Here Comes the Resurrection

I thought the title was fitting considering my favourite band of all time, Moist, have reunited after nearly thirteen years. If you don't get the reference, you now have the clues to piece it together.

As for my own sincerity on saving this blog, if you're skeptical, I'm right there with you. But I hope to prove us both wrong in the coming weeks. Creative stagnation is something I simply can't live with and perhaps the even more intense isolation of recent weeks (due to a wedding, the ending of a webshow's season, and breaking my fucking wrist doing Taekwondo) has really brought it to the forefront. If you aren't seeing people or doing things, then for god's sake at least create. That is, after all, what you claim to be good at.

So novels? short stories? plays? Remember those? No? Once again I can't really blame you - they seem so distant and while I'd love to report completion I will have to stick with the term "ongoing". Not abandoned. You're relieved, I am sure.

But The Dark Staircase is actually complete and has been for some time. Its length places it in the limbo somewhere between short story and novella. I've deemed it a novella because it sounds better. The sequel was nearly stillborn but progress is once again finally being made.

Whether it's yet another delaying tactic on my part or not, I've been convinced Staircase needs this sequel to help bolster it, lest publishment remain a faraway destination. Does it really need this (hopefully longer and, yes, better) sequel to be taken seriously? I don't know. But I do know I really need to concentrate on writing that and let the lists and endless pieces that forever fill my mind take a backseat for once.

"Lists?" you say? Isn't fiveorama as dead as this blog? Well, no, actually. And I'll prove it shortly.

And to think it actually took something as lame as twitter to get this going again. I shudder and shake my head disapprovingly. But hell, at least I'm typing again.

More to follow.

The Late Shift

Right. I can't paint. And I definitely don't find it relaxing. Back to creating pictures with words.

So let's see. Something about writing while sleep-deprived - I meant to do that one ages ago. Finally, it's coming up. Promise.

But next time will be about perspective. Probably not the way you think though.

It's been a rough autumn. November certainly wasn't what I was hoping for and now once again  find myself wishing it was five years ago. It's hard living your life backwards. It's not like I haven't tried to break away from it but setback after setback just makes me want to go...back. The indifference of the world around me used to be something I was quite comfortable with. Now I just feel lost in the shuffle. If I was supposed to have things like a car and house and a longterm relationship with someone "stable" by now I guess I'd be disappointed. Instead I'm just...curious. For so long I didn't want to believe it's those things that truly make you happy. You can't pick and choose your beliefs though, not really. You can fool others but you can't fool yourself. Trust me on this one, I've spent a long time trying to prove otherwise.

The sequel? It's in my head. Why not on the page? It comes back to that living backwards thing again, I think. I'm supposedly so much wiser now but that certainly doesn't have much to do with happiness. Can't go back. Everyone knows that. If this was something someone was writing going back wouldn't be necessary anyway - the thing the protagonist wanted and missed would somehow show up again and he'd have the chance to make amends. Choosing beliefs? Well, I always wanted to believe in redemption. Maybe I still can. Just not my own redemption.

I don't look my age. I don't feel my age. Years ago I fell in love with an age, or at least the idea of one and now every day I get further and further (farther and farther?) away from it but at least I have my books and games to live in. Probably not the best course. But what can I do? Everyone over thirty makes me sick.

I realize this isn't my usual style of writing for this blog and that this bizarre post out of no where probably smacks of desperation. And maybe emotional distress. I haven't kept a journal in years and don't see myself ever going back to one. So using the blog as one isn't a crime. It's just not what I intended. But I think I'll have to start trying things differently. What was it Einstein said? Trying the same thing over and over and expecting different results is the clearest definition of insanity? At this point it may be some comfort to learn I'm not sane. At least then I could be special.

So for Xion, Kairi, and of course, the originator of this obsession for the aesthetic, Anne, this is cole.

Visual Art

I've decided to take up painting. I'll just give you a moment to let that sink in.

Like many children growing up, I went through different phases with what interested me the most at any given moment. This led to me declaring what my career ambition would be multiple times. I remember wanting to be a pilot, paleontologist, jazz musician and even a journalist (actually, I did live that last one out for a few years before coming to my senses).

But the very first thing I wanted to be was an artist. I guess that's not too shocking considering I've lived an artistic life and only wish to continue it, hopefully making a living at it along the way. Anyone who even briefly knew me knows that I'm an artsy person. So yeah, not too shocking.

However, since about the age of nine, I've realized that I have close to zero ability when it comes to visual art. I can't draw. For one thing, I don't have the patience. Even when I make comic strips out of stick figures I find myself lamenting that it's taking too damn LONG and I just want it over with. But when I was three, four, five - I wanted to be a painter. I drew hundreds upon hundreds of pictures with my crayons, about 90% of them featuring various nature scenes, from the Triassic period to present day. Beside dinosaurs, I especially enjoyed drawing birds, trees and mountains. Remember that guy who made oil paintings in that black void? He was my hero. I watched him whenever I could and desperately attempted to imitate his method using crayola and my meager skills.

By the time I was about ten, I finally realized that the things I drew didn't look the way I wanted them to. I also had to admit that freehand, I couldn't draw a decent circle or straight line to save my life. It was just around that time that I was discovering a real talent (at least, I'd like to think of it as real) for writing. I was good at rhythm and metre and I was good at vocabulary and storytelling. I had (and have) a great memory for detail and I was adept at putting it into written words.

When I'd reached my teens, I was even able to laugh at myself when it came to my complete lack of ability at drawing and all things related. This was completely my own doing and of my own volition; I can't recall any point in my life when anyone criticized or made fun of my attempts at art. I'd just decided that it was time for me to concentrate on my strengths and let that old love go. I've never looked back.

Until now.

I don't have any plans to become a great artist. Not even a passable one. I've just decided that I've never really had much experience with any sort of paint beyond the most basic going back to art class in junior high and I guess probably finger paints years before that. My plan is simply to paint and see if i enjoy it. I have a lot of stress and anxiety...issues and I'm going to try to use painting as a means to combat it. Trust me, it's not my first line of defence. Just a diversion that I hope won't be a complete disaster.

So I'm going to post my first ever painting on this blog whenever it's finished. I promise I'll be honest. I won't show you my fourth or fifth attempt and try to pass it off as my first. Whatever winds up on the canvas will wind up on this page. God help us all.

Untitled Dark Staircase Sequel

Even though it's ripping my guts out to continue with this character, I really think I have something with The Dark Staircase. And since it's short even for a novella (about thirteen thousand words) I figure it's going to need a companion story to get publishers to look at it. Of course this doesn't have to be a sequel but I've realized that I can change the character's name to whatever I want, it'd still be Annie I would be writing about.

