#FictionFriday A Real Eye Opener
A Real Eye Opener
On the footrest, his grandpa’s feet were pointing up like black rabbit ears, so Bobby knew the faded, dull orange La-Z-Boy was fully reclined, even before he came fully around the corner. Approaching the living room, he slowed to a tiptoe. He wanted to give the old guy a little scare, something his grandpa loved to do to him—pay backs are a rare opportunity not to be squandered.
Grinning and slinking across the hardboards, he kicked a pop can, sending caramel-colored liquid spinning around the floor. The aluminum can came to a stop under the coffee table.
Confused and worried he was in trouble, he called off the surprise attack. “Grandpa, you dropped your pop!”
The man’s frail arm was extended like a hairy diving board, out over the armrest, which was faded down to the foam padding in a long oval shape.
The old man, staring at the TV that wasn’t even on, didn’t answer.
Bobby leaned closer to repeat himself. The man’s eyes were sunken deep into wrinkled skin, centered under nests of gray hair. His mouth was hanging open, but he wasn’t snoring. Bobby tried to rouse him. “Grandpa, wake up!”
He gently shook his shoulder and it didn’t feel right. Instead of being soft, the flesh was hard. The boy screamed.
Bobby spent the remainder of the afternoon huddled in a corner, behind a large table lamp watching the medics package his grandpa up and wheel him out of the house. He loved his grandpa very much and felt guilty for scaring him to death. He didn’t dare tell his mom and dad how he felt because he wasn’t sure what they would do if they discovered he was responsible.
By nightfall, he decided to hop on his bike and visit one of his friends.
*
Two days later, his mom announced that that is was time for the visitation. Bobby, being the grown up little 10-year-old man that he was, wore a black suit and navy blue tie, one tiny wrist adorned with his grandfather’s huge golden wristwatch.
When they entered the funeral home, two things struck Bobby: everyone was quiet and he felt sick to his stomach. A slender man in a charcoal suit smiled politely and motioned them to the front.
As they made their way up the isle, many people hugged his mom, offering their condolences. People Bobby didn’t know were pressing their warm bodies against him, telling him it would be okay and to be brave. The sympathy of distant relatives—strangers really—didn’t help.
Bobby had killed his grandpa, how would a hug help?
The space between the front row of chairs and the casket was like a massive canyon. A canyon filled with flowers that instead of being bright and happy, more closely resembled coiled vipers waiting to sink their poison in anyone that crossed the chasm.
However, the casket loomed just ten feet away and his grandpa was in their waiting for him.
His mom wanted him to say goodbye, but said he didn’t have to if he was uncomfortable.
Bobby didn’t want to so his dad found him a seat while his mom went up to pay her respects.
When she returned, her eyes were all red again and she was sobbing into his dad’s chest. She sniffled and hugged bobby after she was done.
“Mom, I think I want to say goodbye to grandpa.” He couldn’t believe he was changing his mind, but the feeling was overwhelming. He couldn’t imagine never seeing him again. How bad could it be?
His mom’s brother, a large round man with bushy red hair sitting next to them offered to escort him up to see his grandfather.
The many flowers were arranged like a tunnel, leading up to the casket. Bobby made his way up to the front, taking a deep breath as he ran his hand along the highly polished wood. Ivory satin, puffy like pillows, covered the inside of the open lid.
He stared at the soft fabric until he was ready to look down.
His shoulders sagged as relief washed over him. He didn’t look that bad. A nice gray suit and red tie, hand folded neatly over his stomach. The stubble from his checks was neatly shaved away; even the shaggy brows were trimmed.
His closed eyes made him look as if he were sleeping.
A tear ran down Bobby’s face. It was his grandpa for sure, but somehow, just the same, it wasn’t quite him. It was almost him. As he took a deep breath, the familiar fragrance of his grandpa’s aftershave and cologne drifted up from the bed.
“Why are his eyes closed, Uncle Tom?”
“It makes him look peaceful, don’t you think?”
Bobby shrugged.
“Besides,” his chubby uncle leaned in real close, whispering in his ear. “If you look into a dead person’s eyes, they can take you down with them!”
Bobby gasped and ran back to his mom as fast as he could. Upon hearing the news, his mom scowled at her brother and cuddled her son while cried.
