May 17 2013

Peer Pressure Isn’t Always Bad

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My first YA book, “Into Darkness Peering” hit the shelves on May the 15th.  I have been asked one question more than any others.  What was your inspiration when writing this book?

There are many interesting and fabulous answers to questions like these when people talk to authors.  Mine will not be one of them.  I’ve been writing for many years, somewhere along the lines of 25 years, and never once in all that time did I have the urge to write a Young Adult novel.  When I was a young adult myself, those sorts of novels weren’t really a genre.  You had Judy Blume and that was pretty much it.  At any rate, I had no interest.

My best friend of many, many years reads only YA or the old fashioned regencies where dancing the waltz twice is considered risque.  I kept refusing.  I didn’t want to do that.  I didn’t want to think like a teenager again.  I didn’t want to work out of memories.  Didn’t want any of that.

Finally, she bugged me so much, for so many years, that I caved.  Basically, my inspiration for this book was getting my BFF to shut her pie hole.

I figured that it would never see the light of day.  I was writing it for her and no other purpose.  Which might have seemed like a lot of work for the whims of a friend, but actually I’ve been writing books for friends for years.  In high school I would write books for my friends as Christmas presents, staring them and their crushes in modified character form.  So this was just another case of, hey, this one is for you.

I figured I hadn’t seen that many wizards aside from Harry Potter, this was approximately 2006 or 2007, and I would just pull out a wizard and go to town.  It didn’t much matter to me what the story was about, since my motivation for writing the book was lame.  I decided to go for a hero wizard and a girl who was just a normal human landed in a weird situation.

But as I started debating what I was going to write about, an interesting phenomenon began to happen.  These characters were chatty.  Much more so than the others I’d been writing since I’d gotten out of my 20s.  It was just a constant stream of information.  The heroine, Voirey, let it be known that, in fact, SHE was the wizard, not the hero.  That wasn’t something I’d expected and I wasn’t sure what to do with that.  Then Griffin, the hero, gave me a surprise announcement of his own and it was something I very much did not want to hear.  I won’t say what it was because it’s a pivotal surprise in the story, but it wasn’t something I was cool with.  I argued, but he was insistent this fact was true.

Now, this may sound like I have a special brand of the crazy, unless of course, you’re another writer in which case it sounds like every third Tuesday, but it really isn’t that nuts.  Characters talking to me is how I write every story.

Armed with this new information about Voirey and Griffin, I went to work.  And I worked, and worked, and worked, and worked.  This book is approximately 75 thousand words, maybe on the downside to eighty.  It took me 10 days to write this book.  Ten.  Days. It was a nightmare of fevered typing that never stopped unless I simply had no choice.  I rarely ate, I didn’t shower (don’t judge me), I barely paid any attention to my family at all.  The characters never shut up.  It was a constant stream of very clear information.  I would stumble into bed at two or three in the morning and pull myself out at six and start all over again.  It was like being possessed.

It’s not an experience I ever want to have again, but it was definitely unique.  These were some people who had a very clear and very defined story to tell and I just happened to be the person lucky enough to come along and be able to tell it.

It was the beginning of my new career since, as opposed to what I thought, writing YA was a total joy and it invigorated my love for writing, which had faded to the every-day drudgery of a 25 year career writing veteran.

I thought this book would go nowhere and I began the process under duress.  But these characters became my favorite ever and this series is very close to my heart.  I love these people in the Soulguard world.  Every one of them.  I hope all of you enjoy them too.

 

Amber

 

