Writtenwyrdd

Contest! Free booty! Free E-Reader!

Raven books is having a contest.  Details here.  You could win a Sony e-reader.

Contest results!

First, you may have noticed this post was up really early today, and it had placeholders for the winners because I hadn't tabulated the counts yet!  Forgive me for the early posting.  This post was in the queue for today and I had the time on it incorrectly.  Small (yet typical) oversight on my part.  (No wonder they wouldn't hire me as a proofreader.)

Anyhow, results are in.  First, congratulations to everybody for some really great entries!  And thanks for participating and making this fun for me, and (I hope) fun for everyone else, too.

Congratulations to the winners!

THE WINNER (with the most votes, and who wins a large Chthulu plushie and bragging rights), with five votes:

Charles Gramlich!!!

THE RUNNER UP (second highest vote count, who gets a choice of a small Chthulu plushie or a book by Charles Stross) with four votes: 

McKoala!!

 

THE WINNERS OF A COPY OF "CHILD OF FIRE" BY HARRY CONNOLLY (Mention made in this post): 

Barb Toth

&

Sarah Laurenson!

I have to say that at the 11th hour, four people [Sylvia, McKoala, H.R. Holsclaw, and Amanda Toth] were tied for second place, and first place was only edging out the others by one single vote!  That's close!  But a couple more votes came in, and the runner up and winner were determined without any fancy-schmancy necromantic hand waving and gibbering by yours truly.  (Because, although I like the Elder Gods on paper, I do not want to call any of them down on accident.  Just saying.)

THE PLAYERS: 
Entry  1: "Pea Soup," by Candace McBride 
Entry  2: "Armageddrox," by Writtenwyrdd 
Entry  3:  "Child Find" by jjdebenedictus (whom you also might know as Goblin) 
Entry  4: "Phantom Scratches," by Bevie James 
Entry  5: "The Haunted House," by  Amanda Toth 
Entry  6: "untitled," by Whirlochre 
Entry  7: "sleeping souls," by  shadow 
Entry  8: "Vengeance On The Unknowing," by  Sara Daly   
Entry  9: "Priest Of Parker's Knoll," by   H.R. Holsclaw
Entry 10: "The Fear Of Monsters," by   H.R. Holsclaw  
Entry 11: "Relief," by  Fairyhedgehog
Entry 12: "As I Pondered," by Sarah Laurenson
Entry 13: "Lost In Greenery," by  Charles Gramlich
Entry 14: "Bottomless," by  S.E. Sinkhorn  
Entry 15: "Facing the Nameless Eldritch Horror," by  Daniel Jarrell
Entry 16: "The Camera," by  McKoala
Entry 17: "Nothing," by Anna Rae
Entry 18: "Lost Cases," by Pacatrue
Entry 19: "Maria," by Sylvia
Entry 20: "What I Seed," by "Laughingwolf"
Entry 21: "When Twilight Has Come," by Sabrina

Congrats again winners!  Please email me (writtenwyrdd AT live DOT com) with your snail mail address so I can send your loot. 

There's a four-way tie for second place in the Chthulu contest, and first has only a one-vote lead!

So, blog friends, it's still anybody's game!  Voting ends tonight, so get the votes out.

And I have to wonder:  What the heck am I going to do with four second place people?  Use a random number to generate the runner-up prize winner?  I could also hold the baby plush Chthulu for some other day.

Which option do you guys think is fair if there's a multiple-person tie for second place?  Discuss.

WINNERS!!!

The random drawing winners for two copies of "Child of Fire" by Harry Connolly are:

jjdebenedictus 

and

Deb Smythe!!

Please email me at writtenwyrdd AT live DOT com with your snail mail addresses and I'll get these off in the mail to you on my next day off when the post office is open.  (That's a week from tomorrow.  Sorry.)

Last Day to Vote!!!!!

