Of Note

Dark Valentine Magazine is doing a special promo — so I thought I’d share a note from one of the editors:

We’re promoting Scott J Laurange’s serial story “A Knight’s Tale” all this month. The story, part of Scott’s CANTERBURY GOTH project, will run in 11 parts, posted Monday, Wednesday and Friday all through the month. The last chapter will run on September 29.

At the end of the month, we’ll be giving away a copy of MOCKINGJAY, just published last Tuesday and already in its second printing. If you enjoyed HUNGER GAMES and its sequel CATCHING FIRE, you’ll want to know how the story ends. And really, isn’t the triangle of Kat, Gale and Peeta more interesting than Edward, Jacob and Bella?

To enter the drawing, you need to come to the site at any time during the month and comment on the chapter that’s up. (Feel free to come back for each chapter, which we’ll be archiving.) You’ll get our thanks and good karma just for showing up. But what gets entries into the drawing is spreading the word. Talk us up on your social networks, tweet a link, you know the drill. You’ll also get an extra five (5) entries if you bring us new members of our Facebook group.

The drawing will be done on September 30. The winner will receive a copy of MOCKINGJAY, the conclusion of Suzanne Collins’ HUNGER GAMES trilogy.

Thanks for taking a look at the story.

Katherine

Via My Little Corner: Thrillers, Killers and Chillers has posted an announcement that they’re looking for Halloween and Christmas themed stories to take us through the dark days that are coming. You can find all the details athttp://thrillskillsnchills.blogspot.com/2010/09/darkness-falls.html

And look here, Ron Earl Phillips gets in on some of Cormac Brown’s FFF fun. Check out his entry, “Out the Door”.

Of course, I have to pair it with a song so…

Mr. Phillips is also hosting a great little contest, so get in and enter for a chance to win a Needle Mag. If you haven’t poked around and been pricked by Needle yet, what’s wrong with you? This contest would be a good chance for you to get creative juices going and win a quality mag.

FFF is baaaack

Friday Flash Fiction #40 edition. It has been some time since I entered into the foray. It’s run by Cormac Brown and he says:

THIS IS A BLOG WHERE A STARTER SENTENCE IS GIVEN EVERY FRIDAY@12PM PST. YOU WILL THEN HAVE UNTIL THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY@9AM PST TO COME UP WITH SHORT STORY OR POEM. I ONLY ASK THAT YOU KEEP IT; FAIRLY NON-POLITICAL, THAT THE VIOLENCE IS NON-GRATUITOUS, THE SEX IS FAIRLY TASTEFUL, AND THAT YOU ARE RESPECTFUL OF THE OTHER WRITERS THAT POST HERE. ENJOY! IF YOU ARE STILL CONFUSED, PLEASE CLICK THIS HEADER FOR THE RULES.

Now before I get to my story, I think you should head over to Twist of Noir and check out Hilary Davidson’s story. Very, very good.

You want a song too? Ok. Mmmm.

Now my story — please feel free to share your comments.

Karma Backlash

“I heard footsteps on the wet sidewalk and the sound of keys.”

I heard an engine; I heard my dog’s collar rattle as she trotted off; I heard the exhale of smoke.

It had to end like this. Always had to end like this.

Not to get philosophical or anything, but screw it. All I know is I had dreams. Most nights I’d wake up with a metallic taste in my mouth and sweat on my upper lip. Even a corner preacher who sported a thick beard and dark coveralls told me the end was near.

That night, after hearing his words, I knew it to be true. I lost my appetite. I even had to throw my damn Gyro away, but some stupid mutt was sniffing around the trash so I gave it to her instead. Stupid four-legged creature stayed by my side ever since.

I should amend that; she stayed by my side until the very moment that I found myself lying in the gutter’s embrace, my side aching, feeding the metal grate my hemoglobin and plasma.

She was a good dog. As good as I always imagined a dog to be. This is according to the fact I never actually “owned” one myself. What a piss poor thing to say anyway. “Owning”. As if we can ever “own” a living, breathing thing.

