I (heart) L.A.

So here I am in sunny La-La land, (well, it's not all that sunny), and I'm gearing up for the third annual Inktip Pitch and Networking Summit, (www.inktip.com). Gotta say, so far it's been a blast.

I'm not ashamed to say it's my first time here and I'm doing my best to soak up as much as I can while balancing that with extensive preparation for my two scripts, (and one treatment) -- oh, and a little sleep would be nice.

Yesterday I hit the Santa Monica Pier, (don't worry, there was no damage), then hauled ass down to Hollywood Boulevard where I swear, it felt like I'd just crossed into a sexy Fox drama, (from the 90s anyway). I also had my first taste of Carl's Jr. Guess I'm officially a West Coaster. Hooray!

Today was all about seminars...and maybe some networking. It's all about networking, kids. I just got out of my last one and I'm about seminar-ed out. Now it's all about getting my pitch(es) into game shape. Lean, mean, short and hopefully sweet.

What are my hopes?

Modest, but optimistic. I know my three stories upside-down, inside-out, so really, it's all about strategy. Who to pitch, how to pitch, and when to shut the f*ck up.

At the very least, I aim to have a fun experience, learn some new shit, and make some new friends, (by which I mean contacts, of course - friends are for sitcom execs).

I kid. Seriously, I'm running on fumes here.

Time to sign off for the night. A long night of rehearsing awaits.

I'll be sure and post my experience as soon as I'm done living it.

Bye for now.

D.A.

Back in the Saddle Again

Yes kids, that's right.

Sure, it's been a while, but this blog's just like riding a bike.

Gonna keep things short so as not to overdue it right outta the gate, but suffice it to say, there have been many changes afoot. Many shiny new developments I'll be sure and get into some time soon.

For now, just wanted to get reacquainted.

Much more to come.

Stay tuned.

D.A.

Writer's Block

Man, have I got it bad.

I've been sitting here (off and on) since 10:00 this morning and I just can't figure it out. I've tried everything I can think of to get the juices flowing and I find myself rewriting the same handful of scenes over and over.

I feel lost is this story.
A screenplay I've been trying to crack for two months. Before that I did what every good writer should - an outline. But there were holes. And contradictions. And other problems. Still I pushed on with a first draft. Again it was crude, disjointed and downright terrible in places but I said, (as I so often do), 'I'll just keep going, get to the end and then start a new draft' So that's what I did.

Now here I am. Trying to figure out a story I would so love to tell. But it's so fucking frustrating. I go away, come back, change up the scenery, and at best I move forward an inch or two. The next day, any progress I made seems like it no longer works - or, I guess, never did. I told myself today I would write one complete scene. Any scene. But I haven't been able to. The day is young, mind you. But why does it have to be so hard?

I don't know if this makes any sense, cuz even my blog writing feels shitty but I had to do something. Write something. So here I am.



Anybody got any words of wisdom on the subject?

Right now I would so love to hear some.

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Thirteen - Part 3

I've been promising it for weeks now and here it is...the third and final installment of my monumental Chapter Thirteen...


Everything about this place felt familiar. The road; there was something about it; something. The sound, as his filthy 91’ Cutless tore up the gravel beneath her bald tires. The landscape. On either side of him, trees––mostly bare, but strangely reminiscent of…something… He’d been in the area a few times. Perhaps that was it. But never on this road. Had he?
About a half a mile up, he saw squad cars; two of them; one marked and one not. Something about them called back to his reckless days on the Brooklyn beat. He and partner, Colin McKee took a high-speed chase, (more like joyride), across The Long Island Expressway and four city blocks. They must have cost the city thousands in damage that day; not to mention countless endangered lives. Still, it was fun as Hell. Good times…
“What, no welcome-wagon?” he muttered, rolling up toward the foot of the clearing. Not a soul to greet him; he almost took it personal. Somehow, he’d grown accustomed to her big bubbly eyes hanging on his every move. Good old Fiorentine. Only a matter of time, he thought, mischievously. Down, boy. Been there. Done that. The company ink and so forth. Besides. The girl was just a contingency. ‘In Case of Extreme Horniness Break Glass.’ There were plenty of other fish in this shallow pond.
Take Cynthia, for example; a wet dream wrapped in a tight little package. It nearly killed him to go so slow with her. The way she moved; the way she smelled––even after a good sweat––especially…drove him into a certified frenzy. These days, the sweat came easy. That fancy new cell phone wasn’t the only added accessory to his evolving bachelorhood.
The weeks after Bluemont were like a bold new awakening; unleashing a whole host of budding passions; like sushi, which she introduced him to; (just something about raw flesh), but easily, the most surprising––was his morning run regimen.
He was amazed how effective a little activity could be in the morning to clear the mind and expel the toxins. Hell, he was down a full two cups of coffee.
At last he stepped out of the car and took a proper look around: Shesh, what a depressing spot…and began walking…
Yes, he heard it, or rather, sensed; in that inexplicable way an animal perceived danger. But he was trying not to listen. What was there to fear, after all…from one’s own mind…? Plenty… la, la, la, not listening…
In the distance he heard footsteps. “Who’s there?” A voice barked from the trees.
“At ease, Lieutenant.” The chiseled frame of Lieutenant Estes emerged; his uniform filthy, as were his hands, which looked as though they’d been in the dirt, digging…
“Detective Merrimac. I’m sorry, sir, I thought––”
“Understandable. Where’s Fiorentine?” Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could swear he saw something in the sturdy Latino’s typically-stern stare, right at her name. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear it was something ugly.
“She’s up ahead, sir. Looks like we’re hot on a trail, of sorts; some faint tracks in the dirt. Simmons and Windell are on sweep...”
“You do know there are wild animals in these woods...”
“Yes, sir, well aware.” he said, trying to hide the resentment. “I grew up around here.” Keith smiled.
“Very well. Let’s have a look.” Estes nodded and started back into the trees.
More deja-vu. It seemed to intensify with every crunch forward. Perhaps he had been through these parts, he considered. It was possible. He’d lived in Maplewood long enough to have driven roads, absorbed landscape, and have no specific memory of having done so. Things like that were known to happen. But there was no way––not one chance in holy Hell he’d ever walked this trail before…
“Sir?” Estes was waiting––and Keith was, for some reason, stopped. “Something wrong?”
“No,” he replied, hoarse. “Just a feeling,” he finished, desperate to save face. “Let’s keep moving…” Estes shook his thinning head, almost undetectable…but not quite. Snot-nosed little spic––oughta’a string him up by his greasy brown–– “Would-you-SHUT-UP!?” he snapped at thin air––and looked around…
The trees seemed normal enough. But something was out there. Estes was staring at him like Nurse Ratched at the end of Cuckoo’s Nest––right before the lobotomy. “I, ah…didn’t say––”
“I know that, I…look, can we just get on with it?”
*
The olive-skinned lieutenant took a moment to snap himself out of this Abbott and Costello nightmare. “Yes, sir. It’s…not much further...” It had to be one of the longest conversations they’d ever shared––and to Estes, hands down the strangest.
*
A few dozen yards up, Lisa Fiorentine uncovered two more possible footprints. Within her sight, Sergeants Bill Simmons and Amara Windell were sweeping the scene.
“Sir!” Simmons called anxiously. Fiorentine was startled and, for a split second, looked sharply around for a male superior.
“You’ve got something?” She adjusted.
“Yes, sir, I think so,” he said, panting from just the short trek up the hill.
The woman stood up strait and grabbed another digital shot of the murky trail. It was strange in a way. The unmistakable sense of satisfaction she felt every time another print revealed itself in the semi-frozen mud. Or some small piece of garbage, thought discarded by careless teenagers, turned out to have possible significance. These were all little pieces to a most horrific puzzle; one a small part of her wished never to solve.
Still, it was kind of exhilarating…
As a youngster in Sacramento, while all the other girls played Barbies or My Little Pony, Lisa was hard on the case of some manufactured mystery; (usually more Nancy Drew than Silence of the Lambs). Her insatiable dissatisfaction often proved useful, at any rate, (if not a shade unnerving). But then, so was the guilt; treating another’s misfortune like some sort of game. One feeling held her back, while the other pushed her forward. Together, they kept her sane.
“What’s this?” she asked, and again came the high of another step closer. The marks were subtle; and to the untrained eye, nothing more than the whims of Mother Nature. But there was something else about them. Something almost…organized…
“I wasn’t sure at first. Hell, I’m still not sure...must have looked this spot over a half a dozen times before I noticed the pattern.” Fiorentine looked closer. She saw it too. “As I’m sure you can guess, sir, it’s consistent with…well with, um…”
“With being dragged…” she finished; then looked off into a particularly dense portion of the woods. “So where do you suppose it leads…?”
*
“Windell!” The middle-aged woman marking the scene looked up to her fellow crusaders. “I want you and Simmons to follow this trail…” ordered the girl, little more than a child. “Get some equipment together...”
“Yes, sir,” she said, unsure of herself. In this new era of CSI: Maplewood, no able-bodied officer was expendable. Amara Windell had spent the majority of her twenty-nine years behind a desk, and well-suited to every predictable minute. Now, all of a sudden, she was out in the thick of things, scouring potential crime scenes for evidence of foul play with officers, in some cases, half her age. Her oldest daughter had more years on this girl giving the orders…
On her way to the squad car, she brushed by the young Estes, escorting the real star of this show. “Good morning, Detective Merrimac,” she greeted without stopping.
“Almost didn’t recognize you, Windell, with all that fire in your eyes...” Windell smiled. What a charmer.
*
“Detective Merrimac! Glad you could make it.”
“Makes two of us, hon…” Fiorentine turned up to metaphorically scratch her head––then laughed politely. Did he just call her––? “Time’s money, Sergeant, what’s say we sink our teeth in,” he said; before muttering something inconspicuous under his breath…
Lisa looked quizzically at Estes who simply shrugged. What he said sounded faintly derogatory, but she couldn’t be certain. It almost looked as though he were arguing with…himself… “Sir, are you alr––?”
“What is that, the million dollar question today? I’m wonderful, now let’s get this show on the goddamned road...”
For nearly a half hour, she meticulously went over all evidence accumulated, beginning with the clear eyeglass lens, which they must have missed a dozen times before she finally came within a snake’s tail of stepping on and smashing to pieces. The detective eyed it, glib, as though its chance recovery was barely worth the effort. Coming from anyone else, she might have taken it personally; but his simple indifference only made her more eager. Above all else, (even more than to see justice done), she so desperately wanted to impress this man; for whom she had developed complex, and very deep feelings––
“I know that, by itself, this doesn’t look like much, Keith––” She stopped herself. Keith however, didn’t seem to mind, smiling that charming smile, which melted so many women before her. Out of the corner of her eye, Estes looked like he was going to be sick. “But…Lieutenant Estes here has also uncovered footprints, we believe…”
*
Keith looked sharply at the statuesque officer to his left. In return, he received one of the coldest, most disciplined scowls he’d ever been shot. He thinks I’m a threat, he thought; and it was him; not some dark spot at the foot of his psyche. Only one Captain of this ship, he thought––again, more sure of himself…and started to walk...