Hey, gang, if you haven't voted on the contest entries yet, today is the last day to do so.  After midnight Eastern Standard Time*, polls are closed and I'll be announcing the winners tomorrow. I love them all, but only one can be top dawg, so best luck to all of you.

AND DON'T FORGET: IF YOU VOTE, YOU GET A SHOT AT WINNING FREE SWAG, TOO!  I'm also giving away two copies of "Child of Fire" by Harry Connolly. 

*Okay, so I'm pretty flexible.  So long as the vote's in the comment section before I get around to tabulating tomorrow morning, it's going to be counted.

"Love Your Body" poster contest by NOW

For over a decade, the National Organization for Women has been holding a contest for their Love Your Body poster contest to celeberate Love Your Body Day.   The day is an effort to combat negative body images in women, and the winning poster will be sent out to schools and individuals as part of the awareness campaign.   Per NOW, "The grand prize winning poster will be used as part of a national campaign to challenge the media's use of violent, drug-addicted, starved, surgically-enhanced images of women and to fight against industries that profit from women’s dissatisfaction with their bodies."

• "Posters should be graphically attractive and use a dynamic message. We especially look for images that demonstrate beauty is not limited by body size, body type, ethnicity, age or physical appearance."
• Artwork: Poster should be no larger than 9" x 12". The poster must include the words "2010 Love Your Body Campaign" and the NOW Foundation web site address, www.nowfoundation.org.
• Deadline is December 1, 2009.
• Prizes up to $400 (see web page for details).
• Past winners here.

And, if you need some assistance in understanding why NOW is running the Love Your Body campaign, check out these advertisements that NOW has (rightly) branded as offensive to women.

And a reminder to please read and vote on the entries for the Chthulu-inspired Halloween Horror Contest.  Entries here.  Voting needs to be in by end of day, Monday, November 9th.  And please feel free to repost this information and/or mention the need for voters.  There are some great entries, and your horror-loving friends will thank you!

 

Guess what arrived in the mail today?

 

Betsy Mitchell, Editor at Random House, has kindly provided me with several copies of Child of Fire to give away.  [And--to keep the FTC happy--I received as 'compensation' a copy of Homecoming, the first graphic novel in the Mercy Thompson series.  It wasn't part of the deal, it was just a nice gesture on Ms. Mitchell's part.] 

So, to get the free swag...comment on this post and you get a chance to win a copy of Child of Fire, selected by a random number generator.  I'll give away two here.  And I'll give away another two copies of Child of Fire to randomly chosen commenters in the voting poll for the Chthulu horror contest.  So if you vote for one of those fantastic entries, you can win a book, too!

That leaves one copy for a bit later on... I shall consider carefully what hoops are required to give that last copy away.  Deadline for comments end of day Sunday. 

Edit Torrent's "Why I Write" contest!

Today is the day to check out Editor Unleashed blog's contest.  Cool prizes, lots of fun, and an opportunity to define for yourself why writing feeds you, or even what it feeds inside of you.

On October 27th they said:

This time around we’re looking for great essayists and evocative theme-based nonfiction. This contest will feature a popular ranking on the forum along with final judging by an editorial team. The 50 best essays will be included in the “Why I Write” anthology on Smashwords. And one Grand Prize winner will receive $500 and promotion here and on Smashwords.

The Rules Posting Toay: Monday, November 2
Post Your Entry: Monday, November 9 – Thursday, December 31
Popular Ranking: Monday, January 4 – Friday, January 29

Have fun!

And a reminder to please read and vote on the entries for the Chthulu-inspired Halloween Horror Contest.  Entries here.  Voting needs to be in by end of day, Monday, November 9th.  And please feel free to repost this information and/or mention the need for voters.  There are some great entries, and your horror-loving friends will thank you!

Contest Entries!

And here's what you've been patiently waiting for: The entries for the Chthulu horror contest! And there are exactly twenty-one entries--more than I actually expected, although I hoped for at least twenty participants to broaden the voting pool. 