“Is that true, mom?”
“Of course not, that’s just an old wives’ tale.” She stroked his hair. “Don’t listen to your uncle.”
But Bobby peaked out from under his mom’s arm, staring at the open casket. He wasn’t convinced and he didn’t know why. He was terrified, yet wanted to know for sure.
Bobby slipped away from his mother and mustered the courage to approach the casket. The boy stared at the eyelids.
“You there, grandpa?” he whispered, looking back at his parents. They were busy chatting with people he didn’t know.
He reached his tiny hand up to his grandpa’s eyes, his fingers trembling. He touched one eye and quickly pulled away. It was cold and hard. Glancing back again, but no one had still noticed his absence.
He fingered one eyelid and pushed upward on the skin, shriveling it a bit, but the eye remained closed. What am I doing up here?
Desperate to flee, but instead he found himself tugging on the eyelid. It would not open. He was about to give up when he heard a small pop. Heart thudding, he saw one edge had lifted slightly. There was a thick bead of something clear under the edge of the eye, reminding him of glue.
Gross.
Using two fingers, he peeled the eyelid back until it flipped open. One hazel eye was staring up at the ceiling. Bobby jumped back, knocking into some tall flowers on a tripod. He caught the greenery before it crashed to the ground.
Bobby leaned over the edge of the casket, staring at the single open eye. It was glazed over and cloudy, but he could tell it was his grandpa. He reached for the other eye, knowing it would be difficult to get the mortician’s adhesive unstuck.
He managed to peel it back much more easily this time. It rolled open slowly like opening a can of sardines.
“Hi, Grandpa!” He cried, looking down at his beloved friend.
The cadaver continued to gaze at the ceiling.
“Sorry if I scared you,” he sniffled.
The frozen eyes suddenly shifted down to met Bobby’s stare. He yelped, stumbling forward sending his hands onto his grandpa’s chest.
He tried to pull out of the casket but his efforts only seemed to drown him deeper into the coffin. Horrified, he watched the mouth rip open, snapping hidden black threads that tore the lips into worm-like ribbons.
Grandpa’s old wrinkled hands slithered around the boy’s throat and squeezed.
Bobby screamed but the fingers pressing into his neck cut off his cry.
He tried to wiggle out of the cushion box.
His grandpa’s grinning mouth stretched open and flashed before Bobby’s eyes, revealing huge fangs, as the casket lid fell closed with a muffled thud.
Erik Gustafson
Word count 1310
Guest blog: Emily Guido
The author, Emily Guido will be having a Grand Giveaway that runs through-out the tour. There will be three (3) winners and one (1) lucky winner will win a $50 Amazon Gift Card, a Signed Charmeine Bookmark, and free Charmeine eBook! The other two (2) winners will receive a $25 Amazon Gift Card, Signed Bookmark and free Charmeine eBook! The giveaway is US and International and runs until May 7th.
Click here to enter!
How “Charmeine” lived?
Author of “Charmeine” the First Novel in “The Light-Bearer Series”
By Emily Guido
Being a Brand Spanking New Indie Author can have you running around in circles! However, when I wrote “Charmeine” I sat down with this movie going in my head and typed. I typed for a week straight staying up at one point, past 48 hours! I looked down at the word count and it was 100,000 K plus. I asked my husband who was a little taken aback at the demon sitting at the kitchen table tying away on my laptop, “How many words are in a novel?” He went to his computer and said, “Oh Emily… honey you have a novel!” By the time I was really finish with “Charmeine,” I was at 130,000 K plus.
When I pressed the ‘enter’ button on my laptop to send my file of “Charmeine” to Amazon, I had a lot of turmoil before that! Some things are better left unsaid, but you have to hear this story, it is just hilarious!
This novel, “Charmeine” I had no idea what to do with was done before Christmas 2011 and my family, not knowing what to get me, bought me three books on how to get a publisher! So being the good student that I am… (Oh forgot to tell you, I work full time at a College in Campus Life and Student Development and go to MBA school full time. I just got my BA in Business Administration in September of 2011.) I reached for my laptop and sent out over 70 something submissions to Paranormal Romance Publishers! Of which, maybe 10 wrote back and said, “Sorry…” you know.