agreed

Food for Thought…

Something downright strange was going on. (conclusion the third).
Perry couldn’t put his finger on it. Perry had no fingers. He did have thoughts, though. Powerful ones. No, that wasn’t the word for it. There was no word for it.
This vessel was one stubborn little bugger. Much moreso than the last. Night and day, for those hell-bent on metaphor. But it was no mere question of comparison. Nothing so simple as then versus now… Two sides. Same coin.
How can this be…? This was…borderline insubordination. Un-fucking-acceptable–– Still, the question was valid. This vessel was strong. No matter––he’d run across stronger. But what about the fear? The doubt? The lingering resistance…?
Fuck the fear. Screw the doubt. And as for resistance…
‘The Resistance must be squashed! It must be identified, sought out, and crushed for all time, under the crippling weight of its own inefficiency!’
A promising mantra, (which sounded much better in Spanish).
Perry had confidence––a creature such as he went forth armed in perpetual supply. Nothing could touch the ineffable quality he possessed. Not of this world. Or the next. Nor the thousand thereafter. However atypical the dramas of recent events, this vessel was of no consequence. Just a blip on the radar. No more. No less.
So what if it were the first ‘blip’ of its kind…the first he had ever seen in a very, very long time...?
*
“This is it,” said Simmons assuredly. “Nothing beyond this point.”
“It can’t be.” It all looked the same; trees every which way––for miles... “How can this be it?” Windell added after an extended silence. Simmons had no answer. He seemed just as puzzled, and as painfully out of his element as his exhausted compatriot. Eyes, ears and manpower. That was all they really amounted to in this new, post-Pollack age. And neither one had much of either.
Windell especially, who, after nearly three hours on her feet in the blazing sun over unforgiving ground, looked about ready to drop. Still, she tried; like a woman ten years younger and with far more field-experience. The last thing she wanted to appear, after all, was obsolete. “Maybe he got wise and took more pains to cover them up.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Simmons entertained. “But why not go back; you know, to cover it all?” He might have been a good deal younger than the plucky grandmother of two, but he sweated just as profusely. On top of that, his right knee was killing him––and not just from the labor. At his current rate, he might not make it to fifty. “Guess we should call in the cavalry,” he said, expecting––and hoping she would agree. “Can’t follow a trail where none exists...”
“Guess not…” she concurred––though not quite committal. He could see she wanted to find something––and could sort of see why. When all this was over, she would likely be thanked for her contribution––however inadequate––and shuffled back to Police Headquarters where she would spend the remainder of her days making coffee, typing reports and answering phones…rain, sleet, snow or shine––getting nothing but old.
“Careful––” he called, noticing her slowly get shorter…then looked down at her boot, where the earth was up to her swollen ankle, and still rising…
“Oh my!” she blurted, embarrassed.
“Here.” He stuck out his stubby hand and pulled her out gently…
“Something must’ve been digging around here,” she said, back on solid ground. “An animal, like a fox, or a…” Simmons looked up.
“You still wanna call for help?” The look on her face showed gathering courage. What a find it would be. What a feather in their caps. Did they dare hold off on the reinforcements? Did they dare go it alone? Windell grabbed at the two-piece shovel and handed it over without a word. Simmons began to dig.
*
Estes kept his distance; watching the pair go over markings in the half-frozen dirt. For anyone else; Davies perhaps––he’d have been right there with them, on his hands and knees to explain every minor detail. He was not, by nature, a man ruled by ego––but he was a man, nonetheless, and tempted to take credit for what was largely his discovery. All the same, he resisted; crouched on a rotting stump with a half-eaten ham sandwich.
There was a moment there––perhaps even two or three––where he could swear Merrimac was not even listening. Fiorentine babbled; on and on with nary a breath between as she pointed to one set of tracks versus another, desperate for his faint nods of interest, or the occasional ‘mm-hm’ to will her forward. But something in his eyes, when he had not noticed anyone watching, suggested a disturbing vacancy. The lights were on, but purely for effect. In that brief interval, no one appeared to be home.
It began with their clumsy eye-contact out by the clearing, before he and his little groupie went to pat each other’s backs. The veteran detective had given him a deep, hostile look that sent a cold shiver down his impeccably-aligned spine. A look that said, ‘don’t cross me, boy. If you know what’s good for you.’ Estes was hardly intimidated; but somewhat unsettled––
It was becoming harder and harder for him to deny; to others, not quite so much, but to himself, the façade was damn-near broken down. It might not have been so bad, he thought, taking another token bite of his sandwich, if it were anyone else but her.
Without realizing, he was up on his feet; the sandwich thrown to the ground in disgust––or was it frustration? And, before he could reign it in, all eyes were on him––
“I’m going for a walk,” he said, as though unaffected. Fiorentine looked on with puzzled bemusement. Merrimac came off a shade more smug.
“Something the matter, Lieutenant?” he asked. And Estes held his tongue.
“No, sir,” he replied, without turning his head. “It just seems you two have things well in hand around here. I thought I’d go check on our roving trackers...”
“Sounds like a good idea,” offered the smarmy detective. Fiorentine added nothing. “Just don’t get lost out there.” Again with that arrogant smirk; (like a finger jammed down his throat). Estes returned the empty gesture with a painted-on grin, flashed for both their benefit, then turned to head off.
“Now where were we, my dear?” He could still hear them, edging out of earshot. Good. Those two could have one another, he thought, dragging his mind out of the gutter and on to more pressing matters. He reached for his mic-phone and called Simmons––
“Go ahead, Lieutenant...” getting Windell instead––
“Where’s Simmons?” he asked, crass. “I thought this was his phone…”
“Yes, sir, it is,” she replied. “Simmons is a little busy at the moment…”
Whatever. “How goes the trail-blazing, Sergeant?”
“Actually, sir, the trail’s run cold.” There was a shaky hesitation in her usually-pleasant delivery. “However,” it continued, “it seems we may have uncovered an even stronger leg to stand on…so to speak…sir…” Lieutenant Estes stopped dead in his tracks, (which also happened to coincide with the faint lines in the thawing dirt).
“Don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate.”
“Well, sir, I could but…it might be better if you saw for yourself...”
“I’m en route,” he said, strides getting longer. “The others are, um…otherwise engaged…”
“Acknowledged. Windell out.” The spring had returned to his sturdy step. At last; something worthy of his expertise––and authority. An air of responsibility; of duty washed over him, clearing all else away. This day might not turn out so bad after all.
*
“So what do you make of it?” she asked, just dying to know. Keith knelt down beside her. Her sweet scent was pleasant; inviting in a playful, non-committal sort of way. But when mixed with that thin layer of forest and sweat…intoxicating…
“Looks pretty solid,” he commended, stealing a glimpse of her firm backside. “But not quite a closed case, Lisa…if you follow...” Right away, she turned her pretty head; perhaps a little over-anxious to acknowledge his unusual familiarity.
“Did I say something wrong, Sergeant?”
“You called me Lisa,” she said, smiling bashful. “I’m just wondering if you hit your head recently.” Keith returned the shy smile.
*
Though his was more polished. She’d seen the smile before, which tended to present itself whenever he turned on the charm; usually in the company of a lady. Christ! She was the lady. Could this be happening? Surely not. It was just her imagination taking her to places reality dare not permit. On the other hand, maybe that birthday wish had finally kicked in. Stranger things had happened. Stranger things were happening…
*
“Some things are long overdue,” he said, eyes penetrating…
“Careful, sir. The ground is starting to melt.”
“That’s not all, I hope...”
“Where, um…where was I?” She cleared her throat awkwardly and zeroed in on the nearest footprint. “I, ah…I mean if I had to guess, I’d say this was made from a…tennis shoe, judging by the pattern the sole makes. Most notably here…” She pointed toward the top-right, around where the balls of the foot dug in most prominent––
“I disagree.” His stare remained unchanged, bordering on intrusive. Fiorentine looked up again into his haunting eyes, more with questioning encouragement than schoolgirl infatuation. At last, he broke away and referenced the print with his finger.
“A boot did this.” He continued. “Probably galoshes, and quite sturdy, at that. Pair of Timberlands maybe…”
“How can you be so certain?” Her expression did little to hide her astonishment. Her eyes were like saucers and her lower lip was practically below her chin.
“Don’t feel bad, Sergeant. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you,” he said, trying not to condescend. “See…” Again he gestured the weak imprint, which seemed to exhibit more definition with each flimsy examination. “This heel is deep, as though it were dug in. A tennis shoe would barely leave an imprint. You’re right about the rubber soul, I suspect. Might have a Beatles fan on our hands.” The smile returned, and not a moment too soon.
“Makes sense.” She nodded, clearly impressed. “Guess it must pay to have all those years under your belt.” She was teasing. Honestly, openly teasing.
“Got more than years under there, sweetheart.” Her short smile morphed into an infectious grin. There was no denying that one. The girl had lobbed in an easy serve and he eagerly returned. Not the best timing perhaps, but still fun.
*
“I’ve also got pants,” he added with a boyish laugh that was no less charming. Fiorentine for all her misgivings, reciprocated with a sultry laugh of her own. It was a hell of a time for him to let loose his legendary playful side––even though she’d had fantasies not all that dissimilar––rip-roaring, spine-tingling fantasies…
“You’re too much, Keith.” Her tone was knee-deep in sentiment. When it came to the mystical art of seduction, she too was no novice. Being female, she was even less a stranger to subtlety and, for the first time in just about ever, spoke his name without the slightest trace of embarrassment or apology.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, leaning in. She felt goose bumps stand to attention up the back of her neck. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re just enough...” She turned her head gracefully and met his hard stare without so much as a flinch.
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve used that line before?”
“I probably have.” Their lips were inches apart. Only a question of time, one of them thought; and both of them knew it.
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t doubt your sincerity?” she asked, lips inching ever so closer…
“Can’t think of one.” Sweet mercy those eyes. She couldn’t hold out much longer. “There have been others, though, you know that. A man gets lonely…”
“Is that so?”
“So it is.”
“Why, Detective, you’re not trying to––” But before she could expel the pointless flirtation, his lips were on hers. And not long after…hers were on his.
*
“Detective Merrimac.” A mediated voice broke in. The girl pulled away.
“Keith, there’s…there’s someone…”
“Just ignore it...”
“Are you there, Detective? Come in please, it’s urgent.” Keith sighed. Estes; fifty feet away and the man still knew how to kill a mood.
Keith sulked the entire trek, short as it was, to meet up with the all-business lieutenant and his two inept protégés––Windell and this…Simmons guy, whom he did not quite know but reminded him of ‘George’ on Seinfeld. On the mic, he’d said it was urgent; that they were apparently, and improbably, on the verge of some crucial discovery. Him too.
Fiorentine was back in game-shape before he could blink. Must be losing your touch, loverboy… As before, Keith had a strange feeling about his surroundings; alien and yet somehow familiar. Like deja-vu all over again. That’s right, this whole place just reminds you of a nightmare you had recently…while you were sound asleep in your warm, safe bed… The two were close now; close enough to hear voices. And digging. Fiorentine pushed the last of the branches aside and caught a clear view of all three––
Windell was the first to greet them. She looked exhausted; and filthy. Still, never had she seemed so…alive... “Detective. Sergeant. You’re just in time.” She stepped aside, though it was unnecessary, for the two men digging were hard to miss.
“In time for what?” Keith asked foolishly.
“Sir!” Simmons called out. His round, bald head was sweating profusely and his shirt did not fare much better. If not for the smell, he might have looked just out of the shower. Estes stopped and signaled for Simmons to do the same. Whatever the man’s shovel had hit, Estes felt it too.
“The end of the trail,” Windell responded, belated. Keith shot her a curious look, then took several measured steps forward, Fiorentine close behind…
“Oh dear God…” Clearing away the last of the discarded earth, Estes loomed over the six foot hole he and the surprisingly strong Bill Simmons had dug in just over eighteen minutes. His blemish-free, olive skin turned suddenly a pale white, and he too took a sizeable step back before climbing all the way out–– “Looks like we can call off the search,” he continued, all the life draining out of his normally level voice. His eyes did not move from the center of the hole––this crude, insensitive grave…
One by one, the others joined in, each one displaying a similar loss of composure, unique to their respective sensibilities. Fiorentine gasped––horrified, yet strangely intrigued. Simmons, still panting for breath, wiped his sweaty brow and looked on the verge of throwing up. Windell was not much different, except instead of nausea, hers was an intense, almost violent sadness, and she struggled to hold back the tears.
Last but not least, there was Keith, who took everything in the way he usually did––calm, cool and collected––almost…empty…much like the partially decomposed body before him. Lifeless, hopeless, filthy and…stinky, pee-yoo... All except for one spot, still caked in dry blood…where her left ear had been––
“I’ll get on the horn to Cuen,” he said, unemotional. The end of the trail indeed, he thought, so far as Susan Laterna was concerned.
The larger one left, led to the monster who put her there.