TO VOTE:  Just list your top choice in the comments.  We'll give the voting a week and I'll announce the winners next Monday.  You get one vote.  Winner selection is all on you guys.  So get your friends, blog buddies and family to vote, lol. 

If anyone sees a typo or something missing from their entry, please let me know asap, as I had to remove a ton of html code from most of the entries in order for them to format.  It's possible I accidentally cut your piece!  (and I'm not rereading at the moment, as it's 11:30 and time for all good witches to prepare for bed! besides which I stink at proofreading so even though I really DID look these over, it's possible I missed something obvious!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ENTRY 1:  "Pea Soup"

When all had become clear again, the boy was alone.  The circle was empty, and the candles at the seven points of the heptagram lit the room with a cheery glow.  He tossed the book and chalk across the room with a growl.

"Law-RENCE! What's that noise up there? I heard a thud," his mother's shrill voice floated from downstairs. 

Stalking to the door, he whipped it open and then said more meekly, with his customary horrendous stutter, "Nuh-n-nothing, muh-muh-mother. Ah t-tripped.   

"Well, keep it down young man. Your father and I are trying to have a nice dinner party.

Yuh-yes, ma'am." He shut the door much more gently than he wished he might, picked up the book and chalk, and tiptoed back to his bed. Not for the first time, Lawrence bemoaned the stutter he'd been cursed with since childhood. Not only did all of his classmates at the high school tease him about it, not only did it cause his mother to bar him from her fancy parties for fear he would embarrass the family, but now he couldn't even use black magic to right the injustices that had been inflicted upon him by his treacherous tongue. 

Whatever he'd just summoned had been nothing recognizable and certainly nothing that seemed interested in talking to him about his problems. Lying in the circle like a puked up puddle of pea soup with eyes, confined by the parameters of the chalk outline of the magic circle, it had bubbled occasionally in response to his attempts to communicate until in frustration he'd dismissed the thing with a few waves of his hands. It sure hadn't looked like he'd imagined a shoggoth. For one thing, it'd been kind of dinky. Now all he had to show for his efforts was a circle on his floor that looked like it had been burned into the wood by acid and his mother mad at him. No doubt, he'd hear about it tomorrow at breakfast, and again when she chanced to notice the scorched floorboards.

Or not...

Lawrence smiled as he heard screams and the clatter of his mother's favorite soup tureen striking the floor. He sighed contentedly as the thunder of panicked feet passed through the front door.  The pea soup monster had understood his directions after all! He began to giggle madly as the house grew silent. Maybe a stutter wasn't such a bad thing to have when trying to pronounce the glottal tongue of the Old Ones. He sat on his bed and began to page through the book at his leisure, flipping the piece of chalk through his fingers.

Mary Alice would be sorry she'd mocked him in homeroom this morning...

He wondered what a flying polyp looked like.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ENTRY 2:  "Armageddrox"
I was born with a spoon made of silver indeed,
but, before you get snooty, just let me decree
that I worked like a slave at my father's behest
so I'd know how a fortune as made--not bequest.

I learned early on to like challenge and work
though looking back now I can see I'm a jerk.
For pure tunnel vision and selfishness ruled,
leading me to presume and be played for a fool.

(I digress.  Pardon me, I'll get on with the tale
cautionary and filled with just how I have failed.)

Starting out on my own, twenty-three and a bit,
I'd seed money earned and inherited wit
which using parlayed into real estate equity.
Selling out gave me funds which I invested carefully.

My big break came next when economies tanked:
I bought out the rights to a promising bank,
then a lab, and a plant that made baked goods and things
such as cookies and pies and cheese doodle strings.

My goal was for billions to rival Bill Gates
and leads to the tale I'm about to relate.

My plant started failing, my products were dull;
so I found a consultant to help me retool.
"You need a new product," he said with a grin,
"Something delicious that tastes like a sin."

We went to my lab with its chemical wiles,
gathered the staff--whom we met with our smiles--
and telling our wants got them working next day
on a product designed to blow rivals away.