Oh there was an Agent that wanted to publish “Charmeine,” but I would have to pay $3000 to $7000 depending on the launch I wanted to take… no way in Heaven or Earth could I afford that! I had no idea what I was getting into until I dived into the icy abyss of rejection.
So, I wrote this amazing, fun and heart-wrenching novel, and I was depressed as Hell! My head was spinning and my blood ran like ice through my veins thinking that “Charmeine” was dead before she lived! With a BIG glass of wine crying at dinner with my two gal pals, I lamented. One of my gal pals said, “Emily, you should publish “Charmeine” yourself as an eBook on Amazon.” I was so foggy with a wine-induced coma that I didn’t really think any more about it.
Later that night, at two o’clock in the morning, I wrote to an author I love! I asked her how in the Hell did she ever make it? I just knew the email was going into cyberspace never to get a response. I went to bed mourning “Charmeine” … Mary Shelley in Frankenstein was right on my mind, my creation was dead and it hurts to deal with that pain! My two star-crossed lovers, Charmeine and Tabbruis would not live and it physically pained me because I love those two kids:
When I awoke with a massive, torrential storm going on in my head, I went to my laptop to do some homework I had been avoiding. I saw the email from her! I yelled at my husband and we both sat with wide eyes reading her email! She was so awesome that I started to cry. She was giving me, an insignificant no one, a ton of great advice!
The fur started to fly and “Charmeine” and “The Light-Bearer Series” U.S. Copyright; a Royalty paid book cover, ISBN number, “Charmeine” needed formatted in all formats (i.e. ePub, HTML, and PDF). I had to EDIT “Charmeine” to a fine point. Editing… the bane of my existence… psychological torture; correcting glaring grammar problems is just about the worst pain there is. I did my best and “Charmeine” still has editing problems! Thanks be to God for Carly and Kristina my lovely and talented Beta Readers! They read “Charmeine” and thought it was worth working on for me! They are editing “Charmeine” and my second novel “Ransom” for me with a fine point!
Not knowing the tough road and uphill battle there was still in front of me; “Charmeine” was going to be sent out there! I sent my passion, my obsession really, my novel “Charmeine” off to Amazon with a click of an “ENTER” button…
In conclusion, if there is anything I learned as a new ‘indie’ self-published writer, is to get an Author email, Author Facebook page, an Author Blog, an Author Twitter account, an Author Goodreads page, an Author Google Groups, an Author LinkedIn account… get the drift, Social Media is a MUST! You have to promote your book! Go to blogs in your genre and ask them to review your novel or feature you in some way. If I get a ‘no’ from an inquiry from a blog, go on to the next. Be good to yourself and make friends with the other Authors and Reviewers out there, you will be glad you did! There are some real ANGELS, out there!
#FridayFlash The Order of the Cat
The Order of the Cat
Gravel crunched under the wheels of the blue Saturn as it pulled away from the stop sign, turning left down another unpaved road. In the nearly empty field, a massive harvester stood motionless like a lone sentry.
“I don’t think these back roads are saving us any time.” Jessica said, her blond hair falling over her face as she texted back and forth with one of her friends.
“We’ll be fine.” The man took a long drag off a cigarette and blew the smoke sideways out a partially rolled down window. “I bet the highway is only a couple more miles down this road.”
“Whatever.”
“Well, you could look it up on the map and see.”
Lisa grunted but kept typing on her phone.
“Where is Felis?”
“What?”
“That sign said we were in Felis.”
Jessica looked out the window, as if the sign would still be there, but the cleanly cut golden fields and blue sky were all she saw. Dropping the cell between her legs, she opened the glove box to grab the map. She unfolded the pamphlet, draping it across her legs and the dashboard. “Where are we?”
“Come on, Lisa.” He slowed as they approached the town, passing a towering grain elevator, streaked with orange rust and then a dirty building with dark windows that looked like eyes. Hanging off the screen door was a dull mustard colored sign that read “Floyd’s Guns”.
From the rambling overgrown grass in front of the building, a large black cat darted out onto the road.
Lisa screamed. “Look out, Marc!”
Marc saw the black blur out of the corner of his eye and swerved. The cat vanished from view under the hood.
“Did you hit it?”
“Stupid cat.” Marc felt his heart beating. He glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing a long black lump in the road, not moving. “Nope.”
