanowrimo, but that's too hurried a pace. One every other day is much more manageable, and something I'll be attempting once I get over the post-nanowrimo blues/hangover. Forcing myself to come up with new blog post ideas was a creative exercise, a good old workout for my brain-pan, my mind-noggin, my thinkin' blob.
I'm also planning on shopping some things over at JukePop Serial. It's a website for readers and writers full of serial fiction. As a reader, you find stories you like and put them on your bookshelf, getting notified whenever the writer adds a new chapter, you also vote on the chapters you like, which help the authors get paid, and you can even pay the authors directly, sort of like a tip after you read a chapter or something. As an author, you submit a first chapter, and if they accept it, you're good to go. They pay for the first chapter but after that it's up to you and the readers you gather. It sounds very cool, and a good way to gain a following. We'll see when I edit my shit and actually send them something. I'm also trying to figure out grad school so free time is going to fly by, for me.
So those are my thoughts on this years nanowrimo, and plans for the future. Look for more in a week or so.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Monday, October 28, 2013
JACK O LANTERNS
I'm pumped because in half an hour I'm going to see a smorgasbord of pumpkins. Pumpkins of every shape and size, with everything you can think carved into their faces. Angry pumpkins, happy pumpkins, silly pumpkins, gross pumpkins, pumpkins eating other pumpkins, lining walkways and trees, stretching up into the sky. Pumpkins meticulously carved with precision, showing scenes and characters from movies.
There's a jack-o-lantern extravaganza in rhode island with thousands and thousands of pumpkins. It's ridiculous and awesome. I've been before and it's always an amazing sight. You walk through a zoo at night with pumpkins lining the walk, depicting various things depending on the years theme. I just checked. 5000 pumpkins. Yeah. That's a ton of jack o lanterns. It is the coolest thing to see near Halloween.
I mean, just look at that! It's crazy! It's insane! It's awesome!
Jack-o-lanterns are pretty strange things, if you think about it. Did someone just notice, after scooping out the insides of a pumpkin for food or something, that it looked like a head? And they were like, hey maybe it'd be funny if I carved a face into it. La-de-da, a tradition is born?
I went to wikipedia for answers and the first thing I learned is that a Jack O Lantern doesn't have to be a pumpkin! What baloney is this? Not a pumpkin, that's absurd. But true. Apparently, it can also be a carved turnip or beet. Who knew! Not me.
Carving jack o lanterns is a pretty great tradition. It's a time where anyone can make a cool piece of art, that glows and looks creepy. You always feel pretty good after making one, it's just fun to pull out goopy innards with your hands, and stab the skin with a knife. It feels good to carve out a face on a pumpkin, I'm not sure why. Something satisfying about being able to stab something. Uh, well, let's move on.
PUMPKINS! JACK O LANTERNS! I will return with many pictures!
Also, this is a pretty lame blog post, I know, but it's what you get. November is coming.
There's a jack-o-lantern extravaganza in rhode island with thousands and thousands of pumpkins. It's ridiculous and awesome. I've been before and it's always an amazing sight. You walk through a zoo at night with pumpkins lining the walk, depicting various things depending on the years theme. I just checked. 5000 pumpkins. Yeah. That's a ton of jack o lanterns. It is the coolest thing to see near Halloween.
I mean, just look at that! It's crazy! It's insane! It's awesome!
Jack-o-lanterns are pretty strange things, if you think about it. Did someone just notice, after scooping out the insides of a pumpkin for food or something, that it looked like a head? And they were like, hey maybe it'd be funny if I carved a face into it. La-de-da, a tradition is born?
I went to wikipedia for answers and the first thing I learned is that a Jack O Lantern doesn't have to be a pumpkin! What baloney is this? Not a pumpkin, that's absurd. But true. Apparently, it can also be a carved turnip or beet. Who knew! Not me.
Carving jack o lanterns is a pretty great tradition. It's a time where anyone can make a cool piece of art, that glows and looks creepy. You always feel pretty good after making one, it's just fun to pull out goopy innards with your hands, and stab the skin with a knife. It feels good to carve out a face on a pumpkin, I'm not sure why. Something satisfying about being able to stab something. Uh, well, let's move on.
