Happy Halloween!?!?!?

Would I be a true ghoul if I neglected my loyal fans on this day of stories, legends, and tall tales? I don't believe I would. Enjoy!

Decorated with the expected array of fake spider webs and rubber bats, one porch loomed big in the minds of every child living on Prospect Street. We devoted as much time and thought to visiting old man Mueller’s porch on Halloween as we did to making sure Santa brought us the gifts we most desired, a few months later. Old man Mueller prided himself on showmanship. Decorations slowly accumulated, day by day, until the terrifying panorama completely unfolded on Halloween night. In other words, the whole month of October revolved around sneaking down the street to peek over the railing at the latest horror to spring from grave or coffin. Of course, our parents forbade us to bother old man Mueller until Halloween, so we could only get glances as we sped by in cars, unless we wanted to risk being stuck at home while everyone else was trick or treating.

My last year of life was no different. The day before Halloween, my friend Maggy and I stood outside my house as darkness fell. We took turns surreptitiously peeking at the living room windows of my ranch style house. When the curtain finally fell back against the window, we knew my mother had stopped watching us and adventure could begin.

“Did you get the flashlight?” Maggy peered over her shoulder at the living room window.

“Yes, but we won’t need it. His street is lit as well as ours.” I gestured at streetlights that cast glowing pools of on both sides of the street.

“You never know.” Maggy linked her arm in mine.

As our footsteps echoed through the empty street, I glanced over my shoulder one last time. The curtain didn’t stir. The door didn’t open. We were going to get away with it. As long as we hurried, we’d have plenty of time for a sneak peek at this year’s decorations without our parents knowing. The closer we got to our destination, the slower our footsteps became. Without conscious thought, we matched step after slow step with each other, almost as if the air on this street had turned to warm taffy.

“We’re almost there.” Maggy patted my hand reassuringly but her voice quivered.

“Yes, yes, we are.” My own voice vibrated.

“Some people say he isn’t really decorating for Halloween…” Maggy pauses to take in a gulp of air. 

“He’s just airing out his house to prepare for other ghouls to visit him.”

If the midsummer sun shone down on us, I would have laughed. In the dusky gloom of late October, however, a shiver rolled up and down my spine. Maggy giggled nervously, pressing closer to me.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” False bravado steeled my voice, but she knew the answer I wanted.

“Of course.” She wouldn’t admit to fear either.

We took a few more tentative steps toward old man Mueller’s house. We paused to peer at the dark windows. A rusty, red Ford truck sat alone in the driveway. I pointed to the empty spot where a newer but no less rusty truck normally sat.

“He isn’t here.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Maggy grabbed my hand dragging more toward the stairs.

Even as I followed in her wake, caution prompted me to glance at the other houses on the street. Warm light glowed within many of the windows, but no curious eyes peered out into the darkness. Essentially alone, Maggy and I paused to peer at the tableau spread out before us.

Cobwebs hung from rusty nails that had pulled loose from the siding and any other protrusion large enough to support them. Realistic spiders that ranged from black widows to hairy wolf spiders nestled in the tangles of cotton with cold, glittering eyes. A coffin stood ajar next to the door with a green phosphorous glow portending the horror within. Styrofoam bones and latex limbs spattered in blood leaned against the lattice panels that wrapped around the porch. A long table rested against dirt-streaked windows. Amidst test tubes, cauldrons, and bottles and vials of organs, a mockery of the infant form looked up at me with cold, lifeless eyes. Reflected light from the street gleamed in those glass eyes swirled with crimson, giving them a demonic aspect that sent more shivers through me.

“That’s absolutely grotesque.” My breath barely accompanied the words that hissed between my lips.

“Touch it.” Maggy’s whisper tickled my ear.

I shook my head. She nudged me, pushing me closer to the table. I looked at her, sighing as she nodded her head at the doll. Tentatively, I reached out with my right hand. I extended my index finger to point at the doll’s head. My arm moved slower and slower the closer it got to the inanimate form. My finger hovered two inches from the ragged cloth wrapped around the baby’s abdomen unable to move forward any further.

The doll met me halfway. To my surprise and horror, its plastic arms slowly rotated. Tiny fingers molded to encircle my finger. The plastic felt like flesh, warm, supple flesh. Blood rushed to my ears. Maggy said something, but I couldn’t hear it. I turned to look at her. She was already disappearing down the steps.