She started to turn around, but Marc spoke up. “So, where are we exactly?”
The car rolled past a tiny, unmarked gas station with a single island. From what Marc could see, the pumps didn’t even accept plastic. He glanced down at the needle still sitting at over half full then shifted his eyes to the rearview mirror again, hoping the cat had shook it off and wandered away—instead he saw whirling sirens. “Shit.”
“Now what?”
“Cops.” Marc looked at the police car again. “I’m not speeding.”
Marc came to a stop and rolled down his window, warm wind blew inside the car. Across the street a large church, neatly painted white, sat at the top of a short hill. He turned his attention to the approaching officer, in his side view mirror.
“Howdy officer, was I speeding?”
“No sir, you were not.” Not leaning down at all, Marc could only see his high gloss utility belt and pressed tan pants. “Please step out of the vehicle, sir.”
Marc looked over at Lisa but complied. “What’s the problem?”
On the street, he faced the officer. He was much taller than Marc with broad shoulders and wore mirrored sunglasses and a Smokey the bear hat. Marc stepped away from him.
“Sir, be careful of traffic.”
“Oh.” He moved closer to his car, feeling the wind all around him.
“The problem is that you ran over a cat back there.”
“You said you missed it!” Lisa’s voice shrilled from inside the car. Her door swung open.
“Stay in the vehicle, ma’am.”
Down the road, Marc could see an ambulance and two men, dressed in white, kneeling. What the hell?
“You called an ambulance for a cat?”
“Place your hands on your vehicle, please.”
“What?”
Lisa emerged from the car, her face red with panic. “What are you doing to him?”
“Ma’am, I suggest you leave before I change my mind.”
The officer handcuffed Marc’s wrist behind his back, grabbed his bicep and instead of walking him back to the car, he guided him across the street.
Marc swiveled his head and made eye contact with his wife. “Go find a lawyer or something!”
The man shoved Marc along.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To meet the judge.”
Marc looked up and saw they were moving toward the church looming on the hill.
As they made their way up the steps, two large black cats ran in front of them and disappeared inside the thick rows of shrubs.
A third cat raced up ahead of them, vanishing through the open door at the top of the steps.
The officer forced Marc inside and they made their way into the sanctuary. Marc stared at the far end of the church in disbelief. Covering the wall behind the altar was a mural of a gigantic black cat, regal and poised, with yellow eyes glaring out at the rows of plain wooden pews.
White linen covered the flat-topped surface. Suspended high above the table by thick chains was a wooden chandelier decorated with flickering candles.
A short bald man wearing white robes was standing behind the altar; Marc hadn’t noticed him when he came in, so he wasn’t sure how he got there.
“A pastor?” Marc asked, struggling to break free from his captor.
The officer leaned in close to Marc’s ear. “The pastor is the judge, now shut the hell up.”
A black cat jumped on the altar, arching its back while dragging its claws through the cloth.
The pastor grinned, revealing more than one black space that should have held a tooth, and stroked the cat’s smooth fur. It purred loudly. “Son, I hear one of our cats was slain by your careless driving.”
“How could you already know that?” Marc looked back at the officer, who was still wearing his sunglasses. “What is going on?”
“Do you deny this charge?”
“It ran out in front of me, I had no choice.” Marc was practically in tears. “I tried to avoid it.”
The cat hissed madly at him.
“In accordance with the ancient laws of the Egyptian gods, the punishment here in Felis for killing a cat is death.”
“What?” Marc gasped, voiding his lungs of air. He bucked against the policeman, who stumbled backward. Marc took off running.
The squealing scream of chains echoing through the sanctuary distracted his retreat; looking back, he saw the chandelier slowly lowering.
A rope dangled below it.
“Screw this place!”
He tripped, smacking his nose on the hard ground, hands still cuffed behind him. The officer grabbed Marc by the waist, hurling him over his shoulder and marched back to the altar. Hanging over his back, Marc stared helplessly at the butt of a pistol.
The room spun as he was dumped onto the table. Flat on his back, the intricately carved chandelier was only a foot above him. The noose was swaying like a pendulum and rubbing his nose.
Marc’s face was bloody and his head throbbing. The minister appeared blurry, but Marc could feel him fitting the coarse rope around his neck.