My consultant bought in and became my new partner.
His know-how and mine meshed like cash and investors.

I left him to guide the lab's efforts to make
us a product to sell, pull the plant from the brink.
Sooner than later he called up and said
"We've something, come taste it.  You'll be most impressed."

"A cookie! Delightful!" I said when I saw.
He heard my sarcasm and glared, clenched his jaw.
"Just try the damn thing."  And I did.  Then I smiled
as it melted like butter, so flaky and wild,

ambrosial and perfect and--  "Calorie free!"
interjected my partner.  (And I squeed a high squee.)

"We've really struck gold!" I predicted, so happy.
"Time to package and market and sell these new puppies!"
Visions of billions accompanied my thoughts
so I failed to see things that I probably ought

like the way his smile quirked and sent frissons to creep
down my spine, fluff my hair on my shivering nape.
Or the way that his eyes gleamed, impossibly red
just a moment...but then my distraction was fed

when his arm squeezed my shoulers and the handsome guy winked.
(And my heart palpitated--for the reasons you think.)

"You and me, girl--we'll sell big, make a mint.
'Cause these things are so good that they'll swear they have sinned."
(Which he'd said once before--but now I bought in.)
The techs in the lab cheered us loud with a din,

and I laughed and we joked and thanked our lab techs
before calling the press with our marketing specs.
"We'll corner the globe!" We high-fived with glee.
"First the promo," he answered.  "A box each for free."

I replied with, "Quite nice.
And also a contest with some sort of prize?

All we need is a name.  Something cool with pizzazz.
Something that's catchy and creates a huge buzz."
"Armageddrox," he answered with devilish wit.
"Wow, I like it," I said.  "It's a wonderful fit!

Our logo can be something wicked and sharp."
"No, something angelic."  He air-strummed a harp.
"We'll play on the themes of Good and of Evil
by selling how no-cal will 'save' the good people."

(Something here bothered.  I glossed over it quick--
for I hungered, so greedy, to win, grow more rich.)

Yet soon all my worries were cast far away
as sales met our guesses then blew them away.
Our calorie-free, crumbly, cookie delights
outsold competition and soared to new heights.

Record-breaking became our new hobby of sorts
and my partner and I became more than cohorts.
We got married, expanding our product lines, too,
with both foodstuffs and children--Son 1 and Son 2.

'Til something new marred our connubial bliss:
Our no-cal productions were linked with some deaths!

"Good Lord," I opined, "we can't let this go on!"
"Sure we can," hubs replied, "our lawyers have brawn.
Our PR is fine and the public's true greed
will see us through this time of worry and need."

"Doesn't matter," I say, "if they're dying we owe
everyone to discover what causes the woe!"
And he turned to me, palm cupping cheek like I loved,
saying, "Trust me my darling, my dear turtledove.

"I'll fix it all better and make them all think
they've mistaken the matter so our profits won't sink."

What he said made me cold in my heart just like ice.
"You cannot!  It 's wrong!"  "Businesses don't play nice." 
My sweet one, it's time to see all that I've hid:
That my nature is evil and you'll do as you're bid!"

Whereupon his dark glamour did fall from my eyes
and I saw his true nature: The Father of Lies!
The horror I felt made me retch on my shoes
when he drew me much closer, explaining his ruse.

that mankind, so greedy, was eating up sins
quite literally, readily, up to their chins!

"I must stop this before it keeps on, goes too far.
I can stop the production, I can close the plant doors!"
But my spouse (known as Morningstar, Satan, or Jack)
waved a gesture which caught me and drew me right back.

"I'm afraid that you don't understand what's been done,"
he whispered against my neck, giving a hug.
"We've planted the seeds of the Horsemen too deep
so Pestilince rides on the heels of their Greed.

"And Famine has been here because they all buy
our yummy, no-calorie, sin-bearing pies.