PUMPKINS! JACK O LANTERNS! I will return with many pictures!
Also, this is a pretty lame blog post, I know, but it's what you get. November is coming.
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Lovecraftian Southern Gothic (part 3)
(Part 1,Part 2)
Derek sped all the way to the abandoned manor.
Anderson followed all the way.
The manor sat far from the road with a winding drive that led to it. Empty pastures sat beside the driveway with wooden fences sitting in disrepair. Even from the road, the house looked past its prime, the windows shattered and the front doors hanging off their hinges. One corner of the expansive residence had collapsed within itself, a mismatched pile of broken debris.
Derek pulled up the driveway and skidded to a stop in front of a set of wide stone steps that led to the front doors. He got out and waited.
Sheriff Anderson parked behind the flashy rental and get out, adjusting his hat.
"You going to arrest me?"
"I decided the simplest thing to do would be to help you. Satisfy your curiosity." He said, walking up, spurs on his boots jingling.
"After all that, you're going to help me?"
"I figured if you're anything like your brother, you won't be satisfied until you see what there is to see." Anderson entered the house.
Derek followed.
The interior looked drab and run-down. Peeling paint marred by juvenile graffiti. Dust covered surfaces. It felt empty, devoid of furniture and the signs of human life. Rubble consumed an entire room from the collapse.
"What happened here?"
"Rich man had it built for his family. After it was built, bad things started happening in town."
"Bad things?"
Anderson went to a locked door in the central hallway and pulled out a key from his pocket. "What you want is through here," he said.
The door was bolted shut with a padlock lock that had been installed after the house had been built.
The only sounds within were the hollow thumps of their boots on the floor and their hushed conversation. Derek realized what it felt like, inside. The emptiness, the ever-present silence, the feeling of death. It felt like a tomb.
"What's in there?"
"The basement." Anderson slipped the key into the padlock and unlocked it. The door opened with a squeal.
Stone steps led down into darkness.
Anderson pulled a small flashlight from his belt and flicked it on. "Your brother noticed this place and asked around about it. Nobody had many answers for him, either. He came here himself."
"You first," Derek said.
Anderson nodded and started down, still talking. "At first he just visited a few times, looked around. He came down here. Then, he started living here."
Derek followed the sheriff down the steps, the darkness pressing about him. He took quick breaths. Below, in the basement he saw a camping cot and a gas grill. A gas lantern stood next to it and a dusty backpack.
"He stayed here?" Derek asked, walking over to his brother's things. He grabbed the backpack, recognizing it. "Why would he do that? I thought he stayed at the farm."
"He did, at first. It was about a year ago that he moved down here."
"But why, why live in this crummy place?"
Anderson nodded into the direction and flicked his flashlight that way, revealing a doorway that led farther on. "In there, come on."
"Hold on," Derek said. He found a pack of matches in the backpack. He turned on the gas lamp and lit it, giving more light to the basement. It was unfinished, the walls bare concrete. An ancient water-heater stood in the corner and pipes littered the beams above.
Anderson headed farther into the basement. "The rich man, for whatever reason, wanted a bigger basement and tried to expand it. He hit ledge, and went through it. He found a cave."
"A cave?"
"A natural cavern underground." Anderson stepped through the doorway into a cramped tunnel that led to a large space about the size of the basement room behind them. The floor and walls were solid rock. It looked bare.
In the middle of the room stood what looked like a stone well. A circular cut of thick stone lay atop it, covering the hole.
"Bad things started happening in town after the man opened this. Folk got sickly. Died. Others went sick in the head, neighbors and friends becoming murderers at the drop of a hat."
Derek shook his head. "I don't get it. Any of it."
"Help me with this," Anderson said, flicking off his flashlight and putting it back on his belt. He put his hands on the stone covering.
Derek put the lantern on the floor. "What's in there?"
"Answers," Anderson said. "Isn't that what you want? You want the truth about your brother?"
"Fine," Derek said, stepping forward. "But after we push this off, you're going to tell me where the hell he went."