Feb 19 2013

Our First Ever Interview

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~Sorry guys, I don’t know what the problem is here, but I can’t get wordpress to make spaces between these paragraphs.  So I hope this isn’t too hard for you all to read.
~I was contacted by a fellow LDS writer and asked to do an interview for her site.  A lightbulb came on and I realized I have never done an interview.  So, all for you, here’s my very first interview on this site, one with CK Abbott author of LDS fiction and non-fiction both.
~1. What made you start writing for the LDS audience?
It’s hard for me to separate non-church life from church life because they’re so one-and-the-same in my world. I felt that I could express myself more wholly to an LDS audience.
~2. Do you think there is any subject matter that is off-limits to LDS authors?
If I did at one point, I don’t think so anymore, at least in regards to topics. We all live in “the real world” and deal with the same problems. As far as content, however, I think it’s wise to stick to PG standards. You don’t want your Beehives picking up your book and learning new four-letter words.
~3. How would you write differently if you were writing for a general audience?
I don’t write differently for general audiences than for LDS audiences, except that I avoid using LDS terms that might be confusing: wards, Fast Sunday, linger longer (although this last one has potential for general audience comedy). With the big intro to Mormonism our country has gone through during the last two presidential elections, I think it might be time for LDS lit to become a general audience niche genre, like Jewish historical fiction or Christian science fiction.
~4. Do you write from an outline? Or do you start writing and see where the story takes you? Or some other method?
In the past, I haven’t written fiction from outlines, but I think I’m going to start. I read a book recently called The Writer’s Compass by Nancy Ellen Dodd, and she talks about drawing a story map with the ups and downs of the conflict and then the resolution. I think a story map will help me to keep the tension high and prevent the story from meandering.
~5. Do you think independent publishing will change LDS literature? If yes, how?
Definitely. I remember when Deseret Book rejected a book by Richard Paul Evans because of questionable content. They’ve really been the gatekeepers for LDS fiction. There are a few other small LDS presses, but they’re not well-funded, and they try to stick with tried-and-true authors because their profit margins are so small. With indie publishing, LDS readers will have all kinds of options, and I imagine there will be many more authors willing to put their work out there.
~~I love the idea of having all kinds of options!  And I have to say, I love indie books more every day.  Check C.K. Abbott out and see what you think.
Amber
Jan 17 2013

One Lovely Blog Award

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I was tagged by author Wendy Knight in the One Lovely Blog Award.

For this blog hop, all you do is list seven random facts about yourself.  This works out okay for me because it requires only minimal brain power.  Just the way I like it.

1.  Anything adhesive makes me sick.  When people put stickers on their clothes or put tape on their fingers it’s seriously barftastic to me.  The reason for this?  I don’t know.  I wasn’t molested by tape as a child.  I suspect I’m just insane.

2. My father was in the Air Force.  I don’t have a hometown.  I’m not from anywhere.  I was raised a modern gypsy.  I’m kind of confused by and slightly jealous of people who were born and raised in the same town.  Or even the same house.

3. I don’t understand reality television.  Like, seriously.  At all.  I don’t understand what the point is.  I don’t understand the appeal.  I don’t even understand the reasoning behind them.  Which makes television pretty much pointless for me in this day and age haha.

4.  I’m just obsessed with Russian history.  I’ve read many long texts on Russian revolutions, tsarist history, murders, social climates, anything.  I’m not Russian, at all, in case you think there’s some attempts at ancestral connection in this.   It’s completely random.

5.  I’m absolutely AWFUL in conversation.  I do okay online or in texting etc.  But in face to face conversations I’m awkward and painfully ridiculous.  I’m sure half the people at church think I’m kind of brain damaged.  Church seems to be the worst because I really don’t know them but I’m still required to converse.  It really isn’t pretty.  Really.  At all.  I usually just end up blurting out something that’s apropos to nothing, laughing like a lunatic and running away while they’re still in the middle of their response.

6.  Everyone in my family communicates largely in movie quotes and inside jokes.  Probably further cementing the idea from the outside that we’re completely stupid or completely bizarre.

7.  I love lizards.  I think they’re adorable.  When I was in elementary school I caught one and its tail jerked off.  Talk about traumatic.  I had no idea that’s normal.  I never tried to grab another lizard again after that.  But I still think they’re really cute.

Now that you know more about me than you ever wanted to know, go check out these bloggers!

Ansha Koytk

Lucinda Whitney

and

Rebecca Lamoreaux

 

 

Dec 31 2012

And We’re Even Contiguous

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I’ve noticed a lot of talk lately on Facebook about New Mexico being a mystery to the rest of the world.

I’ve noticed this before.

Over and over.

I’ve lived in New Mexico on and off almost my entire life.  So when I moved to Colorado in 1989 it was from Albuquerque.  And the thing I got asked the most was, “Why are your bangs so big?”  But that’s another blog.  The second most common question was, “Do you have a green card?”