And there you have it, (for those of you still reading; thanks a lot, by the way). Anyway, I hope you enjoyed not only this very long chapter, but the previous 12 as well, all of which can be found in the archives of this blog.
My plan is to put out a Kindle Book of these chapters, which collectively make up Volume One of my grand horror-epic, An Axis Oblique, (Man, I like saying that). In the meantime, I continue to query agents, publishers and, well anyone willing to be queried...
If you like what you've read, (or Hell, even if you don't), do me a favour and let me know. Feedback is my nourishment...and I'm starving... (caugh)

See you real soon with all sorts of exciting new meanderings.


D.A.

Guess what? I'm getting published!

Yes it's true, though it may not be entirely what you think.
A month or so back I submitted a short story to Canadian Voices Volume Two, an anthology of short stories, novel excerpts and poetry. You can find it in the archive section of this very blog, if it strikes your fancy.
Anyway, I just recieved word that my story, "The Red Maple Leaf," has been accepted and will be published sometime this summer. The publisher is a small, independent company called Bookland Press. www.booklandpress.com. They're based here in Toronto.
It's small, but definitely gratifying, considering I wasn't too sure about the story to begin with. This is the first time I'll be seeing my words in print, even if it is barely 2000 of them. Gotta say, I'm looking forward to it.
The hope is, I can build on this albeit small inroad of progress by leveraging it into new relationships with like-minded writers, editors, agents and publishers. I do have a few novels burning a hole in my hard drive, after all.

I'll continue to blog about my first experience into the terrifying world of publishing as it unfolds. Hope all you fellow aspirers out there will find it informative, and maybe even a little inspriring.

Cheers,

D.A.

What Am I Reading? Fanboy and Gothgirl!

Hi there and welcome to my second exciting intallment of 'What Am I Reading?' For those of you who missed the first...for shame... Okay, I forgive you. You can find it in the archives, in any case. Anyway, in there, I explain the intention of this little exercise, which is to give all you kids out there an idea of how to stay inspired. You know, keep that fire burning under you for those long, lonely days of scratching and clawing and cold...so cold...

Where was I?

Right, 'What Am I Reading?' Well, I'm currently reading three books at once! Impressive, huh? It was actually four, but I just finished one; the one I'll be talking about today, go figure. Two novels and two non-fiction, (financial, cuz I kinda need a little guidance in that area) and the other's a novel called Today I Am A Man, written by a friend of mine named Larry Rodness. He's a first-time author and going places, but I'll have to save that for a future installment.

The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy and Gothgirl, (actual title), is a book I found in the 'last copies' bin at my local Indigo. It's a young adult novel written by Barry Lyga, his first but not last. The reason I picked it up was because I'm something of a fanboy myself on occasion and I guess I gravitated toward the title. Mainly though, I'm interested in the children's/young adult fiction market and decided a while back to immerse myself in stuff I'd like to emulate. I recently re-read The Chryslids by my hero, John Wyndham, which I haven't read since 10th grade and it was even better the second time.