Like, let’s say there is a God or whatever. Does God own us? If so, are we getting trained? A big cosmic newspaper to our ass in the form of a hurricane flooding our community or a fire burning down some  kid’s house? If we ain’t owned, and we can wander on down the road without ever looking back, which is fine by me, what the hell we need God for? To wear some collar that proclaims us his?

It’s strange what a man thinks when he’s about to be done with thinking forever.

I ain’t got no regrets. The life I had was fine by me. I had a good sense of intuition that saved my ass more than once. I had some girls. I finally got a dog to walk.

I knew this was coming so I settled into my routine, and gave structure to the skittish bitch. The boys knew right away I had had enough. I never had a routine, and then to have such a regimented clock, well, I think they were relieved. At the bar, I’m sure they said I was a real man. A stand up guy. Braver than most.

I heard the shoes scrape the pavement close to my head. I heard the hammer pull back. I heard a scream and a growl, or a growl and a scream, and an explosion of noise as the bullet pinged off the curb. I turned just in time to see Earl shoot my dog. The bullet entered the chest, but the blood and bone matter exited the back. My dog, she didn’t whine. She didn’t whimper. It took a few second for her to realize she was dead and to release Earl’s forearm from her mandibles.

It was just a mutt, not some fancy German Sheppard or Rottweiler or Pit Bull. It wasn’t supposed to come back. It wasn’t supposed to lay a rotten fang into human flesh, let alone the man sent to kill me.

The next shot entered below Earl’s chin, but the blood and bone matter escaped from the top of his head.

Nobody hurts my dog.

Friday Flash Fiction #33

Another five days have passed and another Friday Flash Fiction is complete. If you’re not familiar, we get a sentence on Friday and the story is due Tuesday. The starting sentence was given to us by David. And you should check out the site for the other fine contributors.

Back In the 50’s Miles Played Something New; It Still Is

“It was a shortcut that I would regret for the rest of my life.”

It was May and my beater of a Chevy barreled on down the highway toward Pittsburgh. I was going to see my girlfriend. Well, barreled may not have been the best way to describe my car chugging along. And although technically speaking Kristy broke up with me, I didn’t think it counted because I didn’t accept her “I want to be friends” death knell.

My car started acting up in the middle of the sloping hills of nowhere Virginia. The countryside was beautiful I guess. The Beech and Oak trees pushing against small farms while cows grazed in fields that shot into my vision as I rounded a corner. I suppose I could see someone wanting to have a family in a place like that: removed, quiet, simple, a place that would keep the kids safe. To me, it seemed more like a place a person would want to come and die in; I mean I could see my grandma saying “this is perfect” and then the next time I saw her she’d be a painted mannequin laying in a box.

My car was getting low on gas, and even though Slipknot pushed me on, I edged off onto the exit and headed for the Mom & Pop station. The station was a plain cinderblock building with a large front window. A Coke sign flashed next to their “2 Hotdogs a Dollar” followed by a smiley face. It was written on a poster board and hung with duct tape. I kid you not.

No one was there when I pulled in. These pumps were so old they didn’t even have the card readers so I wasn’t sure what to do. Shit, I figured, I’ll give it a go and if it’s a problem, someone will come out. I pumped and no one came out.

Inside a squat woman sat behind the counter. She had deep purple pits in her face probably from bad acne when she was growing up. Too bad too, cause she wasn’t ugly besides that. Dark hair, blue eyes, perfect little nose. Kristy always said you can know a lot about a person just by the shape of his or her nose. I thought she was crazy. Then one day we were at the mall and she pointed out this guy and asked what my first impression of him was.

“I don’t know. We’ve never met.”

“That’s why it’s a first impression.”

“Don’t you have to meet to get an impression?”

“You believe in love at first sight?” she asked leaning into me and making me blush. I admit it. I’m an easy blusher. She would say I want you inside me and my face would light on fire.

I looked at the him. He was a completely average, nondescript guy. Slacks, shirt, tie, crew cut, name tag, a little scruff on his chin.

“I dunno. He looks like a jerk,” I say.

“So not a nice guy?” she asks. I shake my head no. “Why?” she responds.

“I dunno.”

“Look at his nose. It’s turned up just a little.”

It was.

“He could be the best guy you ever met, but the nose.” She tapped her beautifully shaped nose and smiled.

“I guess.”