The soft flesh of the baby’s hand turned to rough sandpaper. The muscles underneath rippled as its grip tightened, not just on my finger but my entire hand. The round childish cheeks began to melt away leaving a hardened angular face unveiled. The entire creature began to morph, growing older before my eyes. As it grew, it became even more grotesque. Its features twisted and wrinkled into the visage of my demise.

“You’re mine, child.”

The words were carried on fetid breath. It said something more, but I was already swooning. I would never know what it said. I would never wake again.

More On Critiques

I have been so busy painting and sewing that I have not made the time to write lately. Soon the renovations will be over, but the holiday season will have me submerged before I can revel in that. I shall try to complete my most recent story suggestion by the end of the month. I say month not week because I shall be devoting the rest of the week to offering my input on other people's artistry. Yesterday morning, I printed out the aforementioned writings and made some observations about following the guidelines offered by whoever is running/ mediating/ hosting the group.

Usually, someone who takes on such an onerous task has some experience with these types of meetings. Anyone who decides to participate should respect this person enough to take their advice. As I grumbled at printed pages yesterday morning, I was reminded how important it is to follow the guidelines for font, header formatting, and line spacing. Why?

1. Having the same font, spacing, and and formatting assures that everyone submits approximately the same amount of material. If you don't have the time to read fifteen extra pages from one submitter, they probably don't have time to read an extra fifteen pages of your creative efforts, regardless of how good they are.

2. Page numbers help keep the pages in order. As I printed out multiple submissions with no page numbers, I found that I needed to make sure they remained in order since I like to print on both sides of a sheet of paper. Keep in mind that sometimes accidents happen, such as piles of paper falling on the floor.  A lack of page numbers wastes a lot of time in this instance.

3. Please include your name on the actual submission. When people prepare to critique Lewis Carroll's submission, they may not know it is Alice in Wonderland if you didn't include your name on the piece. This becomes more critical when you submit more than one short piece and another participant does the same.

4. Under no circumstances should you use fancy formatting. I actually printed that one out as it was to show the person how ridiculous it looked. Even if you are both using the same text editor, it doesn't always come across the way you intended.

In the high-tech age in which we live, every writer should be aware that they have to play by the rules of potential publishers. Shouldn't we practice following directions whenever we can?

Again With the Critiques

In my efforts to improve my writing and motivate myself, I joined a writing group. Most of the other members of the group give me helpful advice and commentary. As with any group, however, some of the participants fail to provide any useful information. This causes me to critique them in my head. I enjoy critiquing the people who critique me. Such behavior actually makes me aware of my own faults as an amateur editor. Though I have listed some of these before on my online journal, I want to list a few of my own thoughts for those participating in such a group.

1. No matter how much you want to say it, anything that equates to "I would never write this, so it isn't any good" is not useful. The other members of the group offer the best advice that they can give. You should do the same. If you begin reading each submission with an open mind, you might be surprised to find that other genres are just as interesting as the one you prefer.

2. In a similar vein, always telling someone that their writing is almost perfect because they share your genre doesn't help them. Do you really think it helps someone to tell them you love the story but not tell them what they can improve? We all have room for improvement.

3. Learn from the people in your group. Observe what techniques they use to critique your work and emulate those methods that help you. Don't be afraid to ask them for input on how you can offer better advice. For instance, poetry proves complicated for me because it is so subjective, so I tend to ask the poets what kind of feedback they desire.

4. If you don't plan to take the advice of your fellow writers, don't waste their time. At least one member of our group blows off the majority of what other people say to him. This doesn't help him grow. Conversely, I have seen some amazing improvement of one of the other members of our group because he actually applies the advice he receives.

Anyway, those are my beefs for today. Use them to make a hamburger if you wish.

You Be the Teacher

We all remember those themes we were given in English class. Our teacher would tell us to write about our favorite toy, our best friend, our summer vacation or what we want to be when we grow up. I feel I should give all my faithful readers a chance to challenge my creativity. Can I really make any topic worth reading about? I doubt it. For instance, who would want to read a story about fungal infection? Or selling a house? (Sadly, I have at least one friend who insists that this was a major theme of a story I was writing.) I am willing to give all and any ideas a fair chance inside my mind, so give me a topic and prepare to be entertained.

Did I Dream That?

This post may disappoint. It may also never be read. Without loyal followers who are willing to critique, laud, and question, does a blog such as this really have a purpose?