So here's the beginning:

          Annie closed her eyes.

Riveting, huh? I'll keep you posted.

Action Needs an Audience: You Like to Read So...

Taking an unplanned break between books, all my reading over the past two weeks has been pretty much of the comic book variety. I've been buying more lately too and soon I'm going to need another box (that would be #8) for proper storage. So I've been a casual comic book reader for most of my life and a serious one for about the past eight years and lately I've been asking myself, "Are comics getting better?" Is that why I'm buying more?

Taking a look at what I'm currently collecting, the answer certainly isn't apparent. Over eighty percent of the books I follow and have followed over the years are Marvel, featuring superhero-types in that world. Many of the graphic novels I purchase are this too but those that are Marvel usually don't contain recent material at all. The vast majority of it comes from the eighties and nineties. As far as titles like X-Men goes, this is a direct reflection of how I feel about their state. Aside from a run of forty-some issues of the New Mutants title launched in late 2003 or early 2004, that eventually was renamed simply New X-Men (not to be confused with the title written primarily by Grant Morrison starting around 2000), I've never been able to maintain an interest in any X-book of the past decade. If I want stories featuring mutants I look to Chris Claremont and John Byrne, mostly. With some early stuff by Jim Lee and Rob Liefeld.

So I definitely don't think any of the X books are getting better but there's also a lot I simply haven't bothered with so it's fair to say I'm possibly missing out on something. I've been tinkering with the idea of picking up the newest X-Force but this will probably come to nothing.

But it's clear that I believe the Avengers have gotten a lot better. Here is a team that I have had almost zero interest in before 2004. The "big three" of Cap, Iron Man and Thor never did anything for me and even today after all that's transpired, it's only Cap whom I've changed my tune about. Brian Bendis is of course the man most responsible for this, with assists from guys like Ed Brubaker and Dan Slott here and there.

I could go on and on in this vein without really getting anywhere and possibly boring the living hell out of you so let's leave Marvel behind, shall we? Hell, let's leave superheroes behind too. Because really, as much as I love that genre and always will, I completely understand that it is the genre that simultaneously dominates and embarrasses the medium. No matter how well these titles are written, they're probably never going to escape the stigma that they carry for a lot of people. Which is  unfortunate but fine.

But it's really not fine that this is probably the leading reason why so many people who love books and reading don't take an interest in comics and graphic novels. Do I have a solution? No. Really, if someone wants to deprive himself of the brilliance of something like Watchmen, Sandman, Maus or The Unwritten or any alternative comics by geniuses like Chris Ware (or how about Renee French? Look these people up!) just because they make naive assumptions about comics, then that's just his loss and I feel sorry for him. Call me a snob but if you have never read any comics or manga then I don't see how you could possibly call yourself a true fan of or authority on literature. I mean, you can be one to a point of course, but by ignoring a huge section of it, you maintain a narrow view. Then again, I can't say I've read a great deal of medieval ballads - so does that make me some kind of hypocrite? Yeah...no.

Ever since their birth, comics have been fighting an uphill battle to achieve legitimacy and respect in literary circles and sadly, it still seems like there's a ways to go. Someone recently told me that they themselves didn't read comics simply because they "didn't see the appeal". That was certainly a new one to me. Usually, if anyone had something to say on the subject, they'd talk about what they found to be unappealing. But just a lack of appeal overall? I find that hard to buy. Comics, more than any other literary medium - wears its appeal on its sleeve - it's right there. You don't have to search for it. It's front and centre. The fusion of writing and art to tell a story. Any story you can think of. I've yet to meet anyone who says they don't appreciate good art. So isn't good art appealing? Is there something about combining good art and good writing that somehow lessens their value? That seems a little screwy to me. As a pretty experienced student of the school of close reading, I figured I should take a stab at explaining comics and their appeal.

As a medium that is read, comic books relinquish a degree of control to its audience that television, movies, theatre and records do not. Even the shortest passages - maybe just one panel - are limitless in the time that they can command. The images remain frozen, the words echo on the page. Only once we've absorbed the tone and meaning do we move on. That's not something we do when reading a prose novel. A comic's inclusion of visual information is probably the major reason for its ghettoization, the idea being that words are harder earned information than pictures. But the fact is that while images do replace imagination, they also invite readers to slow down and reflect in a way that pure text never will. To me, this makes the experience of reading a comic more engaging than reading a novel. Not better. They're just different. Nothing is better than comics for delivering that one-two punch of active engagement and submissive escapism.

Since a comic book requires both acute visual and narrative talents, the comic book industry, kind of like the film industry, was facilitated by a studio system, at least in its earlier days. Comics are very rarely singular in their vision and nearly always collaborative in their creation. This makes them quite different once again from the novel, novella, play or short story. Even writer-artists have inkers, letterers (an often overlooked artform in itself) and of course, editors to work with.

But back to the actual experience. Comic books aren't a passive experience like film - it still is the imaginative, self-motivated act of reading that puts events into motion and brings characters to life. The result is an experience that we perceive through the intellectual force of text and the visual force of the image. At their best, these elements combine to create an intensity of experience that text alone can't hope to match. Of course, this isn't easily accomplished. Which is what I really believe makes comics special as a medium. While most people are happy to appreciate a pretty picture or to lose themselves in a good story, for some reason the combination creates raised expectations, if not a lack of interest that I just can't fathom.


I've always described myself as a "non visual" person and it's the truth. When recalling a person, I don't see their face flash in my mind, I hear their voice. It's often how I recognize actors in movies when they're playing roles that make them appear different. I'm pretty lousy at remembering appearance but I can't be fooled by voice. I'd much rather attend a symphony than a museum. But there is something still about the visual experience of reading that I adore. It's why I've never taken to audio books. I take great delight in how words are sometimes formed and how they look on the page. I love "oo" words like "moon", "broom", crook". Because it is so rare in English, I'm always pleased to see an "x" somewhere. This visual experience is absolutely crucial for me in reading. Here's a question for you: how often, when you're reading, do you find your eye floating to the bottom of the page to take in new information, maybe not even a full sentence, then return to where you were and continue reading forward? Sometimes I have to consciously force myself to keep my eyes from drifting ahead because I don't trust them. Comics take this experience to an even more pure level as we take in the picture up, down, to the side, up diagonally and so on, merging imagery and words effortlessly. It's not something you have to try to do; you just do it.

I've reached the end of my essay and am sorry to say I haven't been able to come up with a neat, concise conclusion. While that bugs the hell out of me, at least it will keep me from just repeating myself. If I come up with something later, I'll be sure to add it. See you in the funny pages.