"No matter the outcome, the seeds are all sown
for mankind's demise.  We'll knock God from His throne
and succeed at long last with destroying His Grace:
Man's so full of sin now from our foods full sin laced!

"Soon it all ends, Armageddon will start
when War is let loose by the loss of our tarts.
So let us close shop if you will, wife of mine.
I'll relish the chaos:  Armageddon, it's time."

So, friends, if you see this, I hope you Believe
and pray for we sinners to gain a reprieve!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ENTRY 3:  "Child Find"

I have lived long years; twenty-eight of them, plus a multitude of sevens. I watched young men build this street up around my home. I worried over my foundations every time the city dug to lay in some new set of lines. I saw the trees grow tall and the neighbours wax and wane in health.

It seems an eyeblink ago I watched Kyle carry Monique across their threshold, her white lace train brushing maple leaves off the step. Soon they were parading a baby with feathery curls and surprised eyes around, their faces shining with joy.

I watched the child grow, and I watched her parents grow cold. I witnessed the fight when Monique threw Kyle's clothes on the snowy lawn. I saw the police car slide up the day Kyle came to shriek his drunkenness at the front door. I watched the couple's fury chill to loathing as they traded the girl on alternate weekends.

And, by luck, I was the one person who saw Kyle scoop his daughter off the front lawn one Wednesday, put her in his car, and drive away.

I didn't wait to see Monique's terror confirm my suspicions. I got out my old betsy, and I followed him.

Like my car, I am old, and I prefer constancy and careful planning to surprises. Nevertheless, I am still nimble enough of mind to deal with the vagaries of luck, and regardless, a shortage of time pressed upon me that October day.

Anxiety curdled my stomach during the long drive past farmlands and into foothills. Would Kyle note the distinctive car trailing him and try to shake his pursuer? Would my old betsy, with her rare usage, still be up for this journey? She is all I need, with her large trunk and dark windows, but she has not tasted the highway in decades.

The little girl's disappearance murmured over the radio just as Kyle turned onto a gravel road. I drove past to allay his suspicions, then painted a half-circle of rubber on the pavement a quarter mile further on.

My luck held, for the setting sun lit Kyle's dust plume and allowed me to follow him from a safe distance. Once darkness fell, we were too far from civilization for it to matter when he finally spotted the dark car ripping after him with its headlights off.

Fear made his vehicle shimmy, and despite my age, I felt my anxiety fade into a grim pleasure. But his fear changed character also; Kyle jarred his vehicle to a halt. He flung open the door and stepped out. His tail-lights breathed a bloody glow over the road as I pulled to a decorous halt behind him.

Every line of Kyle's body implied a threat as he paced toward the betsy. The little girl's forehead rose in Kyle's back window, and worry and bewilderment warped her eyes.

I got out and stood, hunting in my purse.

Recognition rumpled Kyle's brow, and confusion eroded the malice of his stance. "Miss Fitzreid?"

I smiled, stepped to him, and stabbed him in the heart.

It takes a few delicious moments for a person to die with no heartbeat. By the time he stopped spasming, Kyle's eyes showed white around the irises, and spittle ringed his mouth. The little girl's shrieks warbled like an air-raid siren.

She regained the presence of mind to leap for an escape only after I opened her car door. I snagged the girl's ankle, dragged her back, then tucked the kicking monster under my arm.

"My daddy! My daddy! Why'd you hurt my daddy?"

I hauled her to the betsy's spacious trunk. "Because this way," I said, "he gets the blame, and I get you."

I have lived long years; twenty-eight plus a multitude of sevens. And I will live a multitude more, so long as the thing trapped in the foundations of my house stays willing to trade me seven years of life for every life I feed it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ENTRY 4:  "Phantom Scratches"

Mardea didn’t believe in the Shudderghast. Otherwise she would never have come to this place. But Raya and Ruth were her friends, and they were hiking through the Turbid Hills, reported home of the Shudderghast.