I paid the woman and headed back for the interstate, but the interstate wasn’t there. I drove a mile down, then back and I could see the exit for whatever town I was in, but no ramp to get back on. I knew it had to be a bad practical joke.

When I walk back into the gas station, the woman doesn’t seem surprised at all.

“You’re looking for the interstate,” she said.

I started blushing because clearly there was something she knew and I did not which ultimately made me look like an ass right at that moment.

“There isn’t an on ramp. Only an exit.”

I looked out the window in disbelief, and I have to admit, hoping that it would magically appear.

“Happens all the time. There’s a sign, but people miss it or have to get off for the gas. Here,” she says pulling out a photocopied map of roads through town that would get me back on.

“Oh, thanks,” I said. “Who does that? Puts and exit without and entrance?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “You want a hotdog?”

“I have somewhere I have to be.” I imagined Kristy out with her friends and newly free of me, of us. They are egging her on to go to this club or that party. I imagined other men sliding up to her with false smiles and beautiful eyes. My stomach was a ball of dirt.

She looked out the window then turned back to me saying, “There’s a shortcut.”

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

She started writing directions on the photocopied map. It seemed silly they wouldn’t just put the shortcut on there in the first place.

Back in my car, I followed the map closely. The sparse houses came closer and closer together and soon I was passing stereotypical named neighborhoods: Red River, Foxborough, Blue Haven. At least the outskirts had some character, but here it was the exactly like suburbs where Kristy and I met, kissed, snuck off to screw in our respective basements while our parents were working.

When my car jerked and sputtered, my stomach followed suit. It chugged again. Popped a bit and I glided it roadside. I sat there for a minute, mind racing, and tried to crank it again. Nothing. Not even a grumble. First my girlfriend and now this, I thought. How could I show her I loved her and we belonged together if I couldn’t even get to her? Hitting the steering seemed like the only thing I could do, but that only left me with a throbbing palm.

I got out and felt the sun on my face. It was warming up. I opened the hood and stood there staring down at the Chevy’s innards as if I knew what I was looking at. It was a dead carcass for all I was concerned and I wasn’t Jesus.

So I trotted off toward the closest street, Plum Rd. Houses lined the streets and a few cars squatted in the driveways. The first house had two black men sweating in the sun in front of it. One man mixed and wheel burrowed mortar while the other layed brick upon brick, his belly sweat soaking his T-shirt while he finished what looked to be a mailbox. I figured one of them had a cell or the owner would let me use her phone to get a tow.

As I got closer, I could hear his whistle stealing the silence. It was Miles Davis’ “Kind of Blue” and it was fantastic. It was the type of talent that immediately makes a person want to learn how to do it. Passion counted for something and he made tune sound like springtime itself. Kristy would have loved it.

“Hey,” I said interrupting his melody.

“Hey.” His voice was deep and his eyes were gentle.

“You have a phone? My car died and I need a tow,” I said pointing to the road. His eyes followed my finger but the car was just around the corner.

“Yeah, yeah, my man. I have ya’ back,” he said reaching into his pocket and handing his phone to me.

I called AAA, something my mom forced me to get when I started driving, and handed his phone back.

“Thanks,” I said. “I can’t believe this happened.”

“Such is life.”

“I guess it could’ve been worse, I could’ve been stuck on the interstate.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said wiping the sweat from his forehead. “So you just passin’ through?”

“Heading to see my girlfriend. Well,” I started then trailed off. His booming laughter caught me off guard.

“Oh I knows those ‘wells’ too good, my man. Where this girl at?”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Where you from?”

“Georgia.”

The man nodded, laughed to himself, and grabbed a cigarette from his pants’ pocket. “Usually them girls ain’t worth it.”

“Mine is,” I said all too quickly.  He didn’t know Kristy, or me, so I didn’t feel like hearing his advice.

He lit the cigarette and took a deep inhale. “Can I tell you sum’thin’ my daddy tole’ me a long time ago?”

I looked down the street. I didn’t want to listen but it was better than sitting in my dead car. “Sure.”

“There are no more stories, my man, not like we used to hear anyways. No beginnings, middles, ends. A young man doesn’t have to be afraid of change.”