My 2010 Reading

Inspired by kingshearte's post, I decided to try to recall the books I read in the past year. I never thought to try to keep track of them but since I have a really good memory for this sort of thing, I figured I would take a shot at it.

Obviously, these are in absolutely no order whatsoever. Not all of them are novels - some are collections of short stories and some are plays or novellas -  and most of the nineteenth century stuff was for school. Some of them, like Red Dragon, I have read more than three times. Some, like A Christmas Carol, Watchmen or the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, I read every year.

1. Tooth & Nail - Ian Rankin

2. Dracula - Bram Stoker

3. Ghosts - Henrik Ibsen

4. Magic Moon - Wolfgang and Heike Hohlbein

5. Artemis Fowl: The Arctic Incident - Eoin Colfer

4. Pluto (8 volumes in total) - Naoki Urasawa

5. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen

6. Silas Marner - George Elliot

7. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead - Tom Stoppard

8. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller

9. To Kill A Mockingbird - Harper Lee

10. Earth X - Jim Krueger and Alex Ross

11. Universe X - Jim Krueger and Alex Ross

12. Hellboy: The Crooked Man and Others - Mike Mignola and Jim Corben

13. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte

14. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens

15. Ender in Exile - Orson Scott Card

16. Hide & Seek - Ian Rankin

17. The Walking Dead: Days Gone Bye - Robert Kirkman

18. Akira Volume One: Katsuhiro Otomo

19. The Castle in Transylvania - Jules Verne

20. Red Dragon - Thomas Harris

21. Batman Year One - Frank Miller

22. JPOD - Douglas Coupland

23. Dissolution - Richard Lee Byers

24. Insurrection - Thomas M. Reid

24. Condemnation - Richard Baker

25. Extinction - Lisa Smedman

26. Knots & Crosses - Ian Rankin

27. Voice of the Fire - Alan Moore

28. The Eyre Affair - Jasper Fford

29. Love Hina Volume One - Ken Akamatsu

30. Pirate Latitudes - Michael Chrichton

31. Give Our Regards To Atom Smashers! - edited by Sean Howe

32. The Dark Tower: The Gunslinger Born - Peter David, Jae Lee and Richard Isanove

33. The Dark Tower: The Long Road Home - Peter David, Jae Lee and Richard Isanove

34. The Dark Tower: Treachery - Peter David, Jae Lee and Richard Isanove

35. The Dark Tower: Fall Of Gilead - Peter David and Richard Isanove

36. The Dark Tower: Battle Of Jericho Hill - Peter David, Jae Lee and Richard Isanove

37. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling

38. Inherit The Wind - Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee

39. X-Men: Days Of Future Past - Chris Claremont and John Byrne

40. Dark Entries - Ian Rankin and Werther Dell'edera

41. Sacrifice of the Widow - Lisa Smedman

42. Storm of the Dead - Lisa Smedman

42. Ascendancy of the Last - Lisa Smedman

43. Swordmage - Richard Baker

44. Corsair - Richard Baker

45. Avenger - Richard Baker

46. Watership Down - Richard Adams

47. The Fellowship of the Ring - J.R.R Tolkien

48. The Two Towers - J.R.R. Tolkien

49. The Return of the King - J.R.R. Tolkien (Tolkien always insisted they all be treated as one novel but oh well)

50. Akira Volume Two - Katsuhiro Otomo

51. Daredevil: The Man Without Fear - Frank Miller and John Romita Jr.

52. Weapon X  - Barry Windsor-Smith

53. The China Wall - Johnny Bower with Bob Duff

54. The Gunslinger - Stephen King

55. The Silence of the Lambs - Thomas Harris

56. The Thief Of Always - Clive Barker

57. The Ghost King - R.A. Salvatore

58. Coraline - Neil Gaiman

59. Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader? - Neil Gaiman and Andy Kubert

60. The Dark Hills Divide - Patrick Carman

61. Hellboy: The Conqueror Worm - Mike Mignola

62. Death On The Nile - Agatha Christie

63. The Last Iron Fist Story - Ed Brubaker, Matt Fraction and David Aja

64. Guardian Devil - Kevin Smith and Joe Quesada

65. Strange Tales - J.R.R Tolkien

66. The Pirate King - R.A. Salvatore

67. The Orc King - R.A. Salvatore

68. The Glass Menagerie - Tennessee Williams

69. Watchmen - Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons

70. A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens

71. DC Universe: The Stories of Alan Moore - Alan Moore and various

72. The Black Book - Ian Rankin

73. Exit Music - Ian Rankin

74. Arkham Asylum A Serious House On Serious Earth - Grant Morrison and Dave McKean

75. MW - Osamu Tezuka

76. 20 000 Leagues Under the Sea - Jules Verne

77. Daredevil: Born Again - Frank Miller and David Mazzucchelli

78. Sideways Stories From Wayside School - Louis Sachar

79. Murder On The Orient Express - Agatha Christie

80. Hellboy: The Wild Hunt - Mike Mignola and Duncan Fegredo

81. Batman: The Long Halloween - Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale

82. Blaze - Richard Bachman (Stephen King)

83. The Long Walk - Richard Bachman

84. The Running Man - Richard Bachman

85. The Two Swords - R.A. Salvatore

86. X-Men: The Dark Phoenix Saga - Chris Claremont and John Byrne

87. Akira Volume Three - Katsuhiro Otomo

88. Akira Volume Four - Katsuhiro Otomo

89. Out Of The Silent Planet - C.S. Lewis

90. Let The Right One In - John Ajvide

91. Scott Pilgrim's Precious Little Life - Bryan Lee O'Malley

92. Scott Pilgrim VS The World - Bryan Lee O'Malley

93. Scott Pilgrim & The Infinite Sadness - Bryan Lee O'Malley

94. Scott Pilgrim Gets It Together - Bryan Lee O'Malley

95. Scott Pilgrim VS The Universe - Bryan Lee O'Malley

96. Scott Pilgrim's Finest Hour - Bryan Lee O'Malley

97. Wizard And Glass - Stephen King

98. Joker - Brian Azzarello and Lee Bermejo

99. Primal Fear - William Diehl

100. A Little Princess - Frances Hodgson Burnett

101. Wayside School is Falling Down - Louis Sachar

102. The Three Muskateers - Alexandre Dumas *wins the Longest Thing Read This Year Award...I think

103. The Drawing of the Three - Stephen King

104. Tommy Taylor And The Bogus Identity - Mike Carey and Peter Gross

105. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies - Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith

106. Batman And Son - Grant Morrison and Andy Kubert

107. Batman: Cacophony  - Kevin Smith and Walter Flanagan

108. Batman: The Widening Gyre - Kevin Smith and Walter Flanagan

109. Batman: R.I.P - Grant Morrison and Tony S. Daniel

110. Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury

I definitely forgot a few, like three or four books I read standing in the bookstore. And I left out a lot of comic arcs that were too short to mention. More will probably occur to me later but still, that's the most significant stuff, I think.