Fanboy and Gothgirl is essentially about an awkward fifteen year old boy who is depressed. Believe me, I can relate - but that's another story never to be told. He's something of an intellectual and a huge comic book nerd but has next to no social experience and a stressful homelife. Since I'm not much of a reviewer, I won't go into too many plot details but I found it to be a well-paced, fairly moving story about growing up and accepting change and...all that fun stuff. As well, I found our 'fanboy' to be an intriquing, very relateable lead character, with which many teenagers can no doubt identify.
When he meets Kyra, (aka Gothgirl), he finds someone even more antisocial than him. Their relationship is surprisingly complex as is the character of Kyra, who is portrayed with considerable depth and realism. I found this to be true of all the characters, actually, even though through the first third or so of the book, I had my reservations. I had thought them to be a bit on the 'cliche' end of the spectrum, until they - along with the storyline - started to go in directions I didn't expect. I particularly apreciated the somewhat unresolved conclusion and complementary theme of change and acceptance being more matters of internal perception than external perspective, but maybe I'm just a moron who reads too much.

Though this was his first novel, I've recently discovered Barry Lyga's growing body of work, including a sequel to this very book called Goth Girl Rising, written, (I presume), from the point of few of Kyra herself. Who knows, maybe I'll even give it a read some time.

I've just completed an outline for a middle-grade novel called Flotsam, which I hope to move forward on soon. Writers like Lyga are excellent sources of inspiration. If you want to check out this book or this author, or if you'd like to learn more about reading...(just kidding), check him out here. http://barrylyga.com/new/

See you next time and remember kids, give a hoot, read a book.

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Thirteen (Part 2)

This is it.
The middle portion, or 'Empire Strikes Back' section of Chapter Thirteen.
Hope you enjoy.


–––––––––––––––
For the first time in weeks, Patrick McAllister felt like being awake. He did not feel well exactly. His stomach still churned. His head still pounded. And every last part of him ached, leaving him empty; no––more like…drained…
His mother expressed a desire to expose him to some fresh air and sunlight. But even he had his doubts he could stand it. What prompted him out of bed this fine morning was not one, but rather a string of disturbing symptoms. His nightmares were worsening. He could scarcely dream at all anymore without that cold, hateful voice reaching out from beyond the silvery depths of…somewhere.
Might wanna save your strength, little guy…
And he believed it. To whomever it belonged, this voice meant the ugly things it said, and could most certainly carry them out with sadistic brutality.
He had no concept, of course. And no context. Not of the words––nor the voice––which he’d long stopped speaking of to others. As young as he was, and frightened, he knew it would come to no good.
An image, so clear and compelling, was the real culprit. A dream within a dream; so vivid, it would not leave his mind. In school he would draw all the time. He was not the most social child. Friends came easily enough. At seven, one just needed to be there, ready to play. Still, Patrick was always most comfortable alone.
From the toychest, he retrieved what supplies he needed and then, as though guided by some higher power, began rather innocently, to draw. The shapes flowed effortless. First he drew a neckline, then shoulders, moving the blue pencil to complete the shape of a head; a face, eyes bulged in fear; they too were blue. No––brown; and submerged in horrified tears. Her mouth was red. But not from lipstick. This red came from within, staining her teeth and tongue, which hung partially over her puffy lips in a helpless scream.
The image was clearer, growing moreso by the stroke. In no time, he finished the shape of her torso, and was touching up some finer detail. Who was this girl? Had he seen her before? No. Except in his dream–– She’s sitting next to a man; the bad man, he’s almost certain. Though he wears a disguise. She’s frightened of him. Screaming. Crying. He’s hurting her. Not only does he see it, he can almost…feel her pain…
When finished, it looks rough. Even at his best, he can only approximate, (most of his practice devoted to spaceships and fire trucks); sometimes, they’re nothing at all; the collective spew of subconscious. With age, he’ll begin to call it art…but for now…
“Patrick? Patrick, honey, what are you doing?” He was so wrapped up, he didn’t notice her soft, subtle approach; his mother, looking exhausted and ecstatic, all in a single dumbfounded expression. “You’re coloring!” she marveled, startling him half to death. “Does this mean you’re feeling better?” Again he did not reply. He simply lacked the words.
“The fever hasn’t broken,” she muttered. “How bout your tummy…?” At last he moved his tiny head from side to side. “No it doesn’t feel better, or no, it doesn’t hurt?” He mumbled, incoherent. “Did you draw this?” she asked, giving up. “It’s very good.” She pulled up a chair to examine more closely. “She doesn’t look very happy, though. Is she sick too?” Patrick nodded a lazy ‘yes’ this time; as good an explanation as any.
“Oap––think you forgot something, sweetie. What happened to her ear?”
“It’s gone…” he whimpered. Perhaps he should tell her, he thought; force her into understanding...but how? He hadn’t the words, let alone the stamina to withstand an interrogation. “He took it,” he finally decided. “Now she’s sad. And afraid...”
*
Mary listened, staring into the drawing with alarming understanding. Much of her face was submerged in red. Blood? She hadn’t wished to see it before; hadn’t even considered it before. For the first time, she began to see how little she actually knew of what went on inside his impressionable little head. A voice of authority ran suddenly through her own. ‘It’s always the quiet ones. They’re the ones you gotta watch out for.’ “Who?” she barely managed, still reeling from the frightful premonition.
“The bad man…” he whispered, coming to tears. “He hurt her real bad. And…others…” He jumped as she took a step back. “Make him go away, Mommy. Please.” The woman said nothing, a single tear struggling not to run down her cheek…
“I will, sweetheart. I promise…” His pain overwhelmed and she swept him up, rocking him back and forth. Together they cried.
*
Down the hallway, only two doors from his brother, Nicky heard weeping; a sound to which he’d grown quite accustomed. His mother did so often. He barely even saw his brother anymore, but suspected more than his share of wasted tears. For what? Their father? A tummy ache? The cancellation of Yu-gi-oh? Who knew? Who cared?
As usual, nobody noticed when old Nick was in pain. Who had time when cute little Patrick had a nightmare or two? Certainly not his mother; the past few weeks had made that abundantly clear. His father wouldn’t have put in the time either, even if he weren’t the source of all his raw hurt; and confusion. Dear God, please make this feeling go away...
Perhaps he wasn’t giving them enough credit. Adults seemed so sure of themselves. He’d never known a problem they could not solve. Never had a feeling, which did not, in time, fade away––pleasant or otherwise. But this was different. He knew it with a budding maturity the others were all too blind or self-absorbed to pick up on. Everything was different now. And none of it would ever be the same again.
He was almost ready. Just a few more essentials. Some shirts, socks, underwear; plus the new iPod for the bus. A cell phone sure would’ve been nice too, he thought bitterly. The gym bag was three-quarters full. Not long now. He was genuinely excited. Despite his youth––and so-called innocence––it was not a feeling that came easily to him, (especially these days), and if not for the––shit––someone was at the goddamned door–– “Nick? Nick, can I come in…?” The sound of her voice, all loving and chipper, made him angry. Why now, he thought, sliding the bag under his bed. “Please, Nicky. I want to talk to you.” Forget it, lady. You had your chance. Now do me a favor and run along. “I’m coming in,” she announced, and he adjusted himself––
“What’s the matter with you? I was calling your name, didn’t you hear me?”
“I was busy,” he shrugged. His mother rolled her eyes.
“That’s not what I asked you. The next time I call your name, Nicholas, I expect you to answer me.” He smiled to himself. That could be a problem, he thought.
“Nicky, did you hear what I said?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The next time you call me, I’ll be sure to answer. Is that why you came in here?” The woman sighed and moved toward him, body language painfully awkward…
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. The boy did not answer. “Is it me? School?” Part of him; a part he was unconscious of, wanted desperately for her to throw her arms around him; to rock him as she had when he was a small boy around Patrick’s age. He wished he was Patrick. “Is it…your Dad…?”
“I told you, it’s nothing. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
*
For a second, she nearly did. With Patrick, words came easily, but Nick had a way of making it so very damned hard. “I’m going to take Patrick for some ice cream,” she said. Not the smoothest transition, but to the point. “He’s feeling better, isn’t that…?” Her voice trailed off. More awkward silence. She wondered if he cared. “We want you to come with us. It’s been so long since we spent any time together, just the three of us. That’s important to me, you know.” The boy busied himself with his computer, one ear open to her and the rest on some shoot-em-up online bloodbath he knew full well she disapproved of. “Well, what do you say…?”
“Do I have to?” The trap of all traps; how to answer...
“No, you don’t have to, but I’d feel much better if––”
“I think I’ll stay here then.”
What could she say? She had in fact opened the door. “By yourself?”
“You just said––”
“I know, I know.” To her astonishment, Mary found herself missing buxom young Cynthia more and more. At least she seemed to have some sort of rapport with the boy; similar to that with her husband, (which was the problem)… “Fine. You can stay.”
*
“Really?” A hint of surprise crept into his indifference. If not for his hurry, he might have marked the occasion. Extending his bedtime? Perhaps. A raise in allowance? No picnic, but doable, nonetheless. But all that was childsplay next to the brass ring––the whole house to himself. He almost wished he weren’t leaving.
“On one condition...” Of course. How could he not have known? “You and I are going to have a good old fashioned sit-down when I get back. Get some things strait.” The boy wore a look any parent should have easily recognized as irrational excitement. “You’re growing up now, Nick.” She went on anyway. “Now that your father is…well, you’re the man of the house. And with that comes added responsibility. It means our relationship will have to change some. Does that sound like something you can handle?” He was careful not to let his true feelings show.
It was too perfect. He knew it his best chance for success; far better than to simply sneak out the front door while she slept. Man of the house. How little she respected him, to think him foolish enough; naïve enough to jump for joy at her shallow praise. The man of the house was gone. Nicky could not replace him, nor would he ever wish to try. How disloyal she must believe him. How forgetful.
Ten minutes later, they were gone; and five minutes after that, young Nicholas McAllister stood in the atrium with gym bag in hand, staring at that mammoth oak door. A curious sensation engulfed his unstable spirit. It could have been fear. Or nerves. It could have been a piece of undigested food acting up––but it was none of these things. The sensation, he secretly knew, though dreaded with a fiery passion––doubt––had begun to take selfish hold–– Goddammit, don’t think. Thinking equals standing still. Just go. Take a swift, deep breath, grab the bag and one last look, then do what you promised...
The phone was ringing. If only he’d been more in tune with this new attitude, he might have just walked out that door and never looked back. But the phone was ringing. His next course of action seemed clear. “Hello...”
“Nicky?” That voice. Friendly. Sarcastic. Familiar.
“Cynthia?”
“Hey, least you haven’t forgotten…” He wanted to laugh––for several reasons. In spite of his feelings, it was good to hear her voice. “Is your mother around?”
“Are you ever coming back?” The words escaped without warning. He had not meant to come off so juvenile; so childlike and unsophisticated––with her especially. “Direct and to the point. That’s my Nicky. As a matter of fact I am, you silver-tongued devil. I was actually calling to find out a good time to drop over. Mind if I speak to your mother?”
“She’s not here,” he blurted. The concept itself just sounded so damn good.
“Oh. Oh, that’s too bad. I was hoping to talk to her. So, um…who is there? Did you get a new…? Did, um, your Mom hire someone new?”
“No.” He hesitated, worried she’d drop everything to save him from himself.
“Well I hate to sound petty, kid, but that’s comforting to hear. So what’s the situation? You’re not…? I mean there is someone…right?” Nicky cleared his throat.
“Nope. Just me. And in case you’re wondering, I’m doing just fine.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Not yet. “Still, maybe I could come over…” The boy after all, was only ten; and his obvious reluctance must have made him sound guilty of something; as though he had something to hide. He did, of course, but that was a separate issue altogether.
“That’s okay. I’ll just tell her to call you.”
“Are you sure? It’s no problem, Nick. Really. In fact, I’d fell a little better if––”
“I said no,” he snapped. And there it was again––more likely, it had been there all along. In Nick’s short experience, it always was. On some days, his nerves were a fortress of stability. On others––like today––little more than a thin layer of smoke and mirrors. “I’m not as helpless as you think I am. I’m old enough to be left alone for a couple of hours.”
“I know that, I just meant…I mean I thought it might be…never mind…” Her condescending tone only fueled his lulled fire. For an instant, he foolishly thought it might be different. The girl was back, after all. Perhaps he’d misjudged her. But why now? And for how long? He could stick around to find out; the option was not lost on him. But his desire for a new beginning burned hotter than ever.
“Whatever. I’ll tell her you called.”
No matter. Soon he would be gone. They could ignore him all they wanted. He knew full well they would not. His only regret was that he would not be there to hear them crying. In a way, it was better now that Cynthia was back in the picture. His mother would need a shoulder to cry on. Let them regret together. If misery did indeed love company, as he’d so often heard them all say, the match would be made in Heaven.
–––––––––––––––