I was also told I spoke English remarkably well, which typically wasn’t true of the person telling me that.  Not that they spoke another language better. They just didn’t speak English well.  Maybe I could accept this bizarre confusion about New Mexico being part of the contiguous united states if they lived somewhere like Ohio, where New Mexico is foreign enough to seem as though it were a country by itself.  But this is Colorado.  Your state actually touches ours.   And not coyly, like someone who cops a feel in an elevator.  Colorado is all up in our grill.

I mean, haven’t these people ever heard of Four Corners?  It’s a big metal plate in the ground.  You can take lots of pictures and get Indian Tacos.  You’ve really never heard of this?  Not knowing the state right next to yours is a state requires a special kind of ignorance.  I’m just saying.

What I’ve noticed the most is that people just somehow don’t hear the New part when I say I’m from New Mexico.  Or they do hear it but for some reason disregard it.  Like New is a cute little nickname we give to our part of Mexico.  “Oh, that New Mexico, he’s so crazy.”   Or maybe New is just a moniker we’ve given ourselves in a bizarre marketing attempt to seem more appealing.  And when we just give in and switch back to Old Mexico, people will be so relieved.

I was driving to Missouri to attend a graduation once and I was in the bathroom of a McDonald’s in Shamrock, Texas.  The sinks were shaped like the state of Texas.  And no, I’m not making that up.  Because if there’s anything that Texans like more than firearms and heavily stylized folk artsy stars, it’s things shaped like their state.  There was a very perky blonde woman in there, washing her hands.  In fact, there was an army of perky blondes in there.  Like Stepford Wives were taking a field trip.  But somehow she found out I was from New Mexico and told me she and her friends were going to a camp in Rhema, New Mexico.

Then she told me, enthusiastically, that she’d never been to Mexico before.  In fact, she’d never even been out of the country.  She was so excited I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she still wasn’t going to be doing either.  Also, I was little afraid of her and what would happen if she and her fellow mom-droids lost their composure.

So, I’m wondering where New Mexico disappears to.   I’m wondering how we got lost off the map for everyone who isn’t currently living here or has lived here before.  We’re like the missing state.  Somehow no one realizes we’re here.  Which could be good or bad, I guess.  At least we don’t have any New Mexico shaped sinks in our bathrooms.

Amber

Oct 22 2012

The Power of ‘What if?’

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The other day I was trolling the internet for crime stories because, as aforementioned, that’s how I roll (really creepily), when I came across a local New Mexico story about a woman who was being sentenced to jail time for burning down her own house.  The fact that jail is, perhaps, not the best place for a woman with these sorts of issues aside, this story is weird.  She had previously called the police numerous times to report that someone was living in her attic.  The police probably checked it out a time or two.  I’m going to give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they did.  After that, they probably started blowing her off because it’s pretty clear from her behavior that she’s a few llamas short of a petting zoo.

Anyway, after repeated attempts to get the police in on this person living above stairs, sister turned herself into the attic avenger and burned the house down.  When the police came she told them clearly that she’d done it because she was trying to kill the person who was living in the attic.  Then she made several requests of the police trying to see if she’d accomplished her task.  I closed the article thinking that prison probably isn’t the kind of lock up this lady needs and went about my business.

But I’m a writer.  And I can’t just read an interesting story and leave it alone.  After a few minutes, I thought, “What if she’s telling the truth?”  O.o

Maybe her reaction was a little crazed, but what if there really was someone living in her attic?  A friend of mine from high school sent me an article detailing a true story from Denver about a man who lived in someone else’s attic for a long time, eventually murdering one of the home owners and chasing the other away when the police refused to listen to her complaints that someone was living in her attic.  Eventually, the man living in the attic was caught, because the police accidentally decided to do their jobs, literally, it was an accident, and he died in prison in the early 1960′s.  So there’s precedence.  This has happened before.

What a story, huh?  Hapless heroine trapped in a house where she knows there’s someone with her, though everyone swears she’s wrong, even crazy.  What would cause her to make such an extreme move?

This is the kind of crap that makes me love being a writer.  The ‘what ifs’ make a writer’s world go around.

My current mystery series, Rules of Scam Mysteries, came from a ‘what if’ too.  There’s a woman, a ‘psychic’ who advertises around here.  In the form of a twenty foot picture of her rather frightening expression looming over the highway in three-D coming at you horror.  Usually,  I just cringe.  But one day, driving past, thinking oh good heaven’s it’s coming to eat me, I thought to myself, “Why would anyone think a twenty foot tall head lunging over the highway is a good idea?”