The lanky cat strutted up Marc’s stomach and then onto his chest, until it towered over him, licking at the blood drying under his nose. It stared into his eyes as it fed.
“The cat has taken possession of your soul. May the goddess Bast have mercy on you.”
The squealing chains began to echo through the church again, lifting Marc’s back off the altar. As he rose, his eyes fluttered open. Lisa was standing in the doorway at the far end of the building screaming and the officer was running down the aisle after her.
Marc scrambled to keep his feet on the altar, but as they lifted off the surface, his head jerked back.
Erik Gustafson
Word count 1279
Friday Flash: The Unlucky Town
The small town was a beautiful place- its rolling hills, vibrant gardens, and lush trees had been featured in many nature and landscape magazines over the decades but all that changed overnight.
The darkness crept up on the quiet, sleeping town like an uninvited guest; a darkness that was not part of the night. Something foreign. Something rare indeed.
The gloom slipped inside every crack of every house, every store, and in fact, every structure, even the dull red brick schoolhouse. As the people so sweetly slept, dreaming of bizarre things they would not remember, the silent black slipped inside each person.
The substance cuddled closer.
As it flowed easily into the very life of this Midwest town, everything faded just a little.
At six, when Tom Shutter’s alarm went off and joined chorus with the howling wind, he woke with a groan. He had been in a deep, sweaty sleep, dreaming he was the pastor of the local church, it was Sunday morning, and he had overslept and missed the service.
Except he wasn’t a pastor, didn’t even believe in God and it wasn’t Sunday. It was Friday the 13th, the day all the loonies walked up and down Main Street preaching their nonsense tales of superstition, bad luck, and danger.
He would love to just once line ladders along all the storefronts so people would have to walk under them all day long. Tom laughed at himself as he fumbled with his barefoot for his slippers. His slippers weren’t waiting in their usual spot for his cold feet.
He frowned.
The snooze alarm suddenly blasted from his cell phone and he groped for the button to silence the rage, but his hand, that had been effectively executing this movement for twenty years, failed at its task and the annoying sound screamed on.
It’s gonna be one of those days, Tom.
The alarm blared like an angry orchestra of trumpets as he tried again with no avail.
His wife, her hair matted in sleepy splotches, woke from a dream- a dream that was about another life that never quite happened. It was a good dream, but a sad dream. She was pissed to be disrupted.
“Turn that thing off!” she shrieked.
He moaned and gave it one more try.
Tom wanted to pick the damned thing up and smash it against the wall- something he dare not do in public, but more and more, the rage was brewing and lurking in the back of his mind.
The sleepy man grabbed at the phone, but he couldn’t even get a grip on the damned thing. His wife, determined to shut off that alarm that seemed to be stumping the hell out of her idiot husband, jumped out of bed.
As her legs swung off the edge and went to the floor, she vanished without a sound.
“I can’t seem to—” he mumbled and turned to his wife, who wasn’t there. “Honey?”
He glanced at the crack under the bathroom door— it was dark. The door to the hall was likewise dark.
“Honey?” he called again.
Then he realized the whole room was black as night. He looked out the window, expecting to see fiery rays of sunlight charging brightly into the bedroom, but it was still night. He couldn’t even see the trees, let alone the Jacuzzi, which was right on the porch.
He heard screams in the distance.
It wasn’t exactly night—shadowy was the best way he could think to describe what he was seeing. Like someone had painted the windows smoke gray as a prank.
Perplexed, he rose through the blankets, as if he the sheets weren’t there at all and leaned over the bed to hunt for his slippers. The slippers sort of looked like they were faithfully waiting for his feet, except he could see the carpet through his slippers.
He squinted and rubbed his bald head.
He reached for his cell phone, saw his hand pass through the device, and even go through the nightstand.
“Honey, where are you?” He shouted, his voice loud not with anger or irritation, but with fear. Did his words echo?
She didn’t answer and a dismal sense of trepidation pressed down on him like deep water.
The cries of his neighbors continued, but he could sense that his house was empty. The only sound was his alarm clock. The cat wasn’t howling in the hall for breakfast or purring on the bed. He couldn’t even smell the refreshing aroma of waiting coffee.