The plan was to cross and reach Fort Echo, somewhere on the other side. Raya had argued with Creighton about the best way to reach Fort Echo. There was a road, but it went around the Turbid Hills and not through them. The road was safe. It also had to have added at least a dozen leagues to the journey. Raya had asked why no one had made a road straight west. Creighton had laughed at her, calling her a silly and stupid girl. Raya didn’t like being called any of those things. She wasn’t silly and she wasn’t stupid. And she was nineteen. Hardly a girl. So, with Ruth and Mardea in tow, Raya set out to prove there was no danger in the hills.

They made good going in the morning, but by afternoon they found the land was against them. Rugged openings barred their way and they were forced to detour. The depressions were smooth and even, and always appeared in sets of three, as though some great creature had been clawing at the ground.

The sun glared into their eyes, beating them back in warning of the coming night. The soft shadows behind them beckoned them home. But Raya was set on their course and pulled them forward.

Of the three only Ruth was openly frightened. She hadn’t thought she believed in the Shudderghast, but standing here in the Turbid Hills she found herself imaging all sorts of demons. Raya was visibly unaffected. She didn’t believe in the phantom. It was just a story to scare children. And Raya wasn’t a child anymore. Mardea wasn’t sure what she believed. Probably not in a Shudderghast. That was just too fantastic. But legends tended to be born of some kind of truth. The most likely truth to this legend was that some wild creature, perhaps a wolf or bear, was present in the hills.

“We will need to find a place for the night,” said Raya, stopping to catch her breath at the top of a rise.

“Do you think it’s safe?” asked Ruth.

“Of course it’s safe,” snapped Raya. “Do you know the real reason there is no road through these hills? It’s the land itself. It’s hard to navigate. All the cuts are dangerous. Fall into one and you could break a leg and be lost forever. That’s the real danger.”

“You’re probably right,” said Mardea, but even as she said it she wasn’t sure. She was wood crafty enough to know when she was being watched. Something was stalking them. “We should keep a guard. I think there’s a wolf or a bear about.”

“Good thinking,” said Raya. “Should we make camp here on the top of this rise? It gives us a commanding view?”

Ruth pointed down the hill to the west. “Why don’t we stay in that cabin?”

“Good idea,” said Raya.

“That wasn’t there a minute ago,” said Mardea.

“You mean you didn’t see it a minute ago,” said Raya. “Come. I doubt it’s occupied. Nobody lives in the Torrid Hills.”

“Maybe there’s a reason for that,” mumbled Mardea.

They hurried to the cabin and found it empty. It was just a dusty, one-room thing, long devoid of activity. They each found a corner and set down to sleep. Raya took first watch. She would wake Ruth who would later wake Mardea.

Mardea had fitful dreams filled with frightening images of death and mutilation. Whispering sounds tormented her and made her skin crawl. She fought to escape not only the illusions of troubled sleep, but sleep itself. Slowly she began to wake – until she realized the whispering sounds had not come from her dream. Rather, reality had been infiltrating her dreams.

She awoke fully, sitting up in the dark. What was left of the moon was hidden behind clouds so the cabin was completely dark. But the whispering sounds were all about her. Dust wafted across her face. Someone, or something, was moving and stirring it up from the floor.

Her pack was at her side. She moved to retrieve it. Slowly. Do not draw attention. Whatever was here was across the room, at Ruth’s corner. Ruth was supposed to be awake and on guard. Her torch was out. Quietly as she could Mardea withdrew her torch and her tinderbox. She struck the flint to the stone, hoping beyond hope to ignite the torch in one try. No luck. The whispering paused. Now it was back, but moving toward her. Mardea struck feverishly. Light, damn you!

With a burst of relief the torch took a spark and then began to burn. The fire grew and lit the room around her. She held it up and gasped.

Ruth was laying in the corner. Her eyes stared without appearing to see. Then Mardea saw her throat. Blood issued from three slashes. Mardea sat to her knees. She turned to Raya, and saw she was in the same condition. Then she heard the whisper beside her. She turned in time to see the snout, teeth, and fire red eyes coming at her. She thrust the torch at it.