The Walk to the Water

It's four am. I just got in from my walk. It's a walk I've been doing for the last three years. Mother doesn't like that I do it. She insists I shouldn't be "wandering the streets" late at night. She doesn't understand that I need to do it.

But unlike most nights when I take my walk to the water, I eschewed my headphones. I needed to think, even more than usual. I also kept my hood down and let the cold wind hit my face. I always do a lot of thinking on this walk but I guess something made me more pensive tonight than usual.

It could have been the fight I had with my father a few days ago. It didn't involve much; I simply angrily stormed off after reaching my limit for tolerance of his sarcasm. I understand that at the moment, his father is in the process of, well, dying, and maybe I should have cut him some slack. It's just that I've heard this from him many times before. Apparently, I don't do anything with my life. I never leave my apartment or do anything worthwhile. All I do is waste time and money. He got especially annoyed when I said I would walk home from the hotel rather than taking a cab. I don't like cabs, especially when it's a walk that I can do easily enough. But my discomfort with taxis is just one more of my faults in his eyes.

So anyway tonight I did my walk to the water. It always takes me onto the boardwalk at a certain point near Bishop's Landing. Years ago, I used to do that part with Anne, except that it was usually around sunset, the one time of day when Halifax Harbour can look halfway scenic (although I suppose it must also at sunrise). I think I've seen more sunrises than a lot of people. But back to Anne and I (something long dead) - we used to look at Bishop's Landing and talk about the future; our future. I was in my mid twenties and she was in her early, and we both wanted something beyond being students or kids with low-paying jobs. We wanted careers and status. We wanted to live somewhere nice and own nice things. We wanted security and comfort. We talked about me being successfully published and us moving into ritzy Bishop's Landing. But even that would be temporary. I knew Anne didn't want to always live in the city. She's an outdoorsy type who wants a big yard and a million pets. I hope someday she gets those things. Well, she already has a million pets but she wants horses, for Christ's sake. I hope she gets everything she's ever wanted.

Back when I was with Anne, I believed in my writing. Nowadays, it seems to get harder and harder to do that. So maybe that's why I get especially upset and defensive when someone like my father expresses their own doubts. On the walk tonight, I thought of all these things and decided the best thing I could do would be to be write about it when I got back. So here I am.

Walt Disney said "The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing." While I've been writing, I realize it's rarely come close to the level that's required if I'm really going to make it work. So here goes.

Bark at The Moon

Coming to a theatre near you in 2014.
 
 *************************

Cut to: Spector is lying unconscious in the desert. The sun is high in the sky. There's no sign of civilization anywhere; the desert seems to go on forever. Spector stirs. He touches his head.

Spector: Where? (he slowly rises and looks around) Right. Dumped here. Left to die.

He looks in all directions - everything looks the same. He closes his eyes and points then turns slowly around. He stops and opens his eyes.
Spector: That works. Gotta try.

He begins to trudge along.

Cut to: A long shot from above. Spector is a tiny figure moving through the vast desert. Different angles show us the passage of time. At one point, Spector makes his way through a blowing sandstorm, almost collapsing.

Cut to: Night. The moon is full and huge in the sky. Spector is crawling along now, barely able to move. The storm continues. But now, making it to the top of a dune, he somehow manages to stand. Shouts in a foreign language are heard.

Cut to: Several robed figures standing outside what looks to be a tomb. There are a few tents set up nearby. The men see Spector's silhouette against the moon.
Robed Man #1 (in Arabic or Egyptian or some language of the region): There's a man out there! We've got to help him.

They rush up to him just as he starts to collapse again. Two of them catch him and hold him up.
Robed Man #2: Quickly, get him inside before the storm starts up again.

Robed Man #1: Someone go get Missy from her tent. Maybe she knows him.

Robed Man #3 rushes off towards the tents while the other two take Spector, who has gone completely limp, inside the tomb. The chamber is lit by torchlight. As they lay him on the floor in front of an ancient statue, Marlene comes running in.

Marlene: Who is he, Jallad? Has he said anything?

Jallad: I don't know, Missy. He's not conscious. I do not recognize him. He is white.

As Marlene comes closer, Jallad checks Spector for a pulse then looks at his face.
Jallad: He did not make it. Allah, he is dead.

Marlene leans in to look closer.

Marlene: He's one of the mercenaries who attacked our dig. I'm glad he's dead. They killed my father, probably the others too. Just leave him here.

Jallad (rising); Very well. We'll get back to packing. We'll be set to leave once the storm passes.

Marlene (still looking down at Spector): Alright Jallad. That's fine. I'll be along in a moment.

Jallad leaves. Marlene is alone in the tomb with Spector. The statue gazes over them. She bends closer to the dead man.

Marlene: What was he doing all the way out here alone? He's the one who tried to help me. I can't really be glad he's dead. I...don't want to be like that.

She begins to weep softly. She takes Spector's head in her hands and looks at his face.
Marlene: He must have suffered horribly in the desert. He was...handsome. And now he's gone.

Cut to: The stony countenance of the statue that stands silently over them. Shadows from the flickering torchlight dance across its visage. Someone has draped a white robe over its shoulders.

Suddenly, Spector sits up, very much alive. Marlene leaps back.
Spector: Where am I? Who am I?

Marlene: You! You were dead! I saw it. No heartbeat. Nothing. You were gone.

Spector: Well, I'm alive now. Starting to remember who I am...

He turns and looks at the statue.
Spector: Him!  He...spoke to me. Said he'd bring me back, give me another chance. To....redeem myself after the life I've led.

Marlene: What? You mean Khonshu? But that's just a statue.

Spector: Yes, Khonshu. One of the gods of the moon. A taker of vengeance. A figure of terror.

Marlene: Well, yes. How did you know that? Do you study Egyptology?

Spector: No. No, he told me. Told me who he is. Who I am. What I have to do.

He stands and gazes up at the statue. Then he reaches up and pulls the robe from it.
Marlene: You're delirious. You've had a...shock to your system. What are you doing?

Spector fastens the cloak over his shoulders and pulls the hood over his head.