They pushed, the heavy stone slowly shifting and moving.
As soon as there was an opening, Derek looked down and forgot about everything. He looked into utter darkness. It was not merely the absence of light, it was substantial. It had depth and form, it flowed and swirled. He couldn't move, couldn't think. He felt something immense, something beyond comprehension stared up through the hole and saw him. Saw his insignificance in all things, his pettiness. He saw his worthlessness. Not even a fly compared to the thing within, the atrocity, the horrifyingly pure evil inside.
Anderson got the rest of the stone off by himself.
Derek held on to the edge of the well and looked down, his body shaking.
"Yeah, it's always like that the first time." The sheriff walked up behind Derek. "The rich man opened the way to It and your brother found out our way of keeping It satisfied. It leaves us alone, long as it's fed." Anderson grabbed the back of Derek's shirt and threw him into the well.
Derek didn't even scream. He was gone.
The sheriff had one hell of a time getting the stone back on by himself, but he got it done. He took the lantern and went back upstairs. He closed the door and locked it again. He walked outside and got into his car. He grabbed his phone and made a call.
"Hey, Henderson, I need a tow. You know where from. Yeah, bring it back to the rental place. Tell them it was found at the bus station. Yeah. Thanks."
He hung up and drove to town.
Derek sped all the way to the abandoned manor.
Anderson followed all the way.
The manor sat far from the road with a winding drive that led to it. Empty pastures sat beside the driveway with wooden fences sitting in disrepair. Even from the road, the house looked past its prime, the windows shattered and the front doors hanging off their hinges. One corner of the expansive residence had collapsed within itself, a mismatched pile of broken debris.
Derek pulled up the driveway and skidded to a stop in front of a set of wide stone steps that led to the front doors. He got out and waited.
Sheriff Anderson parked behind the flashy rental and get out, adjusting his hat.
"You going to arrest me?"
"I decided the simplest thing to do would be to help you. Satisfy your curiosity." He said, walking up, spurs on his boots jingling.
"After all that, you're going to help me?"
"I figured if you're anything like your brother, you won't be satisfied until you see what there is to see." Anderson entered the house.
Derek followed.
The interior looked drab and run-down. Peeling paint marred by juvenile graffiti. Dust covered surfaces. It felt empty, devoid of furniture and the signs of human life. Rubble consumed an entire room from the collapse.
"What happened here?"
"Rich man had it built for his family. After it was built, bad things started happening in town."
"Bad things?"
Anderson went to a locked door in the central hallway and pulled out a key from his pocket. "What you want is through here," he said.
The door was bolted shut with a padlock lock that had been installed after the house had been built.
The only sounds within were the hollow thumps of their boots on the floor and their hushed conversation. Derek realized what it felt like, inside. The emptiness, the ever-present silence, the feeling of death. It felt like a tomb.
"What's in there?"
"The basement." Anderson slipped the key into the padlock and unlocked it. The door opened with a squeal.
Stone steps led down into darkness.
Anderson pulled a small flashlight from his belt and flicked it on. "Your brother noticed this place and asked around about it. Nobody had many answers for him, either. He came here himself."
"You first," Derek said.
Anderson nodded and started down, still talking. "At first he just visited a few times, looked around. He came down here. Then, he started living here."
Derek followed the sheriff down the steps, the darkness pressing about him. He took quick breaths. Below, in the basement he saw a camping cot and a gas grill. A gas lantern stood next to it and a dusty backpack.
"He stayed here?" Derek asked, walking over to his brother's things. He grabbed the backpack, recognizing it. "Why would he do that? I thought he stayed at the farm."
"He did, at first. It was about a year ago that he moved down here."
"But why, why live in this crummy place?"
Anderson nodded into the direction and flicked his flashlight that way, revealing a doorway that led farther on. "In there, come on."
"Hold on," Derek said. He found a pack of matches in the backpack. He turned on the gas lamp and lit it, giving more light to the basement. It was unfinished, the walls bare concrete. An ancient water-heater stood in the corner and pipes littered the beams above.