But after that, I thought, “What kind of person pretends to be a psychic?”  I make no assumptions about whether or not this woman is or isn’t psychic in reality.  My ‘what if’ was just based on the idea that a person was not psychic but was pretending to be one anyway.  I had a few ideas, most notably about con artists, and tucked the question away.

A few days later I was watching one of those nutty paranormal ‘documentary’ shows that are all over cable.  I don’t even remember which one, though I’m inclined to say it was some TLC show, and this dude was saying that he believed he was being hunted, not haunted, by a demon.  Then I thought, “What kind of person honestly believes they’re being hunted by a demon?”

I ask ‘what if’ several times on a good day so I didn’t immediately make a connection to my previous question.  But when I did it was an almost immediate story idea.  The daughter of a fake con artist psychic gets sucked into helping a guy who believes he’s being haunted by a demon.  Light bulb moment.

But I love to encourage my children to play the ‘what if’ game too.    And I would totally encourage everyone to trying playing a round at least once this week.  Because it isn’t just about writing.  Everything great starts with a ‘what if’.  What if I could stop polio?  What if I could build a nano computer?  What if I could find the cure to cancer?

And that’s power of ‘what if’.

 

Amber

Oct 3 2012

Characters Count

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I have a story to tell.  Bear with me, here.  Because for a moment it may seem like a pointless rant, but indeed, it has a point.

I’m not much of a TV watcher.  I just don’t have the concentration.  As soon as something boring happens or a commercial comes on, I’m gone.  The last time I loved a show deeply was Buffy the Vampire Slayer and that was 1996.  Although I was quite fond of Veronica Mars, it didn’t reach obsession level.  So, via Netflix, for the first time in almost 20 years I developed an obsession level love for a show.  I don’t want to give a name, because if I do the following story will contain a MAJOR spoiler.  So I’ll just say it’s a British Sci-Fi show and leave it at that.

So my love for this show was deep and devoted.  The kind of love reserved by geek boys for Star Wars.  So season three ended on a cliff hanger.  Three characters were trapped somewhere, I can’t say where or the show would likely be obvious to those in the midst of potentially watching this show.  Another two characters were left behind.  One of them ended the show by saying that she had an idea.  End of season three.

I started season four and discovered, to my absolute horror, that the entire cast had changed.  Almost everyone.  There are exactly three characters, of a large ensemble cast, that came back.  Seriously?  WTH?  I’m talking that maybe ten characters changed in the space between one season and another.  It was like a slap in the face.  I had to watch the show twice to wrap my mind around it.

And to add insult to injury, they didn’t even bother to explain what had happened to anyone else.  The girl who said she had an idea is apparently dead though it is never explained how or when she died.  The man who was lost and trapped (in a separate place than the other two lost and trapped people) is just never mentioned again.  Oh, he’s lost.  Well, never mind about him, then.  And, this didn’t bother my husband, though it really bothered me, two of the characters who were flirting, kind of teasing around a relationship…now they’re together.  I mean, like, really together.  I hate it when shows do this to me.  X-Files did the same thing.  Flirt, flirt, flirt, come back a year later and now we’re married.  What?!  What happened to the relationship?  Why am I not privy to this?  You can’t do this to me!

It’s utterly bizarre.  Now, there’s a reason why I tell this story.  Well, a reason beyond my desire to complain extensively about this.  I don’t know about you guys, but to me, characters count.  I don’t care if it’s the same plot.  If you drop in a new cast, it’s a different show.  You just spent three seasons building up a show and now you’ve dropped me into a different show.  One I have to decide if I love now.  That isn’t fair to me as a watcher, and when I read a book, if people don’t really show me a character it isn’t fair to me as a reader.

And when it comes to this man and woman I’ve been rooting for over the course of three seasons, I’ve invested myself in this relationship.  I’ve watched it develop and I’ve hoped for them.  And you’ve cheated me of my expectations by making this relationship change without letting me be privy to it.  And that isn’t fair.  As a writer, this just reminds me one more time that characters are what makes a novel work.  For me as a reader, a book has little worth, no matter how good the plot is, if I can’t bring myself to care about the action because I can’t see it through sympathetic eyes.