Spector: This is mine now. I'll wear it in Khonshu's name. I'm a ghost now. A spectre of the moon. Khonshu...he said I'm to be the moon's knight of vengeance and I've got work to do.

Marlene: Listen to you! You sound insane.

Spector runs out of the tomb into the night with Marlene following. He gets in one of the jeeps.
Spector: I'm borrowing this.

Marlene: Wait!  Where are you going?

Spector drives off into the night. Jallad runs up to Marlene.
Jallad: Missy, the jeep - what is happening?

Marlene: Never mind. I'm taking the other jeep.

Jallad: But the storm-

Marlene: Is abating. I'll be fine. I've got a ghost to follow.

***********************

The Dark Staircase - Complete

Yes, I finished something. Technically, the story has been done for a long time. But it wasn't done. Now it is. I have no idea what to do with it. I started writing it years ago for very personal reasons. Those reasons don't mean much anymore and I guess that's why it took me so damn long to finish a story that's only thirteen thousand words. If you search this blog you can find an early excerpt.

I think it's good though. I think it's publishable. I really think it's that good. I suppose it requires still more editing and revising but not much. The main problem I'm facing now is I don't know who to show it to. I'd like a few outside opinions before I do anything official with it but uncopyrighted works are a tricky business (not that I believe anyone I'd show the story to would steal it from me or anything) and also I guess I just feel bad that the person I actually wrote it for in the first place isn't going to be reading it.

But it's done. I'll figure something out and hopefully then I will give the story to the world. You know, like a writer.

Update the update - is this an update?

What the fuck? It's May? It's LATE May? What have I been doing? Ignoring this blog, that's for sure. Well, that ends now. Even if it means posting lame crap like this, I vow there will be regular updates throughout the summer.

The novel is back on track (only took two and a half years), the play is...going, and the short story is finished and a new one is halfway through. Back in November I tried NaNoRiMo (well, I'll always have 2003 and 2006) and failed again for the third straight year. I thought maybe I could resurrect the story I came up with but several attempts have fallen short. I think I'll just have to let that one go. I don't know why I tried hard sci-fi anyway.

I recently read the first two Twilight "novels"; took me about three hours. What's amazing is that this series seems to actually get worse as it goes along. Maybe I'll post some insights on it although I know that I am quite far behind the rest of the world in this respect. What jokes can I make that haven't already been said? But hell, I was spending my time reading books and comics that were actually GOOD. Hey, at least the youtube channel is working out well. The one year anniversary is tomorrow. I have nothing planned. Maybe I should think of something.

So this is a pretty good post even though it's not creative or interesting, right? I'll get to that next time. Great, now the phone's ringing. I swear, god does not want this blog to thrive. How many more times do I have to renounce him? I'll get published on my own! I don't need your fucking charity! You'll get no prayers from me! Alright, that was fun. Stay tuned.

Dark Sexyness

I've recently discovered that not only do I have a sort of knack for writing erotica, I actually enjoy it too. I have no idea where I'm going with this. Really don't think I'll post any here but it's a development in my writing so I thought I could at least mention it. Be afraid World, be very afraid...

Talking Part Two: Ryan's Second Monologue

Last Talking I gave you Alex and Robyn so I could do some dialogue. Today I'll show you a monologue with Ryan's second (he's the only character who gets monologues). This is from my play, Away, by the way. (that's fun to say aloud)

ACT TWO

SCENE ONE

The clearing. A crude, unfinished treehouse. RYAN approaches from the other side.

RYAN - There used to be woods behind our neighbourhood so that all the backyards on one side touched it. But about fifteen years ago they cut down a big section of it and built an elementary school and added a road. So it was still pretty new when we started going there. I didn't get to know Robyn, Jono and Alex until the summer before grade six. That was the summer the school burned down. The police said it was arson but they never caught whoever did it. Most people in town refused to believe someone had purposely burned it down. They said it was probably an accident. No one talks about it anymore. I guess it wasn't interesting like a pilot and his plane disappearing. It's funny what people remember and what they don't.

The property was never sold or if it was, the owner didn't do anything with it. Most of the wreckage was cleared out, anything that could be dangerous, and that was that. The road is still in use but there's a lot of trees that separate it from the main area and without the school, there's never much traffic on it. It's usually a pretty quiet place. The next summer all four of us were friends and we built the treehouse here. Alex had some wild ideas for it that never were realized. In the end, it was barely a treehouse, really. But we still used it a lot. It was like our clubhouse, a good place to hang out without being disturbed. When Alex got his telescope he started bringing it on clear nights and we would take turns gazing at the sky. Alex tried to teach us stuff about space and we tried to learn but we were never going to care about it the way he did. As we got older, we started coming less and less but still came to use the telescope on nights Alex said were ideal. We watched an eclipse of the moon once and would look at planets when they were visible. Alex knew all the constellations and would point them out.

I said I didn't know the others until the summer of the fire. Well, I did sort of know them but we didn't hang out together. That changed the night the school burned. I was walking home from another neighbourhood where I'd been playing street hockey. It was sunset and I was cutting through the woods on the far side of the school when I saw the flames. So of course I went to get a closer look. But before I even reached the edge of the trees Robyn came crashing through, running and tripping, her knees skinned and with twigs in her hair. She smelled like smoke. I tried to calm her down but she was really scared. Even though I told her the fire wouldn't spread to where we were. I wanted to go on and watch until the firetrucks came but she wouldn't come. So I walked her home. That's how we met. I started hanging out with her, Jono and Alex shortly after that. We never spoke about that night. Sometimes I wanted to bring it up to her but always stopped myself. I decided not to tell Jono or Alex and it's pretty clear she never did either. Even though Alex liked to sometimes point out that I was the latecomer to the group, neither he nor Jono ever really questioned how it was that I became friends with the rest of them. No one ever mentioned that it was just after the fire. It's funny what we choose to forget.

Exit RYAN

Madman in the Desert

Wow, I've neglected this blog. I formally apologize to my legions of fans. 2010 shall be a year of creative...uh, magic.

In the meantime, here's an excerpt from The Greatest Story Ever Told, adapted by yours truly.

Flanked by his personal guard, Kefka stomped through the desert approaching Figaro Castle. As usual, he was not in good humour.

“Phooey!” he grumbled. “Emperor Gestahl's stupid orders!”

He gave a mad little hop and shouted at the sky. “Edgar, you pinhead!” he roared. “Why do you have to live in the middle of nowhere? These recon jobs are the pits!”

The two soldiers escorting him tried not to look at each other. They just had to wait until Kefka played this out. Kefka noticed them gawking at him and was immediately annoyed by it.