Anderson headed farther into the basement. "The rich man, for whatever reason, wanted a bigger basement and tried to expand it. He hit ledge, and went through it. He found a cave."
"A cave?"
"A natural cavern underground." Anderson stepped through the doorway into a cramped tunnel that led to a large space about the size of the basement room behind them. The floor and walls were solid rock. It looked bare.
In the middle of the room stood what looked like a stone well. A circular cut of thick stone lay atop it, covering the hole.
"Bad things started happening in town after the man opened this. Folk got sickly. Died. Others went sick in the head, neighbors and friends becoming murderers at the drop of a hat."
Derek shook his head. "I don't get it. Any of it."
"Help me with this," Anderson said, flicking off his flashlight and putting it back on his belt. He put his hands on the stone covering.
Derek put the lantern on the floor. "What's in there?"
"Answers," Anderson said. "Isn't that what you want? You want the truth about your brother?"
"Fine," Derek said, stepping forward. "But after we push this off, you're going to tell me where the hell he went."
They pushed, the heavy stone slowly shifting and moving.
As soon as there was an opening, Derek looked down and forgot about everything. He looked into utter darkness. It was not merely the absence of light, it was substantial. It had depth and form, it flowed and swirled. He couldn't move, couldn't think. He felt something immense, something beyond comprehension stared up through the hole and saw him. Saw his insignificance in all things, his pettiness. He saw his worthlessness. Not even a fly compared to the thing within, the atrocity, the horrifyingly pure evil inside.
Anderson got the rest of the stone off by himself.
Derek held on to the edge of the well and looked down, his body shaking.
"Yeah, it's always like that the first time." The sheriff walked up behind Derek. "The rich man opened the way to It and your brother found out our way of keeping It satisfied. It leaves us alone, long as it's fed." Anderson grabbed the back of Derek's shirt and threw him into the well.
Derek didn't even scream. He was gone.
The sheriff had one hell of a time getting the stone back on by himself, but he got it done. He took the lantern and went back upstairs. He closed the door and locked it again. He walked outside and got into his car. He grabbed his phone and made a call.
"Hey, Henderson, I need a tow. You know where from. Yeah, bring it back to the rental place. Tell them it was found at the bus station. Yeah. Thanks."
He hung up and drove to town.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Lovecraftian Southern Gothic Flash-Fiction (part 2)
(Part 1)
Derek left the diner and went back to where his brother had lived for the past three years. It was an old farm just outside of town, taken care of by an old couple whose children had all grown up and moved away. They only had a few animals and fewer crops but they managed. Derek's brother had helped them some, in exchange for rent.
He pulled into the dirt lot behind a rusted out pick-up and got out of the car. Horses pressed up against the fence, two brown beauties that even Derek could appreciate. They chewed cud and watched him with dull eyes. He ignored them and walked to the porch. He saw the old man, Jerry moving in the barn and gave a wave. He got a stare in return. The couple had welcomed him, given him next to nothing about his brother and generally didn't talk. They'd said his brother had stayed with them and helped them out. They said he'd left a month or two ago and that was that.
What happened to good old southern hospitality, thought Derek.
The wife stood in the kitchen, washing dishes.
"Derek, is that you? Was the sheriff able to tell ya anything?"
Derek sighed and sat at the kitchen table. "Nothing. And then someone else threatened me. What the hell's wrong with this town?"
She gave a frown over her shoulder. "Ain't nothin' wrong with this town. Just don't like to talk to outsiders much is all."
"I get that, okay? Giving out information to strangers and all, but, Laurie, he's my freaking brother."
"Please refrain from swearing while in our house," she snapped.
"I'm sorry, okay?" Derek stood up and went over. He started drying the dishes with a towel. "I just want to make sure he's okay."
She gave him a caring look and shook her head. "He's gone, Derek. You're just going to have to accept that."
"Gone where?"
She scrubbed a pot particularly hard, scraping the remains of some meat off of it. "Gone."
"No," Derek said, shaking his head. "I don't accept that. I won't."