The bed felt like an island to him. Somehow, everything around the bed was smothered in thick shadows and had lost its substance. He recalled a time as a child playing on his bed, pretending it was a ship and there was lava all around. He couldn’t get out of the bed or the lava would burn him. That is exactly how he felt right at that moment.
The darkness sipped through the glass and filled the room.
He crawled to the center of the bed and drew his knees close to his chest.
“Stay back!” he shouted at the slithering shadows.
But the shadows had teeth and huge mouths.
Tom Shutter vanished.
*
Across town, up the hill from the cemetery and in front of the thick rows of stately pines, the eight-o-clock school bell shrilled to life to signal the start of another day. Like swarms of locusts singing, the soft cry of various alarms around this little town, droned on the whole day through. The rest of unlucky town was as still as a meadow on a windless day.
The town faded a little more.
When night fell over the world again, after a sunless day, the hungry darkness was no longer a stranger, no longer uninvited. The demon gobbled and feasted in unrestricted delight as midnight drew near until the town was a barren field, dusty and without form.
.
Erik Gustafson
Word Count 989
Friday Flash!! Grandpa’s Mirror
Grandpa’s Mirror
The priest conducting the ceremony looked like an ancient, gray-haired leprechaun. The crash of thunder accented his closing prayer. Connie had been watching the black clouds roll in during the service, worrying that the rain would come before they were done.
Fat blobs of rain smacked onto the canvas funeral tent as people offered sympathy or shared a memory, then popped open umbrella and scurried back to their cars. After a few minutes, most everyone had departed.
“Time to say goodbye to Grandpa, Rachel.”
Rachel, wearing an identical black dress as her mother, looked at the shiny coffin covered in streaming beads of water and waved. The portly pastor held the umbrella as the trio rushed back to his limousine.
Later that evening, her mom walked past the hallway and noticed Rachel sitting on the hallway carpet at the far end playing with some dolls. She shivered and felt the sting of fresh tears in her eyes. Her daughter was on the same spot were Connie had found her father less a week ago, sprawled on the floor in front of the antique mirror. More correctly, Rachel had found him—Connie was responding to her daughter’s screams.
She watched her haggard reflection. “How about we play somewhere else, sweetie?”
“But I like it here, mom.” She sat one of the dolls on the marble shelf below the mirror. “And Grandpa likes it when I play with him.”
Connie covered her mouth to muffle her anguish. The space felt colder than the rest of the house now and she hated being over here. It made her sad. “Nope, come on, let’s see what’s on TV.”
The two sat in the living room in front of the flickering screen. Rachel was still playing with her dolls, but Connie was playing reruns of time spent with her father in her head.
No dad and now no grandfather, you’re a lucky kid.
Rachel left the room before Connie noticed. “Where are you going, honey?”
“Just the bathroom, mommy.”
After awhile, Connie started to wonder what was taking her so long. “You okay in there?”
There was no answer, so she went to investigate. As she entered the hallway, she froze. Rachel was inches from the giant, ornate mirror absolutely still. In the dim lighting, their images were faint and almost blended into the reflections of the walls. The imperfections on the old mirror looked like slivers of gold.
“What are you doing?”
“Talking to grandpa.” Her tiny voice was barely audible.
“Honey, Grandpa is gone now, remember what I told you?” She put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, watching their reflections. “He’s not with us anymore.”
“He said you wouldn’t understand.”
Goosebumps raced up her arms. “Rachel, you found him right here where he fell down and that’s why you think he is still here.”
She put her small palms on the heavy mirror. “But the grandpa in the mirror didn’t fall down, mommy.”
Connie’s heart was pounding, as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She grabbed her daughter’s wrist, dragging her back to the living room. Rachel started crying but staggered behind her mom.
The next morning, she was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, cleaning her teeth and smiling as she worked the toothbrush. She paused and cocked her head toward the hall, her mouth a frothy light blue. “What, Grandpa?”
“Break the mirror.”
She spit into the sink and rinsed her mouth, rushing out of the bathroom.
Rachel stared into the ancient mirror to try to locate the source of the voice, but couldn’t see anyone. The voice asked again and she was certain it was her grandfather that time.
She slapped the tall mirror with both hands and it swayed and groaned. Feeling guilty for hitting the mirror, the little girl looked around for her mother.