Interrupting him, I turned my gaze back on his soft features. “I’m not afraid of change.”

He nodded and took another drag on the cigarette. “I didn’t say you were, my man. You ever see dem chairs made sticks?”

“Yeah.”

“And people say, don’t sit on ‘em cause they afraid it break under your weight.”

“Yeah.”

“You ever wonder why they make that chair if they afraid it will break as soon as a man sits in it?”

I looked at his partner sitting in the shade. He was a scrawny man with tight muscles who seemed too slight to do the work he did and he seemed glad for the break.

“That ain’t a righteous fear,” he continues. “You hear me, my man?”

The simple things with Kristy kept pushing into my mind so it was hard to concentrate: the finger dances we had when sitting in the dark movie theatres; the way she would turn toward me, hair falling across the side of her face, eyes smiling; the way her  chap stick smelled when we kissed.

“Fear is thinking a story falls into a place where it can’t rise up again. A righteous fear is the lack of meaning, and maybe this girl of yours ain’t your meaning.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Thanks for letting me use your phone. The truck should be here soon.”

A broad smile appeared on his face and he threw his cigarette butt into the street.

“No problem, my man,” he said, then coaxed the scrawny man up from his break, “Yo Perry, let’s git.”

As I turned to walk back to my car, I heard him break into song again. It was a simple tune, something Kristy would’ve fell in love with. The melody diminished with each step toward my hulking car, until I was left with nothing but the sound of my own syncopated breath and the tow truck rumbling to save me.

BTAP Rolls It Out

One thing that always frustrated me about books is that everyone I know would read a book, recommend it to me, but by the time I finished they were on to the next read. Or I rec something because I want to talk about it, and when they’re ready to discuss it I forgot the cool little complexities and details that excited me (I’m a bad memory dork that way).

One of the many reasons I love film is because it is communal. Getting lost in a story for two hours then immediately being able to discuss it with others is fantastic. Themes, characters, plot twists, and more technical stuff like lighting or editing and how it added (or not) to the story can be explored right away while it’s vivid in the mind.

A few days ago, I committed myself to write this story for Cormac Brown’s Friday Flash Fiction and did my usual thing — put it off. Usually when I put something off long enough, I’ll get a brainstorm and I’m good to go. This time not so much. I started to surf the great wide inter-tubes for inspiration and ended up at BTAP where I expected a story but found a wonderful short film One Good Turn instead.

The writing gods must be smiling since the starter sentence for this week’s Friday Flash Fiction challenge is: “It was a shortcut that I would regret for the rest of my life.”

If I were witty I make a quip about driving and turns and stalled writing, but I’ll leave that to the dude’s like @steveweddle, @matthewjmcbride, @johnhorner, @dboshea and so many others who are actually good at it.

Go check out the film and let’s talk — though I may be a little late to the discussion — I have some ideas for a story I need to get down.

A Lot Going On

Cormac Brown has a fantastic write up of the premier issue of Dark Valentine. He lays out some of the contributors, artists, and shares some of the themes of the magazine which can be found in PDF here.

While your checking out magazines, try a little poetry to go along with the fiction and artwork. Gerald So is one of the editors of The Line Up a magazine of crime poetry which has featured writers like Patricia Abbott, Sandra Seamans, Michael A. Flanagan, and others. Really interesting stuff there so go get some poe-try on.

Over at Twist of Noir, Cris Benton’s story,  is well worth the time to read.

Paul D. Brazil turned me on to Fiction Daily which bills itself as finding “good stuff to read in places you wouldn’t normally look”.

MediaVirus Magazine is another source for some really cool reads. Clearly the intertubes are a problem, because I’d do nothing but sit around and read if I could.

Hell Hole is Chris Grabenstein’s fourth mystery novel and Jen Forbus reviewed it for us at her site, Jen’s Book Thoughts.

Can someone please tell me why it takes so damn long to get Huraki Murakami’s new book, 1Q94, in English. It won’t be out until September 2011.

Flash Magazine is accepting submissions for its October issue while 977, which used to be nothing but flash is now up and accepts short stories as well.

If you have a crime novel manuscript sitting on your desk and you’re not sure what to do with it, perhaps you want to submit it to The New Pulp Press for review.