They continued in silence. She, washing each dish with a dark blue scrubbing brush, then rinsing it with the faucet in the second sink, then passing it to him. He took each and wiped them with the towel, making sure to get each drop of water. It took his mind off things.
"What did he do, here?" Derek asked.
She gave a sad smile. "He helped us out, baling hay, feeding the animals, harvesting crops. He enjoyed it, I think."
"Really? I can't say I'm surprised. He must have said something before he left. You must have some idea. He lived with you for three years."
She sighed, slumping against the counter. "The old manor," she whispered. "He spent some time there."
"What? You mean that abandoned shack I passed on my way in to town?"
Boots stomped onto the porch and Jerry stalked inside, glaring. "That's enough talkin' with my wife. You can get out, now."
"Sir, I just-"
"Enough, I said," the old man growled. "You're brother was no good, ya hear? He meddled where he shouldn't have and now he's gone." He raised a finger like a weapon, pointing it violently. "You best stay away from that house or you'll end up like 'im. Leave well enough alone."
Derek shook his head and dropped the drying towel onto the counter. He left without a word, getting into the rental car and peeling out of the driveway, kicking up dust and rocks.
The old man and woman watched him go.
"He's just looking for his brother," Laurie said.
"His brother was just lookin' for something too, or don't you remember? You want to bring ruin to this town, to all we've worked for?"
"Maybe someone could-"
"No, Laurie. No. It's better the way it is."
The blue car flashed through town, blowing through a red light before Derek realized it. He was swearing up a storm as he pressed on the accelerator, trying to escape the insane town through sheer speed.
He'd gone a few miles out of town before he recognized the sheriff's car behind him, flashing red and blue lights atop a brown sedan.
He swore some more and pulled over. He breathed in and out.
The sheriff pulled over behind him and got out of the car. He walked up to the driver's side door and tapped on the window.
Derek rolled it down.
Anderson tipped his hat back and leaned down. He had deep wrinkles set into a tired face, with hard eyes that looked into and beyond Derek. "Do ya know why I pulled ya over, son?"
"Because this town hates outsiders, apparently?"
Anderson ignored the dig. "You ran a red light right on main street. You were doin' at least twenty over the speed limit for miles. Coulda killed someone, son."
"Don't call me son, just give me a ticket and let me go on my way."
Anderson nodded, mmhmm-ing to himself. "Could do that, yes I could. Or I could just let you go on your way with a warning, long as you're heading back to where you came from."
"You'd let me go with a warning?"
"Depends. Where you headed, Mister Hodson?"
Derek looked out the windshield. "I was thinking about leaving...but I was also considering looking into the old manor at the edge of the county. I heard Dave might have gone there a few times."
"You heard wrong," Anderson said, his voice flat. "There's no reason to go there."
Derek shrugged. "Might check it out anyways, cool old place like that, completely abandoned? It's interesting."
"Ain't nothin' interestin' to it. Family up and died awhile ago, only one left moved away and hasn't been back since. You don't want to go there."
"Maybe I do."
"And maybe instead of a warning, I lock you up for reckless endangerment. Do ya get my meanin', son?"
Derek nodded. "Yeah, I get it. Place is probably useless anyway. Just give me a ticket or a warning and let me get out of this shit hole once and for all."
Anderson kicked the tire. "Get the fuck outta here and don't come back."
Derek pulled away.
The sheriff watched him go. Then, he got into the car and followed.
Part 3
Derek left the diner and went back to where his brother had lived for the past three years. It was an old farm just outside of town, taken care of by an old couple whose children had all grown up and moved away. They only had a few animals and fewer crops but they managed. Derek's brother had helped them some, in exchange for rent.
He pulled into the dirt lot behind a rusted out pick-up and got out of the car. Horses pressed up against the fence, two brown beauties that even Derek could appreciate. They chewed cud and watched him with dull eyes. He ignored them and walked to the porch. He saw the old man, Jerry moving in the barn and gave a wave. He got a stare in return. The couple had welcomed him, given him next to nothing about his brother and generally didn't talk. They'd said his brother had stayed with them and helped them out. They said he'd left a month or two ago and that was that.
What happened to good old southern hospitality, thought Derek.