Mardea woke to see Raya and Ruth standing at the cabin door.

“Ah. You’re ready to get up now?” said Raya. “Sorry about falling asleep. At least we’re all rested.”

Mardea got up and hurried to her friends. Ruth had her hands over her mouth.

“It’s cold up here in the morning,” she said.

“No matter,” said Raya. “You’ll warm up soon enough once we get going. Still afraid of the Shudderghast?”

Ruth’s hands dropped to her side and she turned around. Mordea pulled up short. There were three long scratches on Ruth’s neck. And her eyes seemed to glow.

“No. Not anymore. Let’s go.”

Raya and Ruth started away. Mordea instinctively put her hands to her throat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

ENTRY 5:  "The Haunted House"

I always enjoyed cheap thrills. Not that you could call this place cheap. The ticket was thirty dollars. Thirty dollars for what seemed like a super crappy haunted house, it was pathetic. But I was willing to give it a shot, because I loved haunted houses, good ones anyway. Even though I was so used to the shock of having costumed people jump out at me at random intervals, I couldn’t help but love that involuntary twitch I got every time it happened.

Walking in the dark door, I tried to look around. Except for an occasional red light, partially hidden by the smoke from fog machines, the place was too dark to see too far. I shivered, enjoying the darkness, and pulled my worn out old jacket tighter around my small, too-girly frame. I could hear screams somewhere ahead and above me. I found the walls with my hands, feeling my way forward, only to have a man in some pathetic looking costume jump out at me. I gasped, hands moving in front of me, like I could protect myself. Only then did I remember these people weren’t allowed to actually touch the customers. They could jump out at you, even follow for a few feet, but no touching allowed.

I continued down the hall, twitching every time someone jumped out at me. The only one that really freaked me out was the guy- I guess it was a guy- that came so close he breathed down my neck. He knew how to scare a girl. I finally came to the end of the hall, and saw a sign. It was written in some sort of neon ink, so a black light would give it a faint glow. It pointed to my left, to a set of stairs with a faint glow so people wouldn’t fall. The place was lame enough that I didn’t want to continue going upwards. It would just be the same stuff, over and over. I leaned against the wall to my right, debating my choices. Leave or continue.

I slammed at the wall with my hand, pissed beyond belief that I had wasted hard-earned money on this crappy place. And then I heard it.. a strange clicking noise. And the wall opened, just enough for a slim person to slide through. There was a rush of air, whether it was being let into the small opening, or out, I didn’t know. 

I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I stepped in, and before my eyes adjusted, the door was closed behind me. And I had no clue how to get out. I pushed at the door, even felt around for a handle. There was nothing. I forced myself to calm down, I could hear something, but it was too faint, too hard to catch over the pounding in my ears. My heart back down to a somewhat normal rate, I listened. Chanting. I couldn’t make it out, it didn’t even sound like it was in English.

Maybe this was just another part of the haunted house. If so, it wasn’t as lame as I had first thought. In fact, I could even call these people geniuses. Yes, that had to be it. Well I could handle that, and everything else they tried to throw at me. 

I continued down the hall, the chanting getting a little louder with each step, but I still couldn’t understand what they were saying. Slowly, I could tell it was getting a little brighter, there was a faint glow now, enough I could see the details of the walls. Stone, it was actually stone, like some medieval castle, nothing but stone. It wasn’t until a few moments later that I realized I didn’t know where the light source was coming from. There had been nothing on the walls, on the ceiling, and it didn’t look like there was a big enough light ahead to be able to see all the way back here. It had to be some sort of trick, mirrors or something, reflecting the light.