“Ahem,” he said. “There's SAND on my boots!” The soldiers snapped into action, each furiously wiping the sand from Kefka's flashy red boots.

“Yes, Sir!” they cried in unison. “All set, Sir!” They both smartly saluted, hoping they hadn't somehow incurred Kefka's wrath. He was well-known for his mood swings and seemingly random punishments.

Instead Kefka laughed his disturbing and horrible laugh. He didn't even sound human when he did it.

“Idiots!” he barked. Then he turned and strode up to Figaro's front doors.

“Sir Kefka!?” Blurted the guard there, trying to buy some time for Edgar. “What on earth do-”

“Outta my way!” growled Kefka and he simply shoved the man aside and went through the door, his own soldiers following.

Edgar met him in the courtyard. “I thought we were allies,” he said to one of Kefka's guards, trying his best to avoid Kefka for the moment. “What are you doing in my domain?”

The soldier just grinned at him. He enjoyed this part of the job at least.

“You've been busy down south,” quipped Edgar. “Looking for more cities to destroy?”

“That's for us to know!” smirked the trooper. Edgar glowered and finally addressed Kefka, hoping that making him wait had annoyed him. He put on his best sarcastic voice.

“What brings Kefka, humble servant of Emperor Gestahl, into our lowly presence?” he asked. He tried to read Kefka's expression but the man was so crazy it was nearly impossible.

“A girl of no importance recently escaped from us,” answered Kefka, trying to sound gruff and nonchalant. “We heard she found refuge here.”

Edgar turned and took a few deliberate steps away from Kefka, putting on a show that he was really thinking hard.

“Hmm,” he said. “This wouldn't have anything to do with this 'witch' everyone's been whispering about, would it?”

“Lies!” barked Kefka. “She...merely stole something of minor value. Is she here?”

Edgar smiled to himself. Kefka really was a lousy liar. “That's a tough one!” he said brightly. “You see, there are more girls here than grains of sand out there. I can't keep track of 'em all!”

Kefka gave his own smile. It was quite different from Edgar's. “I'd hate to be you if we find out you're lying,” he said. “Mwa, ha!”

He turned away and went back to the door. Then he stopped.

“I truly hope nothing happens to your precious Figaro!” he said darkly. Then he turned again and he and his soldiers left.

Locke had watched the entire exchange from the main hall's door.

“I'd say that guy's missing a few buttons,” he said when Edgar approached him. Inwardly Edgar agreed but said: “Where's Terra?”

See you next time. (Next time being soon).

Poetic Archaelogy

In the process of packing for my latest move I was able to excavate one of the better poems I've written, something I figured had been lost long ago (ok, not that long but it sure feels it).

In the summer of 2003, following my second year of university I went back to Cape Breton as I'd done the summer before. That summer I'd worked for the Cape Breton Post and this time I wanted to do something different. So I enrolled for two courses at UCCB - one on children's lit and another devoted to play writing. They were both totally up my alley and this was back in the days when I was actually still a good student. I aced them both.

Play writing was great and helped reignite my passion for creative writing and really was one of the major events to set me back on that path. We did lots of cool things and maybe some day I'll talk about more of them but for the purposes of this post I will just mention one. We walked through UCCB's art gallery and were each told to select one painting to write a poem on (it may not have just been poems, there could have been other options but as a poem is what I did it's what I remember).

I picked one by an artist named Noah Schwartz simply called "Untitled". I can't remember for sure but I think it was painted in 1979. Anyway, like many paintings out there this wasn't really a straightforward picture of something. I guess it was what you might called "semi-abstract". I can't really see it in my mind now but there were harsh lines and faint colours, lots of white, brown and maybe some pale blue and black. I just can't remember. Anyway, here's how I saw it that day.

Noah Schwartz's 'Untitled'

Modern meets ancient here
it's windswept, sun-bleached, now stripped and
sand-blasted
There's something so much older...underneath

Scaffolding against the cliff-face
archaeology uncovers secrets in the canyon
slowly but surely they scrape to meet them
Noon. The sun is high and there are
shadows cast against the rock
Men in boots and dusty fedoras come in the day with their
tools; their instruments of history
They swig their water, unroll their canvas
and chip away

They come in the day and shade their eyes
wipe their brows
what is ancient is not easily given up
The men leave at night
many secrets remain, elder gods are the most protective
This place is old

The Vampire Problem

As you know, the most major of all my projects is V World (working title), a novel that features a sprawling narrative with multiple points of view in the tradition of books like The Stand (Stephen King). It's set in contemporary twenty-first century America (2008, actually) but features many supernatural elements. The most prevalent of these elements is the presence of vampires.

I started writing the novel in November of 2006 (sad, I know) and can't really say I had the intention of writing a "vampire novel". I simply wanted antagonists with a supernatural element and I chose something familiar and comfortable. I was just going to take all my favourite things about vampires I've read in books or seen in movies and videogames and combine them. At the time, none of this seemed complicated. The novel itself seemed endlessly complicated because even from the very start I had a fairly clear idea of how many different main characters and plot elements I wanted to include. But the vampires seemed like simplicity itself really.

But now I don't know. I realize it's silly to suggest that the vampire's place in popular culture today has really changed so much in three years and yet that's how it feels. The popular Twilight novels have been made into one film so far with more to follow. The Blood Books series is now a television series, Blood Ties. The books are by Canadian author, Tanya Huff, who was actually born in Halifax. The books were written in the nineties but it was in 2007 that they were adapted for tv. Coincidence? I'm starting to think not.

Less than a year later, another television series based on vampire books surfaced. This is True Blood, based on The Southern Vampire Mysteries series of novels by Charlaine Harris. The main thrust of this one is a human psychic falling in love with a vampire.

Notice how all these recent movies and shows are based on vampire books written by women? Yeah, so did I. Thanks, Anne Rice. Blah.

There's also some new show called The Vampire Diaries that's airing on MuchMusic of all channels so I figure this is some sort of blatant Twilight ripoff - can you imagine? So much of this kind of stuff creates tons and tons of horrible fan fic but probably the saddest thing about Twilight is that it reads exactly as if it was fan fic itself.

I have no idea when I'm going to finish this damn book but I vow here and now that finish it I shall. It's just that the current climate in literature and pop culture is oversaturated with stuff featuring vampires and I can just picture the reluctance of a publisher to release my novel. Even though I definitely wouldn't call it a vampire novel. Vampires are just...there.

So where will my novel fit into all of this? Hopefully far, far outside of it. My vampires regard humans as food and toys, nothing more. They do not fall in love with them or even treat them halfway decently. They enslave them, torture them and kill them. My humans will fight back, not swoon and prostrate themselves before the Almighty Sexy Vampire. Don't worry though - there's some sex in the book. Aw yeah.