She backed away, keeping her eyes on the mirror.
Her grandpa appeared next to her reflection; smiling and waving. Rachel looked to her left but no one was next to her. She gazed back at the mirror and he was in there, dressed in a white t-shirt and blue jeans—exactly like the day she had come running around the corner and found him on the floor.
“Rachel, what did I tell you about playing in the hallway?”
Rachel blinked and her grandpa vanished.
“You’re gonna be late for school, hurry up.”
Rachel grabbed her backpack and skipped down the hall to the kitchen.
“Break the mirror.”
She screeched to a halt and pivoted. Her grandpa was back, waving from the mirror. She looked around to make sure he wasn’t standing next to her.
“Time to get in the car,” Connie said.
Instead, Rachel picked up a candy dish on the kitchen island, skittering the colorful pieces of candy across the floor.
She bolted down the hallway, lead crystal dish balanced over her shoulder like a shot put. When she was nearly to the mirror, she chucked the heavy bowl. Black cracks splintered out in all directions.
Unable to stop herself, Rachel slammed into the mirror.
It rocked wildly, dropping a huge sheet of glass from the top, as if it were guillotine blade. It barely missed her, exploding on the floor. Shards of glass were raining down from the frame.
The next few moments were surreal for Connie and played out in slow motion. She ran to save her daughter, transfixed by a vision of her father standing in the one remaining jagged piece of silvery glass.
He stepped out of the mirror and his feet crunched over the broken fragments. He smiled, kneeling down to help his granddaughter to her feet. She was crying and splattered in dots of her own blood, but looked up at her grandpa and returned the smile anyway.
As the reunited family embraced, Connie felt her father’s grip tighten and realized that there was a foul stench drifting out of his mouth. She struggled to pull away, but his hug held fast.
By Erik Gustafson
1000 Words
Guest blog: Author Alan Nayes and his new book Girl Blue
GIRL BLUE
Her spirit waited within the stone, ready to live again.
Renowned sculptor Jeremy Copper is determined that his latest work, Girl Blue, will be his masterpiece. He’s found the perfect stone for it, a rare block of blue granite from a quarry in Brazil. But this stone is special in more ways than one. The former owner of the great block was a woman named Franscesca, a witch in the 1920s who loved a talented young sculptor. He promised to carve her likeness, but when he betrayed her love she exacted a terrible vengeance and paid for it with her life.
Jeremy begins to fear for his sanity when he finds flakes of granite in his bedroom. Late at night, he hears strange noises coming from his locked studio. The sculpture continues to progress, even in his absence, a sinister form emerging beyond his control. But this frightening new version is not at all what Jeremy intended. Franscesca’s vengeful spirit lives on, and she’s more dangerous than ever.
Why GIRL BLUE? I’ve been asked this many times, mostly during the initial writing stages when that terrible first draft began to take shape: how in the hell did I come up with such a macabre concept as presented in this novel? Though on the surface the answer might seem readily apparent—I wanted to write a story about a haunted sculpture—in reality, the truth is far less straightforward and simplistic. And once the novel was complete, and I was into the final editing phase and reading what I’d written, whoa, I found myself asking did I really write this? Because no matter how many more novels I write, I know I will never write another one as bizarre as GIRL BLUE.
The initial idea for this story was very one dimensional—I was going to write about a man who becomes addicted to sex by frequenting erotic massage parlors. GIRL BLUE and the haunted rock weren’t even on the horizon. Only after I’d delved twenty per cent or so into the manuscript did I realize I could only write so much about a guy paying for massages that included “happy endings.” In essence the story had come (no pun intended) to a screeching halt. I needed more.
Enter a quote by the renowned sculptor Auguste Rodin, famous for The Thinker and many, many other sculptures. “How dazzling is the sight of a woman undressing.” I’d read an article about Rodin and when I saw this quote, a light blinked in my head. Suddenly my protagonist was going to be a sculptor and his specialty would be sculpting nude women in stone. The sex addiction quickly fell by the wayside—but not totally as the story will reveal. Without giving away any spoilers, the other aspects of the story naturally fell into place and like the sculpture in the novel, GIRL BLUE was created. I must admit this was a fun book to write though the research at times was daunting as I’d never taken an art class in my entire life. I harbor a new respect for artists in all endeavors—authors, painters, sculptors, actors, singers, photographers, I’d even include athletes in this list as some are truly artistic in their performances. There is one common denominator in all—striving for perfection. Nothing less than perfect is acceptable.