One more part to this mondo-final chapter, (of Volume One), coming soon. In the meantime, I'll be posting some other, unrelated goodies between now and then. Stay tuned...

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Twelve

Kay let's do this. As promised, here's Chapter Twelve comin' at ya.


–– Twelve ––

Seventeen miles west of Maplewood, at approximately 10:54 the following night, Susan Laterna made the worst mistake of her young life. Had it been any other night, she might’ve been home, or at her boyfriend’s, fooling around and going too far before settling in for some late night TV. Anywhere really, other than Newbury Park––
Heading deeper into the trees, her mind ran across the unpleasantness. It began that afternoon, around a quarter to two. School wasn’t much more than formality senior year. She attended class often enough, to avoid suspension, but little else. Still, most days, she probably would have been there. But not today. Today was a free day––Mr. Petalli had the flu. For as long as there were teenagers and high schools to house them, a substitute teacher for last period meant only one thing:
_____
“I’m going home.”
“What?” Adam Lipinski, who spent more time in the weight room than the classroom, sounded like a child tantruming in the toy department. “I thought you were coming over.”
“Petalli’s not here, Adam. You expect me to waste that?”
“So you’re not coming…” he pouted. Clearly, the boy had an attention problem––or perhaps he simply disliked the idea of her making a decision without his consent.
“Just cut with me,” she offered.
“You know I can’t do that. How the hell can I skip my own make-up exam?”
“Fine then, we’ll meet up after.” Adam appeared to gnaw on her thoughtful compromise; then, as though stumbling onto his most brilliant idea ever, (which could well have been true), unzipped his tattered backpack…
“Well, long as you’re going, take this with you…” His hand emerged with a Ziplock baggie half-full of ‘oregano.’ Susan sighed, grabbing it before anyone noticed.
She didn’t enjoy carrying such things around, particularly at school, where she was a ripe target for certain faculty members with major league chips on their shoulders. Nevertheless, she’d done so willingly, blinded by her love for him; or fear of losing him; this tactless, witless, hopeless young stud with more muscles than brain cells, (and with whom she’d grown quite accustomed to making her girlfriends jealous).
“Keep your cell on,” he instructed. “I’ll text you as soon as I’m done.”
* * *
There was just something about a bag of weed in front of a pothead. Susan would never have considered herself to be such, but sitting there in her parent’s basement with Dr. Phil blathering on about teenage eating disorders, it wasn’t long before she was off and rolling.
She did not make a habit of smoking alone. Half the fun, she found, was the company, wild thought flowing aimless through a smoky green tint. Hours later, she would think herself careless. How hard would it have been, after all, to pack it all neatly away? In the end, it would have cost a cool forty-five seconds. She’d give the world to have those seconds back.
No one was supposed to be home, she had reasoned; not at that hour. No one was ever home at that hour. But this time. This one and only time, a cell-phone battery sat idly in her father’s desk drawer.
_____
At present, she was coming up on some lights. And sounds. Yes. Faint sounds of the street. Of civilization! Her feet were exhausted; her mind, still clouded. But the man with the wire-rimmed glasses was still unaccounted for, so she pushed ever forward.
*
Derek “The Duke” Laterna pulled into the driveway at around 3:00. He was not accustomed to being home quite so early; not on a Saturday, let alone the middle of the week. The street was bare, with only a few stray cars by the roadsides, and it suddenly occurred to him just how accommodating his neighborhood was to would-be thieves.
Might be time to upgrade to Home Shield, he thought, locking his near-new black Lexus SUV as he clomped up the walk. Stickers might be just as good, though, he reconsidered. The Duke was a fairly high roller, after all; or had been, once upon a time––when the stakes weren’t quite so high––and he had a whole lot less to lose.
_____
“Say that again, Manny, I…I can’t…my phone’s dying, fuck!”
In his lower-middle years, old Duke was a player of a much different sort. ‘STOCKS, BONDS, TRADES AND TIPS––whatever your business or pleasure, old Duke had you covered. ‘A strait shooter.’ It said so right on his business card.
The whole battery debacle didn’t help his hand-made reputation one bit. It implied incompetence, or at best, shady tactics. John Wayne didn’t use slight of hand, or slick manipulation to get what he wanted. John Wayne shot from the hip. Nevertheless, it was he, Derek, who had let it run dry. And he, the always reliable and doubly-prepared broker of the year, (three years running), who had failed to keep his spare charged.
_____ The man had a strange feeling from the get-go. An odd aura was about; something in the air, suggesting it’d been breathed recently by a younger, pinker set of lungs. He had no proof, of course; but sharp instincts were as important in his risky line of work as a well-cut suit, clean fingernails and a firm handshake.
“Hello!” he called out, not sure what to expect. The house remained quiet. His mind went from eased, to puzzled, to downright pissed upon stumbling, quite literally, onto a black nylon bookbag left carelessly in the middle of the floor.
“Susan…” He couldn’t believe she cut class again. At this rate, she’d be lucky to graduate. “Susan, where the hell are you?” he shouted, opening the basement door; but no light came from her cozy little sub-hideaway. Perhaps she was in school after all. Perhaps she just decided to leave her…books…at home…
In his younger years––before the trappings of marriage and family swallowed him whole––The Duke was a gambler. Not just a gambler. The gambler. Kenny Rogers even wrote a song about him. Back when he was at school in California––a time of loose morals, wet pussy and endless possibility, he was well known in certain circles. His love for excess was every bit as legendary. Back then, he understood with perfect clarity the seductive potency of pure youth mixed with freedom. He smoked, drank, fucked, shot, snorted…and oh boy, did he play. Even now, at any casino in Vegas old enough to remember, there were those that would rank him hands down the best there ever was.
As he climbed the winding staircase, thoughts of those turbulent times gained momentum. He wasn’t much of a dweller. Life was what happened now. Everything else was hazy recollection or narrow speculation. For most gamblers, there were hot streaks and cold. Some called it luck; others, karma. But no matter the name, he was starting to sense the tides slowly shifting.
“Susan!” he called out again, his feet inching nearer toward her bedroom door. It was that boy, who’d set him onto this tirade of nostalgia, switching his track from numbers and NASDAQ to those oh-so-precious days of yore––so precious, in fact, he dared not taint their memory with over-pontification. Even now he could just see him, slapping his hands all over her; shoving his dirty little prick into every orifice…
Twenty years ago it would have been him with some other girl’s clueless father. And that, if for no other reason, was why he had to put a stop to it. The battery had all but left his anxious mind. It was that punk’s pimply face he saw now. The quiet only convinced him more of their lustful misdeeds and, with his anger reaching a critical boil, The Duke drew both barrels––
Only to find nothing worth shooting for. No boy. No girl. Nothing but––
*
Green. Patches of it peaked out from under the melting snow. Susan believed it her favorite time of year. Years ago, she might have thought different. To a child, summertime in Maplewood was the epitome of every carefree fantasy. But the older she got, the more she’d come to appreciate the poetry of mid-term.
An oncoming car released her from her chronic-haze. Still clutching the roach, she ducked toward the library. So stoned…she thought, unable to keep the world from swaying. The car flew past without incident.
She’d had her fair share of experience with pot, but most, if not all was at night, and usually indoors. It refreshed her to be out in the bright sunshine––very bright, she couldn’t help but notice. Her eyes began to tear from its harsh intrusion and she fought to keep them open. A whimsical noise startled her out of yet another day-dream. Her cell phone was belting out Grease’s ‘Summer Nights,’ obnoxiously enough to call her lame-taste into question. Retrieving the purple flip-phone from her coat pocket, she checked the display:
Expecting Adam; not realizing barely an hour had elapsed, and not even he could fail that fast. “Oh shit…” She noted the number. Was it even remotely possible? Could her mother have come home to find the exposed baggie? Or worse?
*
Her father waited one more ring before hanging up. He was furious. Not only was the girl dumb enough to get mixed up with brainless dicks, she was also a stoner–– and not a very sly one at that. The bag sat out in plain sight atop the nightstand, taunting him. Half of him wanted to smoke it. The other half wanted to flush it down the toilet.
Perhaps he was a hypocrite. Scratch that. Most definitely. He didn’t care. Susan could live a thousand years and not go around the block near as many times as old Derek in his legendary prime. There were things he could say; stories he could tell her that would send her screaming to the nearest detox clinic; if he weren’t so afraid to relive them.
Stop it! he contained himself. Stop it right now or you’ll regret it. There were some skeletons that belonged in the closet. Some that, if ever allowed to taste the sweet light of day, would destroy all that they touched. He could not help his past at any rate. Escape it––he’d been trying all his life. But strangely enough, he found that the more time distanced him from deeds long done, the harder it was to forget.
Goddammit, this isn’t about me. It’s about a young girl spinning out of control. But was that it? Was it really? Or was it simply his control from which she was slipping? It didn’t matter. As long as she lived under his roof–– He stopped himself. All in good in time, he thought. For now it would have to wait. He was still on the clock, after all; and nothing––not even ungrateful, delinquent daughters, came before priority one. Now where did I leave that damn battery?
*
Dead. Susan tried one last time, moving toward the sounds of faint traffic, and still nothing. She decided that if she lived through this, she would take her father’s unrelenting advice and never leave home without a spare battery again.
Behind her, a twig snapped and she spun with a reflex she did not know she possessed. Darkness. At best she could see maybe ten feet in front of her. It could well have been wind, or a squirrel within earshot. Likely, but not definite. For all she knew, the man could be watching her right now from behind his wire-rimmed glasses…
_____
If she’d gotten home just fifteen minutes earlier, she would have run into her father, who himself, sacrificed nearly twenty in the hopes of catching her in the act. She rounded the street corner cautiously, hoping to find her mother’s car in the driveway instead of ‘The Duke’s’ imposing SUV, but to her surprise, the asphalt appeared unimpeded.
She entered the house quietly just the same, resisting the urge to snack, and went strait upstairs. Someone had been there alright. And not just someone. She could smell the faint residue of her father’s detestable aftershave. Since when did he come home in the middle of the afternoon?
She was already fearing the worst by the time she reached her closed bedroom door. To the untrained eye, everything looked reasonably undisturbed. But to hers, (despite the noticeable redness), all was slightly askew. She caught another whiff of his powerful scent––the man even smelled intimidating––then caught sight of the note:
I want to talk to you.
The six little words sent a shockwave through her full body-buzz. There was no way on earth she was going to like what he had to say. The only advantage she had was time; and if that was correct, perhaps there would be a way to soften the inevitable blow.
She doubted quite strongly that anything short of unscheduled surgery would shake the broker of the year, (three years running), off his proverbial high horse. In theory, all she had to do was stay out of face-to-face range during his prime parenting hours. In the morning, he generally left a good hour before she woke up. And as it was, the man had a ridiculous morning ritual that could doubtfully accommodate her.