V World Update

And I'll be you thought this novel was dead. Well, so I did I quite honestly. For a long time parts of it had been inaccessible to me and I still find working on it emotionally draining. But in the last few weeks I've regained it and have been reading through and editing the chapters.
The main problem now besides overcoming very unprofessional personal hangups is connecting the other stuff I've written in the meantime.

For over two years I've had lots of ideas for this story and originally projected it as resulting in something like a 650 000 word story. That's...a lot. Now I think it could be decidedly shorter. I don't really know if that's a good thing or not, we shall see. In any case, it won't really become clear for some time. The nearly 40 000 words I have written I can say I am mostly pleased with and the main challenge now besides actually moving the story forward is deciding exactly how much is needed to fill in the gaps I've left in connectivity. This is the first major work in my entire life that I've actually written out of sequence and so far I'm finding the experience quite difficult. There really is something to be said about the wisdom in plotting. Yes, I have plotted this book to a certain extent - beyond any extent to which I've ever plotted anything else - and yet, it's still not really straightforward plotting. It's more like holding ideas in my mind and then writing them down without any clear idea of how to make them all fit together.

If you've forgotten what V World is supposed to be about it's basically my attempt to do something like King's The Stand (go on and laugh; I'll wait) only with vampires being the major plot element and a uniting force for many different characters who start out having nothing to do with each other. Eventually I hope to change the landscape from normal twenty-first century life in North America to something pseudo post-apocalyptic only not quite that far. You know - a lawless world full of anarchy, dead people and vampires (and a few other super natural elements thrown in for good measure). I know what you're thinking, assuming you have in fact, stopped laughing - "a tad ambitious, no? Particularly for you, Mr. Unpublished Author." To which I respond: Absolutely. At this point in my life, ambition can only be a good thing, even if maybe I am somewhat out of my league.

I've got a head full of madness, a pretty decent laptop and time on my hands - the perfect tools for such an endeavour, I would think. Sure, talent and a better work ethic might help too but perhaps these things can develop over time. I think what held me back previously in those areas was a problem in attitude - I figured time would be required to hone those abilities but I didn't seem to grasp that didn't mean empty time where I just waited around for things to happen for me. While intrinsically I believe I always knew what it would take to get myself going I think I probably shelved such rationale while instead clinging to ridiculous hopes of perhaps one day simply waking up and realizing I now possessed the talent level and work ethic to proceed. I hadn't forgotten about hard work and sacrifice; I'd just decided to trick myself into thinking there were shortcuts past them.

Now I stand on the precipice of something truly significant. Something that will help me evolve as a writer. Whether that means success as in finishing the novel and actually having it published and finally embarking on a career as professional writer or just finishing the novel and understanding finally how it all works now in addition to maybe also understanding myself a little better too, I don't know. (Feel free to congratulate me on that ridiculous run-on sentence - I've already given myself a little pat on the back for it) But now I do know that, to paraphrase Hamlet, "The novel's the thing". Lately I've repeated this mantra while trying to remind myself that there's a lot more going on besides that and that any breakthrough with V World still only really represents one step on my road. Then I bury that because I am anything but a big picture guy, put my head down and write.

Special thanks are in order to three certain people who all in the past few months, completely separately and each in their own way, encouraged me to continue on with this book. I doubt any of you knew at the time how much your words resonated with me and shook me out of the state of doubt and defeat I'd attached to V World. So I'm telling you now: Thankyou.

V World - I should really think about a new title, shouldn't I?

e e cummings would not approve

Stubborn fool that I am, this really happened.


february 2008

huddled in the glow of a coke machine
i pretend that it gives warmth
close in two hours
minimal passers by, no security appearance since arrival

no security anywhere besides the type that tells me to move along
eyes stinging, memory stinging
this city is no longer home
and still i refuse to leave it

this happened here, that happened there
it should not linger this way
and yet it does
and so i linger also, it's become my only purpose

these streets taste like bile even in sunlight
i hate the sunny days most of all
few as they are
were there more when she walked with me?

she's around every corner
so i move in straight lines
everything has changed and nothing still has for me
my load is heavy and i am unclean
i chose this

she chose the same

Talking

Early on in my writing I discovered that I have a pretty good ear for dialogue and I think I'm good at producing both snappy and clever as well as realistic sounding conversations. That's probably at least partially why I'm such a fan of someone like Kevin Smith, who as a writer really specializes in dialogue. It's also why I like plays so much. So writing a play should be easy for me, right? It's 95% dialogue after all. Plus it's always been a dream of mine to write a play and then see it performed on stage, to see something I wrote come to life.

A few years ago on a date with Kristine I went to the Pit at King's (my old university) to see my friend Jesse play the lead in the play, Equus. I'd never read the play before or seen the movie version but I knew a little about it. And I enjoyed it a whole lot. Jesse was especially great and I'm not just saying that cause he's my friend - I doubt he'll ever read my praise here - but also throughout the whole course of the play I found myself imagining my own play being put on in that space. Even though I didn't have a play written yet, the very beginnings of one was forming in my head.

Which brings us to now and this little excerpt. This is just a small piece of an early scene in my play "Away". Just two people talking. But I hope it's a good example of well-done dialogue.


SCENE TWO

Same location. It is the next day after school. Alex and Robyn walk up the street with their book bags and stop under the streetlight.

ALEX - I was right here, taking out the garbage. There were four flashes, two really close together. You didn't see it at all?

ROBYN - Nope. I trust you to catch all these things. You're the one with the telescope.

ALEX - Well, I only really caught it by accident. I looked out my window for another hour but - nothing.

ROBYN - Meteor shower's tomorrow night, right? This couldn't have anything to do with that?

ALEX - What? How could it?

ROBYN - Well, I dunno.

ALEX - You really don't pay attention when I talk about this stuff, do you?

ROBYN - Sure I do, Alex. It's just that it's pretty much ALL you talk about, you know?

ALEX - Well, let's talk about something else then.

ROBYN - Yeah, well I've gotta get my homework done if I'm gonna make it tonight.

ALEX - Homework be damned! You are coming tonight whether you're finished or not. It sucks with just three. Not to mention it's getting harder and harder to get Ryan to play anymore and I need you there to counterbalance Jono.

ROBYN - What do you mean 'counterbalance'?