The secret a lot of people don’t realize when reading a book or watching a show or movie, is that you’ve unconsciously made a contract with the person who created it.  You have agreed to give your time and your emotional energy investing yourself in their story.  As a result they set forth expectations based on genre and topic.  If they don’t meet those expectations, they’ve broken the contract and you’re dissatisfied, even though you may not realize why.

Have you guys ever experienced this before?  Has a book or show ever done this to you?  Which show or book was it?  Were you able to get past it and continue enjoying or was it just the end of the end?  I’m struggling to learn to enjoy this show with a new cast, but so far it’s not easy.  It just makes me realize how much that people are really the center of the entertainment world.  If not for characters nothing would be worth watching or reading.

And then imagine how bored we’d all be.  ;)

 

Amber

Sep 7 2012

Ties that Bind, Really Weirdly

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So, I like to troll the internet for crime cases.  That’s how I roll, because I love me some crime.  Don’t take that the wrong way…

Speaking of taking crime the wrong way, I use my husband often as a source of ideas.  I like to bounce things off him at dinner.  So my husband, my mother and my three children were at dinner at a Chinese restaurant and I needed an attempted murder for an adult book, which I write under another name.  There was a rousing discussion about ways to make murder look like an accident.  My husband finally won with his suggestion of purposefully induced anaphylaxis.  I thanked and praised him and said that I would put it to good use the minute I had the chance.

It was at that point we realized the people behind us had been listening and had heard just enough to misunderstand what they were hearing and were literally discussing calling the police.  Oops.  That’s why you shouldn’t eavesdrop, you might hear something about yourself, or mistake a fictional crime for a real one.

At any rate, I read a lot about crime.  And today I picked up this little gem.  Out of respect for the people involved I’m going to leave out most of the information.

Five people were driving around in a car when the murderer, Timothy, got pissed, got out of the car, and started shooting.  These five lived together in a house.  All of them.  Together.  Here’s why this is weird.

Ruth M. was born in 1965.  That makes her 47.  She used to be married to Milton L., killed in this assault, who was born in 1942.  That made him around 70 when he died.  Despite being divorced, Ruth and Milton were still living in the same house.  But make no mistake that Ruth hadn’t moved on.  Because she had a new husband.  Before he was also murdered at the same time, George M. was born in 1993.  That made him approximately 19 at the time of death.

So Ruth moved on from someone 23 years her senior to someone about 18 years her junior.  And they were all living in the same house.  That had to have been awkward, all murder aside.  Also, wow.  Age is clearly just a number to this particular woman.

Also living in the house was Ruth’s daughter, Vallena T., aged 31.  The murderer in this case is Timothy H. who is married to Vallena.  Timothy also lived in the same house.  He’s 43.  So, clearly, Vallena takes after her mother in the whole ‘age is relative’ camp.

Whatever happened in this case to drive a man to kill his fathers-in-law (x2), it no doubt happened while they were all living together in the same house.  Can you imagine?  Yikes.  Families are enough of a pain when they make sense.  When you start piling people up in the same place with years of twisted history, someone is going to end up shot.  The moral of the story is…I don’t know, actually.  Maybe the last sentence.  Don’t live with a bunch of people all interrelated in not the best way.  Also, I’m totally going to find a way to use this kind of situation in a story.

Also, real life is much weirder than fiction is ever allowed to be.  Also, I’m dying to know what made this man so angry that he started shooting.  Also, I want some Chinese.

Amber

Jun 24 2012

Poe–etry

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Okay, so contest is over and, as it happened, I didn’t use any of the options given.  Though they’re all very good.  I found a lot of titles I’d like to use for other books but not one that fit Some Strange Magic to me.  So, I spent about three long and boring hours looking through the internet quote engines for quotes about death, darkness, or something else dreary and morbid.

So eventually I came across this quote from Edgar Allan Poe–

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.”

I was pretty sure it was the one immediately.   But first I had to run it by my trusted critique partner Sabrina Darby and my friend, the fabulous Darynda Jones who first pointed out that my title sucked.

It met with approval so the book formally known as ‘Some Strange Magic’ has now been retitled ‘Into Darkness Peering.’  I appreciate all of the ideas and thanks again for offering them and for playing in our very first contest.

Because I didn’t use any of the ideas given here I just put all the offerings into a random name generator and, no doubt on account of her large number of offerings, Jessica Blakely is the winner.