The wife stood in the kitchen, washing dishes.
"Derek, is that you? Was the sheriff able to tell ya anything?"
Derek sighed and sat at the kitchen table. "Nothing. And then someone else threatened me. What the hell's wrong with this town?"
She gave a frown over her shoulder. "Ain't nothin' wrong with this town. Just don't like to talk to outsiders much is all."
"I get that, okay? Giving out information to strangers and all, but, Laurie, he's my freaking brother."
"Please refrain from swearing while in our house," she snapped.
"I'm sorry, okay?" Derek stood up and went over. He started drying the dishes with a towel. "I just want to make sure he's okay."
She gave him a caring look and shook her head. "He's gone, Derek. You're just going to have to accept that."
"Gone where?"
She scrubbed a pot particularly hard, scraping the remains of some meat off of it. "Gone."
"No," Derek said, shaking his head. "I don't accept that. I won't."
They continued in silence. She, washing each dish with a dark blue scrubbing brush, then rinsing it with the faucet in the second sink, then passing it to him. He took each and wiped them with the towel, making sure to get each drop of water. It took his mind off things.
"What did he do, here?" Derek asked.
She gave a sad smile. "He helped us out, baling hay, feeding the animals, harvesting crops. He enjoyed it, I think."
"Really? I can't say I'm surprised. He must have said something before he left. You must have some idea. He lived with you for three years."
She sighed, slumping against the counter. "The old manor," she whispered. "He spent some time there."
"What? You mean that abandoned shack I passed on my way in to town?"
Boots stomped onto the porch and Jerry stalked inside, glaring. "That's enough talkin' with my wife. You can get out, now."
"Sir, I just-"
"Enough, I said," the old man growled. "You're brother was no good, ya hear? He meddled where he shouldn't have and now he's gone." He raised a finger like a weapon, pointing it violently. "You best stay away from that house or you'll end up like 'im. Leave well enough alone."
Derek shook his head and dropped the drying towel onto the counter. He left without a word, getting into the rental car and peeling out of the driveway, kicking up dust and rocks.
The old man and woman watched him go.
"He's just looking for his brother," Laurie said.
"His brother was just lookin' for something too, or don't you remember? You want to bring ruin to this town, to all we've worked for?"
"Maybe someone could-"
"No, Laurie. No. It's better the way it is."
The blue car flashed through town, blowing through a red light before Derek realized it. He was swearing up a storm as he pressed on the accelerator, trying to escape the insane town through sheer speed.
He'd gone a few miles out of town before he recognized the sheriff's car behind him, flashing red and blue lights atop a brown sedan.
He swore some more and pulled over. He breathed in and out.
The sheriff pulled over behind him and got out of the car. He walked up to the driver's side door and tapped on the window.
Derek rolled it down.
Anderson tipped his hat back and leaned down. He had deep wrinkles set into a tired face, with hard eyes that looked into and beyond Derek. "Do ya know why I pulled ya over, son?"
"Because this town hates outsiders, apparently?"
Anderson ignored the dig. "You ran a red light right on main street. You were doin' at least twenty over the speed limit for miles. Coulda killed someone, son."
"Don't call me son, just give me a ticket and let me go on my way."
Anderson nodded, mmhmm-ing to himself. "Could do that, yes I could. Or I could just let you go on your way with a warning, long as you're heading back to where you came from."
"You'd let me go with a warning?"
"Depends. Where you headed, Mister Hodson?"
Derek looked out the windshield. "I was thinking about leaving...but I was also considering looking into the old manor at the edge of the county. I heard Dave might have gone there a few times."
"You heard wrong," Anderson said, his voice flat. "There's no reason to go there."
Derek shrugged. "Might check it out anyways, cool old place like that, completely abandoned? It's interesting."
"Ain't nothin' interestin' to it. Family up and died awhile ago, only one left moved away and hasn't been back since. You don't want to go there."
"Maybe I do."
"And maybe instead of a warning, I lock you up for reckless endangerment. Do ya get my meanin', son?"