That left only evenings. Most of the time, the two scarcely talked at all. After dinner, she would retreat upstairs––or down––where everything essential to teenage survival lay close at hand. But he was no better. After dinner they were lucky to get a full sentence out of him before he disappeared behind the walls of his office. Since childhood, she’d often speculate about what went on behind that beige, spackled fortress.
Once when just was about nine or ten, she found his bottom left drawer unlocked for the first time ever and inside, sifted inquisitively through a stack of Club and Swank magazines as well as a mysterious glass vile filled with sugar. After that, he was never so careless again. Perhaps it was because he knew; sensed that the contents had been disturbed in some way, much as she had with her bedroom.
‘Summer Nights’ filled the tiny pink sanctuary and she reached for her cell phone––(a Christmas gift from The Duke, incidentally)––in lieu of quality time. Nothing to worry about this time, however. She recognized the number all too well, and welcomed it in the wake of the alternative:
“Did you pass?”
“Who the hell needs English anyway?” Adam muttered. His patronizing, downright rude tone hadn’t changed an iota. Nevertheless, she found herself strangely comforted by his oafish self-absorption. Better to spend the evening with him, she thought, engaged in one-way conversations and passable sex, then even ten minutes with her father, who, with one damaging look, could effortlessly unravel her fragile esteem.
“I’m sorry,” she offered. “I was just trying to be supportive.”
“Oh. So it’s supportive you’re shooting for, huh? Well, how’s about you bring some of that over here?” She was grateful to be on the phone so he could not see her eyes rolling.
“Sounds like a plan,” she replied, still a trifle under the influence.
“Hurry up,” he snapped, effectively killing any chance for a mood. “I’ve had a bad day and I could use a little herbal refreshment.” Oh, how romantic. “Hello…?”
“Yeah. Sorry, I’m…I’m coming...”
“Well don’t take too long, okay? Weed’s not all I’m jonesin’ for...” The phone was dying out, and Susan took it as divine bullshit-intervention.
“Alright, I’ll see you soon.” Her reception was fading...
“What?”
“I’M COMING!” she screamed, then hung up. Packing everything as it’d been before, Susan Laterna took one last look at her comfy, pink bedroom. I’ll be back tonight, she thought. After all the tension’s dies down, and old Duke’s just too tired to deal with me… But she wouldn’t. She would never see this room; this house; or anything else tied to her sheltered young life as long as she lived.
“Goodbye,” she whispered. And left.
* * *
“So what brings you out here?” Susan looked up. Dirty. Hungry. Cold. And most of all, dazed––a lingering side effect from a joint smoked far too early.
“I beg your pardon?” she mumbled. The stranger laughed, shifting his peculiar gaze ever so slightly from the dark road in front of him, then back in a flash.
“Well, do you make a habit of wondering the neighborhood at night or…is this just my lucky day…?” This time his eyes remained straight ahead. Susan looked him curiously in the profile. She was trying to decide whether that was innocent wordplay or something more sinister. “Cold?”
“What?” she blurted, nervous. Again she saw that smile; so impeccably calm; like a kind man on a slow Sunday drive. But there was more to it. This may have been a big mistake, she thought.
“Are you cold?” he clarified. “I could turn up the heat...”
“No. No thanks, I’m fine.” But she was anything but. This was the stuff of horror movies, and her hazy mind raced through all sorts of unsettling scenarios best left un-conjured.
“On my way home myself…” he said after some uncomfortable silence. “Just out visiting...” His words, while still a tad mysterious, seemed harmless enough now. Perhaps it was merely lingering paranoia. Still, her caution felt eerily justified. The man, for his part, did little to put her racing mind at ease. He just kept his eyes staring directly ahead. Those dark, empty eyes behind a clunky pair of wire-rimmed glasses…
“Visiting?” She tried to sound calm.
“Yup. House call. I’m in furnace repair,” he said. “As you might imagine, this here’s my busy time. Don’t normally make evening runs, but…well it’s cold out there…and this customer’s been loyal for near twenty-five years...”
“Awfully nice of you…” Her voice sounded smoother. In all likelihood, he was every bit on the level; just a kind citizen who saw someone by the side of the road; someone who needed help. So he stopped. What was it her father always said? ‘Nine times outta ten the simplest explanation’s the one to bet on...’ Yeah. This explanation was simple enough. But what about time number ten?
“…and, well, far be it from me to turn my back on a man in need…” The stranger was finishing his thought just in time for her to tune back in. “No, sir, not me…not how I was raised…” He shuffled. “Guess it also applies to um…women...” Wait a minute. What was that? Was it her imagination, or had the mysterious Samaritan looked her up and down when he thought she hadn’t noticed? “Speaking of which…you still haven’t answered my question, hon...” Question? Was there a question?
“Pardon?” It took her a moment to sort through her anxiety. It felt more like an hour. “Oh. I, um…got into a little fight with my, um…boyfriend...” she mumbled.
Again, the driver smiled, almost undetectable, as though he did not wish her to see. “Boyfriend, huh? So was it a ‘fight’ fight or an argument-like? He didn’t––”
“No. No, nothing like that. Just a…friendly little…disagreement…”
“A lovers quarrel, eh? Well I’m not surprised. A pretty little thing like you could sure make a man’s blood boil over.” As hard as she tried, Susan could not seem to steer the conversation. Something was happening inside her; something beyond mere paranoia; beyond irrational panic. This was intuition.
“We’re coming up on my neighborhood,” she lied. “I’d just as soon not have my father see a strange car drop me off. You can let me out here.”
“Somethin’ I said, honey? What’s a matter, don’t like my company?”
“It’s fine,” she said, life draining out of her. “I really do appreciate the lift but…”
“I don’t see any houses around here. Sure you’re not just tryin to get rid’a me?”
“Please,” she managed. “We’re close enough. I can walk the rest of the way.”
“Careful now. “I’m libel to take offence.”
“My father knows I’m out here,” she blurted. “He’s waiting...”
“Oh I’ll just bet he is. Who wouldn’t be? I sure know I’ve been. Hell, if I was your daddy, don’t think I’d ever let you outta my sight...”
A single tear; one that she’d been struggling to suppress for the last quarter-mile, escaped down her flustered cheek. She wanted to let it out. All of it. She wanted to scream for all to hear, but at the same time, did not intend to award him the satisfaction.
The driver took notice. “Mmm, yummi. Now here comes the fear. That part’s always my favorite. I’m hopin’ to see more tears, though…think maybe you can…?” For the first time since she’d so stupidly gotten into his rusty old car, the stranger turned his head ninety degrees and looked directly at her; almost…in her… “Listen to me,” he said. “I’m like a kid at Christmas. Patience, that there’s the name of the game. ‘Sides, I’m sure there’ll be plenty’a tears to come soon enough.” Then he laughed a cruel, sadistic laugh.
Susan had never known true terror. Not with every card on the table, until that very moment. It seemed to entice him all the more. But with all his sly mannerisms, and subtle expressions…he had not noticed…what she was doing…
“You know, I think you girls just get prettier and prettier with time. Yes, sir, I’m not ashamed to say it…” On her right, she could see the outskirts of Newbury Park whizzing by. That might be okay, she thought. Not as good as a row of houses lighting up the night, but sufficient. She had her cell after all; (low battery not withstanding). “But who are you kidding anyhow, sweat pea?” The voice was like a distant echo. She was thinking now; fighting her crumbling synapses and mental malaise; fighting for her life. And all the while, her trembling fingers fumbled away inside her jacket... “Girls like you––sooner or later, you’ve all got it comin.’ Acting all ‘look at me’ and defiant. Swimming with bloody gums in shark-infested waters...”
Her fingers searched harder. And finally, just as she’d all but given up hope of a happy ending… “Oh now what’s a matter? You were being so chatty. Don’t tell me the ol’ cat’s got your cute little––” In a flash, she grasped what she’d been fishing for; a once-opened, once-sprayed can of mace disguised as Binacca; (another gift from dear old Dad, to which she’d rolled her eyes in reluctance). She had no idea whether it would work or, more importantly, whether her own reflexes would meet the challenge in their current condition. But it was this or nothing. And now or never.
“Ahh! Goddam BITCH!” Success. Her surprisingly steady hand performed beautifully under unusual pressure. Good to know, she thought; for next time. And then, in another moment of divine inspiration, she did what she had only seen in movies, with no idea whether it would work. The man was in agony, forced to remove the ugly pair of glasses, which gave his otherwise bland face its only personality, rubbing his tearing eyes fiercely with one hand, clutching the wheel with the other.
The car, now out of control, screeched to a near-stop as she gripped the hand-brake and pulled with all her tiny might. The blinded stranger who, to her relief, did not want to die himself, hit the brake and finished what she’d started.
“You just bought yourself a very painful exit, little girl,” he fumbled on, trying not to relinquish control of the twisted situation. With unyielding determination, his hand rubbed and rubbed his swollen eyes under his glasses. The other was off the wheel, swatting the air beside him in a feeble attempt to grab her…
But Susan was in the driver’s seat now––(metaphorically) ––and, with fresh optimism, she unclicked her seatbelt and kicked the passenger door until it burst open–– She had only a dozen seconds at most to catch her breath and assess her desolate surroundings... ‘Operation Survival’ was now into phase two.
Her legs were unfortunately much shakier than her hands as she hobbled towards the dark woods, looking back only once; just long enough to see the man reattach his glasses and spill out of the vehicle…
_____
The sounds of traffic; a clearing in the woods were upon her at last. And Susan moved steadily toward it. Her heart began to beat slower. Only moments before, she was nearly convinced it would thump right out of her chest. Her mind’s dull edges were sharpening too, and the finer details of her chilly surroundings came slowly into focus...
The cars were much closer. Almost on top of her. So close in fact, she could make out the song snippet blasting from some young punk’s radio as he zoomed by. It was over. A few dozen steps forward and she would be among people. All she had to do was flag someone down. If necessary, she was prepared to step into oncoming traffic…
The beeping noise caught her by understated surprise–– It took a second to convince her it wasn’t just in her head. But there it was again; choppy. The battery, it seemed, while nearly drained, was not quite dead after all. What to do…
Just a little further. ‘Summer lovin. Had me a blast…’ The tune cut through her bulky coat pocket, bouncing off every snowy stone and twig. Shut the fuck up, she pleaded. Just a few more steps… ‘Summer lovin. Happened so fast…’ A breeze flew across her face, and the phone beeped again. Without thinking, she pulled it from her coat just to––
“There’s a good girl...” A cold voice panted into her quivering ear. It was no hallucination. A hand slapped sharply over her mouth, muffling her spiritless scream. The phone fell hard to the ground, sending the mostly-dead battery off in a separate direction. “Now we’re gonna have us some fun, aren’t we…?” he said, licking the back of her sweaty neck… “Nearly forgot how rewarding a good chase can be…”
With one final burst of panic, she swung an arm wildly and slapped at his unseen face. Something, which she could not see, snapped neatly free and fell listlessly to the ground. His grip, nonetheless, did not waver; only tightened; his swift, panting breath all over her soft, exposed skin. It was the last thing she would ever feel––
before the world as she knew it, fell forever in darkness.