Thanks again for the help!

 

Amber

Jun 15 2012

Our Very First Contest!

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I’ve said it before and some day I’ll say it again.  But I’m not a big fan of contests.  So I neither enter them typically, nor have them.  But the time has finally come in to break in this bad boy and have a contest up in here, yo.  (I know that you envy my urban edge.  But some people have it and some people don’t.)

So here’s the deal.  I have this book.  It’s a young adult urban fantasy and it needs a name.  I am like abysmally bad at titles.  Bad.  Bad.  Bad.  And not like the Michael Jackson song.  Just terrible.  Currently the book is titled, “Some Strange Magic.”

However, I’ve been told explicitly that the title pretty much sucks.  And that it doesn’t fit the story at all.  So it’s back to the drawing board for this lady.  But the drawing board is filled with titles that aren’t any better than this one.  So it’s time to make a plea for assistance.

I am looking for something that fits the tone of the story which is dark and mysterious.  This isn’t a cheerful story boys and girls.  And, actually, it’s the lightest book of all five.  Good times are ahead!  At any rate I’d like a title that addresses one or more of the themes in the book.  Becoming or transforming.  Not as a shifter or anything like that.  But going through a process of change.  Other themes are the death of a parent, magic, the duality of things that are both good and evil at the same time,  forbidden romance, and demons.

Here’s the current description.

What if everything you knew about the world barely scratched the surface of reality?  What if there were thousands of people living, and dying, to protect the truth?  What if you were destined to be one of them?

When her father died, leaving behind nothing but chaos and a secluded Gothic inn, seventeen-year-old Voirey Cruz lost control of her life and her faith in anything.  Her search for answers about her father’s mysterious behavior and sudden death thrusts her into a world of evil doppelgangers intent on destroying everything she has left.

If she believed in magic, she’d bring her father back from the dead.  If she believed in heroes, they wouldn’t be punk boys with guyliner, tattoos, and a lip piercing.  But if she doesn’t start believing in demons, she might not make it to eighteen.

 

 

So I’m looking for multiple ideas.  The more the better.  And I’d love something with texture and a kind of a poetry.  The inventor of the title I chose will get a twenty dollar Amazon gift card.  Because I love you like that.  Feel free to offer as many suggestions as you like.  Because frankly, I need help.  And on Friday the 29th I’ll close the contest and pick a title.  If all y’all’s titles are no better than mine I’ll just pick one at random and send a card your way.  Spread the word peeps.  Let’s name this baby.

Amber

Jun 14 2012

Silence Never Sleeps

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Annnnnnd it’s been another six months since I posted.  I really, really, really am not a good blogger.  But here’s the deal.  I’m going to try my really awesome pinky swear cross my heart and hope to die best to post at least once a week from now on.  But I still refuse to participate in that whole Twitter business.

So anyway, what I want to do today has nothing to do with my writing career, but it is fun and I want to see it in a full body form.  Some friends of mine over at myfitnesspal.com have started this round robin story and I’m just dying to see it in text form rather than little bits at a time.  So I’m just going to post up here for all the participants to see.  Feel free to ignore this post if you’re not from myfitnesspal lol.  Then again, feel free to add another line, if you’d like.

So, courtesy of Big Aug, here is the comedy/mystery/horror story ‘Silence Never Sleeps.’  By, the way, I also named the hero James.  Just because he needed a name mkay. lol.

 

 

 

Stunned by the mechanic’s ridiculous statement, “I couldn’t repair your brakes, so I made your horn louder.”  James thought he mistakenly heard him at first, when the mechanic handed him his keys and a bill for $1500.00

As a matter of fact, the entire repair shop had a lackadaisical air about it; everywhere he looked, he saw employees goofing off, playing computer games, texting, talking on the phone.

Maybe it’s a good thing the brakes weren’t repaired, he thought as he got into his car. Smiling to himself, he started the engine, and slowly backed out of the garage. He turned to car to face the shop, made sure the mechanic saw him, and, just to be sure, blew the horn.

The horn was still blaring it’s low, foghorn note as they pulled the demolished car from the office of the shop…

When the car was pulled out , suddenly a mysterious crate tumbled from the attic.

The end broke open and a long, low moan came from inside.