Derek nodded. "Yeah, I get it. Place is probably useless anyway. Just give me a ticket or a warning and let me get out of this shit hole once and for all."
Anderson kicked the tire. "Get the fuck outta here and don't come back."
Derek pulled away.
The sheriff watched him go. Then, he got into the car and followed.
Part 3
Friday, October 25, 2013
Lovecraftian Southern Gothic Flash-Fiction
I follow Chuck Wendig's blog and every Friday he offers flash-fiction challenges. Today was rolling two genres and writing whatever comes. I got Lovecraftian Southern Gothic, which is interesting. I've started it but it feels bigger than just a small flash-fiction piece. Guess I'll keep it rolling. It's good for a few blog posts at least.
Looking
A red sun rose and broke the dim gray morning over the town. A dull lifeless landscape stretched for miles around, flat and arid. Something dark rose with the sun, seeping into the town, unknown and invisible.
Trucks and cars drove through the streets in the early morning at a slow pace, as if the vehicles shared their owner's tiredness.
The local diner, Tracy's had a scattering of vehicles around the parking lot. It was a simple building with faded red paint and a farmhouse feeling. The inside looked cozy, with tables close and a long counter. The sound of sizzling bacon and the general murmur of quiet conversation could be heard.
The folk inside were a mixture of locals from all about. There was an old couple drinking coffee and eating oatmeal, speaking loudly so they could hear each other. An old woman sipped tea and read a book. A tired group of younger men sat at a table, eating pancakes and downing coffee, wearing rough clothes of manual laborers. The lone waitress served everyone with a chipper smile and a "how do ya do this fine morning?" A big man cooked in the back and called out orders loud enough to be heard in the dining room. The sheriff sat at the counter with his hat on a stool beside him, a cup of joe in front of him and a newspaper spread out. For many, this was a morning like any other.
A rental car pulled into the lot, a flashy blue four-door that stood out.
Those sitting by the windows glanced out and frowned. An elderly fellow with a frumpy brown hat mumbled under his breath.
A man stepped out and entered the restaurant. He looked young and out of place, with slick black hair and wearing a rumpled suit.
Some folk gave him a glance and a frown. Others ignored him entirely.
"Hey, sit wherever you'd like," the waitress said from behind the counter.
The man grunted. "Coffee," he said, sitting down next to the sheriff. His eyes were bloodshot.
The sheriff gave him a look before going back to the paper. "New in town?"
"Yeah," the man said.
The waitress poured his coffee and pushed it in front of him. "How do ya do, this fine morning?" She asked.
He waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing else, thank you." He ignored the question.
Her mouth thinned but she just turned away to grab a plate of food and bring it to a table.
The sheriff turned a page of the newspaper.
The stranger sipped at the coffee and made a face. He asked for cream and poured three or four into the cup.
"New in town?" The sheriff asked.
"Yes, yes I am."
"What's your business, if you don't mind my asking."
"Looking for you, actually."
"Me?"
"Sheriff Anderson?"
"That'd be me. Can't say I know your name, though."
"Hodson. Derek Hodson."
Anderson hesitated flipping the page. He sighed, folding up the paper. "I see," he said.
"I'm looking for my brother. Haven't heard from him in awhile."
"I knew him."
Derek nodded. "I would hope so. He lived here for five years."
Anderson sipped at his coffee and put on his hat. "Good luck in your search. I got business to be about."
Derek put out a hand to stop him. "My brother hasn't sent a letter in three months. His house is deserted. You telling me you don't know anything?"
"He's gone. That's what I know." Anderson took a step.
Derek caught Anderson's sleeve "Where did he go? Small town like this, somebody has to know something."
Anderson pulled out of Derek's grip. "I told you. He's gone." The sheriff tipped his hat to the waitress and left.
Derek turned back to his bitter coffee. He ordered a big breakfast plate and more coffee. With nothing else to do, he took the newspaper left by the sheriff and started reading it.
Before he got his breakfast, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He was a big fellow with a trucker hat and a mean mustache. "You askin' about Hodson?" The man asked in a deep rumble.
"Yeah," Derek said.
"Don't," the man replied and turned away.