ALEX - If you're not there then Ryan will just try to get out of it by saying he doesn't remember how to play, Jono will try to help him and there won't be any real conversation. It'll just be "D&D is lame", "No, it's not" and "What's Robyn doing?" all night and I'll lose my mind. I wouldn't even want to play but then Jono would just whine and Ryan would suggest we just quit playing it altogether. So-

ROBYN - So the very survival of our D&D sessions hangs in the balance if I don't make it tonight. I get it. I'll come. Because I WILL get my homework done. You should try my method of doing it before the day it's actually due.

ALEX - My system works fine.

ROBYN - Whatever.

Here they pause for a moment. Robyn is looking at her shoes.

ALEX - Um...Robyn?

ROBYN - Nothing. Just thinking.

ALEX - Ok.

ROBYN - Do Ryan and Jono know about the meteor shower?

ALEX - Huh? Of course they do. Although I'll probably have to remind Ryan.

ROBYN - You...don't have to.

ALEX - What do you mean?

ROBYN - Just that if Ryan doesn't feel like going it's not like he has to or anything. I mean, it's not like D&D, right? We don't NEED him.

ALEX - I...guess not. It's not, like, a tragedy if it's just you me and Jono.

ROBYN - You said that Jono always talks at the wrong time and ruins the moment.

ALEX - He does. But I'm weaning him off it, I think. He's getting better.

ROBYN - But if Ryan doesn't want to go then maybe Jono could hang out with him. You know...so Ryan wouldn't be left out?

ALEX - If he's left out it'll be because he left himself out. Jono shouldn't have to miss it to babysit Ryan.

ROBYN - Maybe he'd want to.

ALEX - I'm really not following you. What's this about?

ROBYN - Uh...I just thought maybe...that...it could be just you and me at this one.

ALEX - Why?

ROBYN - If I'm going to make it tonight, I've gotta get going.

ALEX - But-

Robyn turns and starts down the street. She briefly turns back around to call back to Alex.

ROBYN - D&D at seven! I'll be there.

She continues out of sight. Alex stands at the end of his driveway staring after her.

Work

I just read the latest post on Charlie Huston's site, (pulpnoir.com) a place I don't visit as often as I should because as he's someone I'd like to emulate, I feel like so far I'm doing a really horrible job. But anyway, you can check it out here. This time I'll actually try to draw inspiration instead of simply feeling defeated. It really shouldn't be too difficult - come on, Cole, you want to be a bartender till you're forty and only sometime after that become a writer? Get off your ass.
Because so far I really haven't. I mean, this blog is pretty good proof of that.

So I will be trying to make a fresh start right here, right now. I have ideas in my head and stories in my heart - that's never been the problem. The problem has been initiative and discipline. There's no magic way to develop those things, you just have to bear down. So this is me, bearing down. And you get to see some of it. Lucky you.

The Dark Staircase

This is just a little excerpt from a recent short story of mine. I realized I haven't posted any kind of excerpt on here in forever and the last few offerings I gave were actually poetry which is really strange for me.

For personal reasons, this story was very difficult to write despite the fact that I'd actually had nearly the entire thing plotted before even starting it (a rare thing for me). The main idea is similar to that of an old English folktale I read god knows where god knows how long ago. I guess if you did a search for The Dark Staircase, you would most likely find at least a couple things but I really did think of the title on my own. Titles have never been a forte of mine (my editors even would often change the working titles I used for newspaper articles) but I am somewhat proud of this one. So sorry if it's not actually original.

Let's go to a hilltop in Ireland:

She shook her head and silently admonished herself. She'd been so desperate to discover something fantastic out here that she was letting her imagination run wild, that was all. Looking closer at the stones, Annie couldn't see how they could ever have looked like gravestones anyway. But then again, depending on how old they were, there was no reason to assume these gravestones had ever looked like the kind she was used to. Not really. If this had been a graveyard and it was really old, then the markers might have been more simple and not as angular as the ones she was accustomed to. If they were that old, then maybe this was no Christian graveyard but a pagan one. Like, for druids or something. Annie didn't really know anything about druids or paganism except that they were old things from Europe. Maybe she could ask Janet about it. It was possible she even knew about this place and had just forgotten about it.

But almost as soon as this thought came to her, Annie got the very distinct feeling that it would be best not to mention it to Janet at all. There had been something in her expression and voice when Annie had first told her of her plans to go for a walk. She'd looked uncomfortable. Maybe even worried. Annie couldn't figure out why. As much as she wanted to believe in things like haunted graveyards, even she couldn't really imagine this place having ghosts and restless spirits milling about it. And surely Janet didn't believe in such things. She couldn't. In addition to being an adult, she'd always struck Annie as the level-headed type. Not a dreamer like her.

Annie bent down next to one of the stones that was more above ground than the others, reached out with one hand and slowly ran her fingers over its rough surface. It felt like a rock. Annie was no geologist or...rock enthusiast. And she was obviously no archaeologist. She knew that for such people, things like stones could sort of speak to them. Tell them about the past. But not her. She was just a bored girl hoping to find wonders within the ordinary. She tried to bring her thoughts back to the realm of rationality. Ok, she allowed, maybe her guesses had all been right. Maybe this had been some ancient, pagan graveyard. And that was definitely interesting. More interesting than anything else she'd found during her time here. It was a little creepy too. But the answers she wanted to the questions this place had raised weren't coming. The spot wasn't that isolated. If there were some, like, artifacts lying around the area, then someone would have found them long before her. Now there were only strange (but maybe not that strange) stones sitting in two rows (that may not be deliberate rows). They couldn't speak to her.

She was about to stand up again but then without even consciously meaning to, she brought her other hand to feel the surface of the stone. Now she could feel something. An impression of...depth. The idea that there was more underneath. Well, sure, she thought. If this is a graveyard then there are bones underneath. No. Something was telling her no. She gazed at the stone, running her hands over it intently. Speak to me, she willed to it. What is underneath?

A long space of time seemed to pass. Annie was starting to believe she'd only imagined that...whatever it was. It hadn't been a voice. Just a feeling. But a powerful feeling. And then the word, no, as distinct as it had been, that wasn't in a voice either. But it had come through as clearly as any voice.

Frustrated, she stood up. Her boredom was getting to her, that was all. She was letting her imagination take over. It was time to go back anyway. All that stuff may have been in her head but either way, it was freaking her out. She looked back to the house. She'd felt so far away for awhile but she could still see it over the rolling hills. Then suddenly, the not-voice imparted another word to her.

Come.

She had no doubts this time. There was some force calling to her, possibly through the stones or up through the ground. She didn't like it. She backed away and nearly stumbled.

Annie did not run back to the house but she walked very quickly. She didn't look back once.

***************
I'm also really terrible at picking out parts that make for good excerpts from longer works but hopefully that part reads somewhat well on its own. See you next time.