From the crate floated an amazing stench. The mechanic peered into the opening and quickly looked away in disgust at what he saw. A single hand reached for him as he back away. The hand walked as if followed by a body but nothing was there only the remains of what looked like a grisly murder. Above the knuckles of the hand. the words “Silence never Sleeps” was carved…

James jumped awake into a sitting position.  Sticky with sweet, breath slowly returning to normal. Looking out to the sunny day, he could see his car parked in the usually spot, an old cat enjoying the sun on the trunk.
The dream had never reviled the words, “Silence Never Sleeps” .  It always stopped what the thud of the crate and an eerie moan.

What was this new message? Where was his family?

“Silence never sleeps” and he never would either if this terror continued to repeat itself in his dreams. Or was it a memory…. Where is my family?

Family was the one thing that he wanted all of his life. He came from an abusive home. His father was an alcoholic whose favorite past time was teaching the kids how to knuckle fight and his mother disappeared in the evenings for a reason that he never knew until he became a cop for the NYPD and happened upon her file as his perused the daily list of active hookers a year after he joined the force.

He then found a loving wife who gave him everything that he wanted. But where were they. His morning routine was: wake up-get dressed-wake his wife up and get the kids up then go to work, but no one was home. He searched the house. At first walking to every room, then running back and forth from floor to floor until he came to the bathroom. The shower was running and his wife’s favorite cd from Queen’s Reich was playing. He liked to reach in and hug her and feel her soft skin but this time he stopped in his tracks when he saw writing on the mirror…

In scraggly handwriting, reminiscent of a second grader’s efforts, were the words, “the Langston crew”. At first thinking this was written in his wife’s lipstick, he leaned in closer to the mirror and sniffed. “Some sort of paint”, he mused. Suddenly, he realized why that smell was familiar. He turned and bounded down the hall and took the stairs two by two, through the kitchen to the basement. He slid back the deadbolt, and opened the door to the dark, musty odor of basement.

Switching on the light, he made his way down the stairs and over to the metal cabinets in the corner. Looking for can of paint he used on his daughter’s swing last year, he found it had been opened and the lid was gone. “What the heck is going on here?” Turning, he noticed the small casement window had a broken pane. Walking over to investigate further, he noticed traces of what looked like dried blood on the window sill.

Looking out window is didn’t see anything unusual. What he didn’t see was what usually sat in front of this window. His garbage cans. They were lying scattered across his driveway. The bags inside lay unopened. The handles of the cans had blood on them and there were further drops forming an ant’s path around each one. It was like the intruder didn’t know what to do once he escaped the house. James looked around the window opening more and found a piece of cloth that appeared to be flannel.

The pattern was the same as his favorite shirt that he hadn’t seen in ages since his wife mysteriously lost it in the laundry. Where had it been and why was this cloth here now? He then looked down and realized that he was wearing this same shirt. He took it off to look at the back of it. There was a hole that exactly fit the piece of cloth that he had found. He touched the hole not yet believing what he was seeing and noticed a cut that formed the letter S on the back of his hand. He examined himself further in a mirror and realized that he was wearing a black t-shirt. The design on the front was a large smiling skull with bright red eyes and below it said “Kill or be Killed”. On the back were the words Langston Crew in the same hand writing that he saw in the bathroom…

He felt suddenly light headed and queasy, but just as suddenly the feeling vanished when he heard multiple sirens converging on his location.

 

Running up the steps, he had a strong feeling of deja vu. The smells– the sudden taste of blood in his mouth–the sound of approaching police cars–everything down to the light beaming through the windows down on him at their exact angle were all familiar. He looked out the window through the front door. Two people were sitting with their legs crossed leaning against the white railing of the front porch. This would not have bothered him except for the trail of red that lead from the back of the adult’s neck to the porch. This was emphasized by the trail of the same red that seeped into a crack in the porch behind her and the lackadaisical way the child’s head leaned to the side.

He stood in the front room and screamed. There was a revolver on the stand by the door which he reached for then noticed the porch steps were empty. He curled into a ball by the door and tried to control his shaking hands and his nerves.
“What the hell is happening to me?, he cried through agonizing tears…

 

duh, duh, duh…

When I see more from my myfitnesspal peeps, I will add it here.  See, isn’t it better to read it like this?  So much more cohesive.

Amber