One of my all-time faves, I must say. One more chapter to go before Volume One is complete. It's a long one. But first, I've got more blogging to get to. I must get this Lost-gasm off my chest--next time.

D.A.

An Evening With Stephen King

Last week, I had the good fortune to head down to The Canon Theatre in Toronto for An Evening With Stephen King.

I'd say I'm a fairly average Stephen King fan. I've read all the "Dark Tower" books, (highly recommended, by the way), plus a handful of others, like, "The Dead Zone", "Hearts in Atlantis", "Desperation", "The Stand" and proabaly one or two I'm forgetting. I've also read a few short stories. I think that qualifies me for a night like this, but there were people in that theatre that could probably quote the man, line for line.

I do admire the hell out of him. For anyone who wants to write books for a living, there is no greater role model. The man's track record is almost superhuman when it comes to, not only spine-tingling and strange, but also sheer volume. He seems to put out a couple 600+ page books every few years. This latest one, "Under The Dome", clocks in at something like, 1200. I don't know the exact page count, but fuck!

Anyway, the whole thing was pretty darn cool. After an Oscar-like video montage of the man's impressive catalogue, local TV and radio personality, George Stroumboulopoulos, (you know that ain't no stage name), came out and briefly introduced one of popular fiction's most legendary storytellers. A man that will go down as the 20th century poster boy for his profession. Stephen King.

The next part, while entertaining, was basically just a regular old reading. Mr. King, (may I call you Stephen?)-- Stephen read a few choice pages from his latest take on the Simpsons Movie, (just kidding. Sidenote: For more on The Simpsons, check out my Simpsons Round-up, coming soon!).
After it was done, 'Steve' threw out a couple jokes to sooth his apparent nerves and George came out again to introduce another horror-legend, and no stranger to strange himself, Toronto's own, Mr. David Cronenberg.

Why David Cronenberg?

Well, aside from being one of the most noted horror/weird filmakers of his generation, and, as I said, a Toronto native, (guess that cut down on travel expenses), Cronenberg adapted Kings's aforementioned, "The Dead Zone", (great book and tv show as well), for the 1983 film, starring Christopher Walken as Jonny Smith and Martin Sheen as a George W-esque Greg Stillson.