I ask myself that question on a regular basis. In fact, that question taunts me more than the nagging realization that I need to post here more often. So I put it to you again, dear readers, what will bring you back here?

I should assure you before you answer that I really am writing when I am not posting here. I just want to know how fine-tuned a piece must be before you'll consent to read and enjoy it. I also need to stop getting awesome story ideas when I am trying to put my brain in sleep mode, mainly because I tend to dream that I write these ideas down, only to find in the morning that I have neglected to do so.

So here are my questions. Answer them in the comments:

1. What do you hope to see here?
2. Are you afraid to start reading and appreciating because you're afraid you'll be let down by a sudden lack of posts? (I promise more posts when I have more readers. Just click the "Join this site" button and dare me to post more.)
3. How can I motivate you to keep coming back and bring your friends?
4. Of the stories already posted, which did you like best? Why?

Thanks so much for making this a blog to remember. Without you, there is no blog!

Dance Into Darkness

This is another of my flash fictions. I even edited it before posting, so enjoy!

With dark hair and even darker eyes, she invites you to dance in darkness. You know such a dance offers so much more. Dark eyes glitter like onyx as dark lashes sweep down to cover them not once but twice. Take that hand, pull her close, hold her until the dance is done. How can she feel so warm? Cheeks catch fire. Hands ache to touch her more intimately. Your lips long to feel hers. You want to taste her, to see if she tastes like sugar.

Your hands move slowly. She does not resist. She smiles. The coquet laughs as she throws her head back. Her head tilts forward enough for your eyes to meet. Two pairs of lips meet and are locked together. Surely, she
should have stopped this by now. Ah, but the power is in your strong hands. Entrapment is caused by such fascination that your face is always before her. You inhale sharply as her hands caress your cheeks, drawing you deeper into the darkness.

"Are you okay?"

Her voice interrupts the visions before your eyes. Shame pervades the darkness. Light comes through. Eyes blink and then her face looms out of the darkness suffused with light. How can one face such concern? Reality compares harshly to the fantasy. Honesty can do no good here.

"I'm fine. Just fine."

Surely she believes. Yes, she believes. Or she doesn't and says nothing as her heart bleeds. It doesn't matter. The light fades out and darkness beckons again.

Any Excuse Will Do

In a fiction blog, any excuse for not having a new entry will do, won’t it?

As I sat down to write a tale to make the world weep, erratic knocking interrupted my thoughts. The story fled my mind. I rose to see what was causing such a commotion at such an early hour. I opened the door to find no one on the other side of the threshold. I leaned out to look up and down the narrow porch. I even peered at the bushes at the end of the driveway, but they were too scraggly to hide even the thinnest slip of a prankster.

I slowly regained solid ground and paused to look out the door a few seconds longer before I pulled it closed and slipped the deadbolt into place. The knocking resumed. Now it vibrated the floorboards under my feet. I looked down, bewildered. Dust bounced along the floor as the knocking continued. With swift strides, I crossed the floor to the door to the basement.

I paused in the doorway. The dank smell of mold wafted out to deter me, but curiosity beckoned me onward. I cringed as the first step creaked but found the courage to continue down each creaking step. The light from the single bare bulb blinded me as I flipped the switch on the wall at the bottom of the stairs. As my eyes adjusted, I scanned the barren room. Only cobwebs and a few boxes against one wall broke the monotony of chipped concrete and bare rafters. In fact, no way existed for someone to bang on the ceiling. Not even a long-handled broom had been tossed aside in this room of stale air and neglect.

Satisfied, I turned back to the stairs. I took a deep breath before switching off the light. My footsteps pounded on the stairs to announce my return to the living room, yet I still heard a soft giggle as I stepped out into the brightness of the room. As my eyes adjusted to the bright light, the lights went out. I turned toward the light switch. A movement caught my eyes for a second before it disappeared. My attention was drawn to my desk by repetitive clicking.

A tiny little figure crouched over my keyboard. In the glow of the monitor, her frilly skirt sparkled. I could make out tiny flowers twined in the two braids that held her hair back from her thin face. She looked up at me long enough to smile devilishly as she clicked the delete button. Then she was soaring across the room on gossamer wings. I tried to catch her but she managed to slip through a window left ajar to allow the cool night air to wash over me as I worked.

I sat down at my computer, clicking frantically. She had successfully deleted all of my most recent works of fiction. I did not know why. I probably never will, but I knew my readers would not accept such an excuse. What can I do but slave over a better piece for next week?