"He's my brother."
"Not anymore." The man left the place, got into a big red truck and drove off.
"What the fuck is wrong in this town?" Derek asked, as a big plate of eggs, toast, homefries, and pancakes was put in front of him. At least it looked good. He poured maple syrup on it and ate, wondering just what the hell happened to his brother.
Part 2
Looking
A red sun rose and broke the dim gray morning over the town. A dull lifeless landscape stretched for miles around, flat and arid. Something dark rose with the sun, seeping into the town, unknown and invisible.
Trucks and cars drove through the streets in the early morning at a slow pace, as if the vehicles shared their owner's tiredness.
The local diner, Tracy's had a scattering of vehicles around the parking lot. It was a simple building with faded red paint and a farmhouse feeling. The inside looked cozy, with tables close and a long counter. The sound of sizzling bacon and the general murmur of quiet conversation could be heard.
The folk inside were a mixture of locals from all about. There was an old couple drinking coffee and eating oatmeal, speaking loudly so they could hear each other. An old woman sipped tea and read a book. A tired group of younger men sat at a table, eating pancakes and downing coffee, wearing rough clothes of manual laborers. The lone waitress served everyone with a chipper smile and a "how do ya do this fine morning?" A big man cooked in the back and called out orders loud enough to be heard in the dining room. The sheriff sat at the counter with his hat on a stool beside him, a cup of joe in front of him and a newspaper spread out. For many, this was a morning like any other.
A rental car pulled into the lot, a flashy blue four-door that stood out.
Those sitting by the windows glanced out and frowned. An elderly fellow with a frumpy brown hat mumbled under his breath.
A man stepped out and entered the restaurant. He looked young and out of place, with slick black hair and wearing a rumpled suit.
Some folk gave him a glance and a frown. Others ignored him entirely.
"Hey, sit wherever you'd like," the waitress said from behind the counter.
The man grunted. "Coffee," he said, sitting down next to the sheriff. His eyes were bloodshot.
The sheriff gave him a look before going back to the paper. "New in town?"
"Yeah," the man said.
The waitress poured his coffee and pushed it in front of him. "How do ya do, this fine morning?" She asked.
He waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing else, thank you." He ignored the question.
Her mouth thinned but she just turned away to grab a plate of food and bring it to a table.
The sheriff turned a page of the newspaper.
The stranger sipped at the coffee and made a face. He asked for cream and poured three or four into the cup.
"New in town?" The sheriff asked.
"Yes, yes I am."
"What's your business, if you don't mind my asking."
"Looking for you, actually."
"Me?"
"Sheriff Anderson?"
"That'd be me. Can't say I know your name, though."
"Hodson. Derek Hodson."
Anderson hesitated flipping the page. He sighed, folding up the paper. "I see," he said.
"I'm looking for my brother. Haven't heard from him in awhile."
"I knew him."
Derek nodded. "I would hope so. He lived here for five years."
Anderson sipped at his coffee and put on his hat. "Good luck in your search. I got business to be about."
Derek put out a hand to stop him. "My brother hasn't sent a letter in three months. His house is deserted. You telling me you don't know anything?"
"He's gone. That's what I know." Anderson took a step.
Derek caught Anderson's sleeve "Where did he go? Small town like this, somebody has to know something."
Anderson pulled out of Derek's grip. "I told you. He's gone." The sheriff tipped his hat to the waitress and left.
Derek turned back to his bitter coffee. He ordered a big breakfast plate and more coffee. With nothing else to do, he took the newspaper left by the sheriff and started reading it.
Before he got his breakfast, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He was a big fellow with a trucker hat and a mean mustache. "You askin' about Hodson?" The man asked in a deep rumble.
"Yeah," Derek said.
"Don't," the man replied and turned away.
"He's my brother."
"Not anymore." The man left the place, got into a big red truck and drove off.
"What the fuck is wrong in this town?" Derek asked, as a big plate of eggs, toast, homefries, and pancakes was put in front of him. At least it looked good. He poured maple syrup on it and ate, wondering just what the hell happened to his brother.
Part 2
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