The two men sat down to an intimate conversation before 500 or so adoring admirers and waxed on about inspiration, adaptation, (both have experience in graphic novels), narrative choices, as well as the changes to their respective approaches to writing and storytelling in today's tech-savvy, Google-ready world of McResearh. Not that I'm knocking it. Hell, I'm using it right now!

All in all, a good time was had by all, certainly me and my good buddy, Kev, (a much bigger King fan, I should add). Afterwards, we waited around for like, an hour to buy an autographed copy of his newest. A needlessly complicated raffle won us the honor. Yes, I said to buy, not win, said copy. And no, Mr. King, (Stevie), did not personally sit for the signing. That was done sometime beforehand, (hopefully the same day). Again, I'm not knocking it, just throwing in a little sarcasm for enhanced readability.

Ok, guess that about sums it up.
It was definitely an interesting experience, or 'evening' (more like an hour and a half), peering into the mind of a true living legend all up close and personal. I even plan to read "Under The Dome" one of these days, though I do have a few books to sift through first.

Seriously, thanks for the great stories, Steve.
Keep on writing.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Three

You asked for it. Okay, maybe not in so many words but I know you were thinking it. So here you go, no need to keep persturing me. Chapter Three of my horror-epic, An Axis Oblique, for which, incidentally, I've been sending out queries again after a fairly lengthy hiatus. For earlier entries, please check the Post Index over there on your right.


–– Three ––

Just a few hours before his death, Henry McAllister had the Grand Slam Breakfast at Denny’s, right off the Langferth Expressway. Normally, the cholesterol alone would have dissuaded him, but on this particular morning, heightened anxiety had trumped other considerations. It was time, he thought, soaking up the last of his syrup with a half a piece of toast. It had been a good four, maybe five minutes since he looked her straight in the eye; Abigail Waike, sipping her steaming hot tea. She really was a sweet kid. And part of him really hated himself. It’s not that he meant to hurt anyone. He had a disease.
“I don’t think we should see each other any more.” There, he said it. It was out there at last. Poor thing. She was looking at him with those pouty, puppy dog eyes, which usually made him want to ravage her but––no––must stay strong. “Please say something.”
Her expression changed.
“What do you want me to say?”
She had to have seen this coming. Not today perhaps. Or any time soon. But surely somewhere down the line.
“Sweetheart this isn’t about you,” he attempted clumsily. “It’s about––”
“I love you, Henry.” She interrupted him, then paused, probably just for effect. And, though tempted, Henry held his tongue. “If you can honestly say that you don’t love me back…well…I guess that’ll be that.”
“Abi, honey, you’re my hygienist.” He stopped. What more was there to say? “Look, you know I’m married. And you… You’re a beautiful, smart, sexy…sexy…sexy girl…” Off-track, off-track, off-track. “What I’m trying to say is…you’ll have no trouble attracting the right kind of guy.” About to break in, he held up his finger–– “I have to make it work with my family. My boys…are the most important thing in the world to me, you know that.” He sighed. “Then, of course, there’s Mary…”
“The Ice Queen,” she murmured. “I thought you ‘fell out of love’ with her…”
“I thought maybe I had, but…she has her reasons for being angry, believe me…”
It was almost as though he believed himself for the very first time.
“So that’s it then…”
“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry.” Next came the uncomfortable silence. “If you like, I can write you a killer referral with Dr. Abbott. Seriously, the man owes me a––” Oops.
“Thanks.” She snipped; the last straw.
“I am sorry, Abigail. Please believe that. If there’s anything I can do––”
“I’d say you’ve done enough.” She folded her hands on the table. “Now I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind…”
Beautiful.
Henry stood from the table and reached into his back pocket. “Say no more.”
All in all, he was grateful to her for not making a scene; (one of the reasons he’d suggested this very public venue to begin with). Thank God he’d asked her to mail that little letter to Leon back at the office, putting to rest yet another ugly chapter in his personal book of shame.
The ordeal had gone much smoother than he’d any right to anticipate. There was anger, sure; hurt, guilt; perhaps even a little betrayal...but to his reasonable astonishment, she’d taken the whole thing like a grownup. Better than some grownups he knew.
By the time he got out to the parking lot, he’d already begun to reconsider. Perhaps he was giving himself too much credit. She was a very attractive girl, after all, who’d likely broken her share of hearts along the way. She’ll be fine, he unlocked his whipped-cream white S-120 from half an aisle down, repeating the silent mantra all the way inside, pulling out and due north onto Bluemont Drive.
He still had a good deal of growing up to do, but he felt a weight lifted and longed to hold onto the feeling. With nearly two hours to his next appointment, he decided to get in some holiday shopping before heading back to the office. Things were gonna be different, he sternly proclaimed, circling the lot for a space, and in his mind, it was already true. After all, he’d been strong so far with Cynthia, despite clear opportunity. Yes sir. Henry was going to grow up if it killed him.
It was just wrong, what he’d had with Abigail, and he’d always known that. She was just so…there. And life with Mary could be so…predictable. ‘Boring’ was the only real word for it. He meant every word at the restaurant. Mary was the most patient soul he’d ever known and over the years, had a million and one reasons to leave––and only two to stay. Granted, those two carried considerable weight, but there were plenty of women out there who would’ve opted for personal happiness over a sham-marriage any day.
Jessica Todd came as close as anyone to breaking up their not-so-happy home for good. What happened to her was a tragedy, and not a day went by when he didn’t wonder what might have been if he hadn’t––a thought that usually kept him up at night…
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” His blinker was clearly blinking when some hipster college-boy in a trendy Mini Cooper, (not the Classic, mind you; one of those new plastic knock-offs), slipped right into his space from nowhere. Henry leaned on the horn a good ten seconds before begrudgingly moving on.
This is hopeless, he thought, adjusting the heat to his liking. He would be damned if he was going to walk up from half a mile out. Driving up one of Lot Purple A’s many crowded aisles, he noticed a white minivan with its reverse lights on. No time to be diplomatic. With the skill of a Formula One driver, he threw the standard transmission into the reverse position and backed his way down the aisle, cutting off the car behind him in the process. A loud honk let him know it.
“Okay, guess I deserved that...” he maintained, doing almost ten now, backwards all the way to the other end of the fifty-car stretch. And just as he came within a few dozen feet, a faded-gray, piece of shit Buick signaled its intention to move in on his territory. “Oh no. No fucking way, pal!” he declared, flooring it as a Dodge Caravan unintentionally ran defense.
Mr. Buick didn’t like it one bit. Henry could see him ranting through the rear-view mirror. For a second, he thought the large driver might get out of his car, but seeing a space on the other side of the aisle must have made him think twice, (though he made sure Henry could see his lewd finger as he drove off to go after it).
On the short walk inside, he again thought of Jessica. She would have been thirty next month.
_____
“Do you love me?” she once asked out of thin air.
“Well, I…I care about you, Jessica, you know that. I care about you a lot.”
“But do you love me? As in the way you used to love your wife.”
“I think that’s a little different. She and I were in the same place when we fell in love. We had our whole lives ahead of us. With you and I it’s…well, more of a spiritual connection, don’t you think?” She didn’t respond. “To answer your question, though, of course I do. You make me so happy, hon. Happier than I ever thought I could be...”
Things just weren’t quite the same between them. Not since ‘the scare.’ He could still see the pain in her eyes; every time he closed his own––and Mary, on the night she confronted them. The bitterness. The resentment. The betrayal.
Looking around her immaculately clean apartment that afternoon, he’d wondered just how often she went around with a duster––before noticing what had somehow escaped him till right about then. The bookshelves. They were…emptier. The walls…bearer… And then there were the two empty boxes in the hall near the bedroom.
“I’m leaving,” she said, and he stood from her sunken half-sofa. He recognized her tone; one he had tendency to use himself when he knew it was time to move on.
_____
Unlike all the others, he believed himself when he told her he loved her. Not necessarily more than his wife––only different. She’d had it all planned out; resignation typed-up and on his desk at the office; a suitcase packed and ready; a full tank of gas for the four hour drive to her sister’s in Rochester; and most important of all, the courage, which had been building for months; to make a clean break––
until he so selfishly stopped her––
Somehow, he’d managed to make his needs, his desires, his priorities more important than her own. Perhaps if he hadn’t been such a self-absorbed son of a bitch; perhaps if he’d put her first just once in all the time they were together, and let her go, she would be here today, or at least somewhere; alive. Sometimes he truly hated himself.
“Hey why don’t you watch it?” someone snapped.
“Sorry…” he mumbled into some idiot with his head down in the housewares department. It was time to get focused …new leaf, new leaf, new leaf…let’s see, new roller blades for Nicky, no brainer, and, um, for Patrick, something Spiderman, easy enough. Mary’s gift would be the toughest. He wanted something sentimental, to remind her of the happy times, but also convey what he felt for her now, after all they’d been through. Better go Tiffany’s…but first something to drink… The aftertaste of morning coffee left his mouth uncomfortably dry.
So he headed out, hanging a right toward the food court.




Thanks for reading. And for those of you who just skimmed it, what's a matter, you too busy? Go back and read it again, I'm very dissapointed in you.

D.A.