I have no idea how GIRL BLUE will be accepted by readers but I do know this. The story is so bizarre there will be pockets of individuals who will either love it or hate it. I can only hope the former predominate. But we’ll see. It arrives April 3rd, 2012.
Happy reading! And thank you, Erik, for having me on your blog.
Website: http://anayes.com/
GIRL BLUE links:
Amazon http://amzn.to/wEFi2A
Amazon.uk http://amzn.to/zUqn0q
Barnesandboble http://bit.ly/yJFVgU
Samhain http://bit.ly/yrNhox
Find Alan Nayes: Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/527589.Alan_Nayes
Facebook http://on.fb.me/mflYEU
Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/alannayes
Blog http://alannayes.blogspot.com/
Cotton Candy Dreams
I am sitting at my daughter’s high school for Solo Contests and peddling cotton candy. We spent last night spinning floss sugar into yummy goodness.
Beware of flying sugar! Nothing beats a head full of sugar cobwebs.
Now we are selling them for two bucks a bag with proceeds going to the arts and music. What a great way to spend the day.
One perk of cotton candy, for teens anyway, is the colored tongue effect. It’s a great hook. That dye is amazingly potent, I think they use tattoo ink. Maybe not. Red dye number 5
We got grape, strawberry, and berry blue. We even have cherry but it is blood red and scary. So we hid those. Cherry ones are for special people.
Cotton candy is a fun treat. I do think cotton candy is related to dreams. Who doesn’t take a bite of spookie fruitie or cherry berry and is transported back to a sweet memory from a childhood carnival experience.
So grab a bag and sink your teeth into the sugar god … And feel young. I’m here all day!
What color do you prefer you teeth?
Royalties Donated to Help Author's Son Fight Leukemia
Many of you may know that I’ve been actively participating in an Indie GoGo campaign via Twitter called #IndiesUnite4Joshua that my friend and fellow author Eden Baylee started in January and I’m currently trying to help raise money by donating all royalties from my book sales to help Maxwell Cynn’s 21-year-old son Joshua battle Leukemia. Every penny generated from royalties will help us reach our goal of $10,000 to help pay for the high cost of treatment.
Poems from the Soul
Gonna lay a couple of poems on you, hope you enjoy them in all their dark shine…
Part 1: A Minute in the Life of a Boy
A scrawny blond boy running
Bent over a sidewalk with
A Matchbox car between his legs
Flying like superman
Toward a forest of trees waving at him
Little, bony arms reaching into a tree
Pulling himself up, higher and higher
Stepping on branch after branch
Blue eyes marveling at the view
From the homemade tree house,
A mile high fortress defended by dwarves
Down the loose trap-door hidden way in the back,
Leaping to the thick, twisted Swinging Branch,
Dangling, stretching like a waking bat
Dropping triumphantly to a waiting steed
Galloping wildly through the trails
Clutching that final ingredient secret sorcerers long for
Running from white Stormtroppers
Finding the perfect stick for a gun
Shooting back, diving over a grassy hill
Lasers loudly blasting overhead
Crawling into a huge, cement culvert
Submerging in the submarine
Down! Down! The boy’s soft voice
Echoed in the concrete tube
A scrawny blond boy running alone,
In the mind of a grown man sitting alone
Part 2: Waking yet again
Waking yet again, he sees his dreams aren’t real
Sad routines keep the dreams down
Moving through the years passively
Like birds through the breeze,
Beautiful dreams always in him
Someday,
He cries out, and hits the wall
Slams a door and drinks some more
He rattles the bars of his life
From time to time
Knows he hasn’t the strength
To bend or break
Out
Not every cocoon becomes a butterfly,
Some just dry out and die
Some roses have their fragrance stomped out,
They all don’t blossom and grow
The glorious eagle born to weak to fly,
Forgotten in a nest high above the world
Someday,
He cries out, and hits the wall
Slams a door and drinks some more
The disappointment of dreams you can’t quite reach,
The dreary dread of daytime, reality and it all