I pushed on, sure I would come upon the people chanting soon, but what I saw wasn’t right. It was a big room, red and black drapes hanging from the wall, with two rows of chairs, facing each other, running through the middle of the room. In each chair was a person, eyes closed, still as a statue, dressed in a robe the same red color of the drapes. Funny, I had sworn the chanting was coming from here, but no one’s lips were moving. No one in the room was speaking, but I still heard the words, coming from nowhere. A tape, it was a tape, right?

“I guess I’m supposed to investigate?” This was eerie, walking down behind these men in their robes, so still I thought for a second they had to be dummies. But I would see an occasional movement from each, usually shoulders lifting just slightly as someone took a breath. I couldn’t help myself, I was drawn to them, to see what they were, what they were doing. The chanting was just egging me on. I didn’t know what the words meant, but I felt like they meant for me to keep going. Like they wanted me to touch one of the robed men, to see if he felt like stone. 

I did it. I reached out and touched the man nearest to me on the shoulder. He felt cold, dead. Just that one touch, even when I was just touching his clothing, it was enough to make me feel sick. I yanked my hand back, shoving it into my jacket pocket to warm it. This was too much for me, I had to get out of here. There had to be another door somewhere, and if not, I’d kick that passage way door down if I had to.

I turned to leave the way I came, when I saw a glint of something out of the corner of my eye. I turned, and stared into the eyes of one of the statues. Eyes that had been closed before, and I saw why now. They were ruby red, glowing with some inner light. Not only that, but the mouth, that formerly frozen mouth was pulling into a snarl, revealing not teeth, but fangs. Two rows of fangs, two in the top, two in the bottom, every tooth sharpened into something I knew would kill me. 

I shrieked and ran, but I had barely gotten two steps when I was knocked to the ground. Claw-like nails were digging into my legs, freezing me as quickly as warm blood dripping down my legs was warming me. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real! They weren’t allowed to touch the customers, it was a rule. I rule I had thought stupid, now I wanted it back. I screamed, kicking, scratching at my attacker, begging for help. But all I saw was the rest of the statues rise from their chairs and turn towards me. 

I let out one more scream before my throat was ripped open. As I lay there, knowing I was dying, I wished I was numb. I wished I couldn’t feel every last fang ripping into my arms, my legs, my sides.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ENTRY 6:  Untitled

The Great Old One studied the rows of subs on display, his thoughts indescribable.

‘What can I get you?’ said the girl behind the counter.

Cthulhu heaved a sigh.  Ham and mustard or cheese and pickle?  Sooooo hard to decide.  After much deliberation (and some eeny-meeny-minying of his dangly cephalopod wibbly bits), he finally settled on the soup.  Tomato and coriander.  Sounded nice.

The girl took his order.  ‘Would you like a roll with that?’

‘What do you have?’ asked Cthulhu, producing his wallet from between two blubbery flaps of pustulent vileness.

‘Plain white, brown or crusty.’

Cthulhu thought hard.  Given his loose bowels, brown was a no-no, and plain white held too many dark memories.  In any case, mucusy discharge dripped from his body in globules and he needed something to soak it all up.

‘Crusty,’ he said, finally, and handed over £1.75.

The café was barely half full; a twilight world of custom between breakfast and lunch, and as Cthulhu slithered over to a seat by the window with his tray, he couldn’t help thinking how dowdy the place looked.

‘Could do with some pictures,’ he muttered.  ‘And maybe a few potted plants...’

While his soup cooled down, Cthulhu spread out his newspaper on the table.

‘Iran close to nuclear weapons...Obama voted sexiest man...Cowell signs singing amputee dance troupe...’  Nothing but bad news again.  He turned to the crossword.  ‘Seven down.  Evil Tome.  Twelve letters.  Third letter, C.’  A smile burst from the rolls of fungoid flesh he called lips, staining the paper doily beneath his soup spoon.  ‘Know that one!  N-E-C-R-O-N-O-M-I-C-O-N...’

He filled in another half dozen words, looking up every now and then to pull faces at a toddler stuffing her face with chips and ketchup.

‘She’s mad for it,’ said the child’s mother.

‘Aren’t we all?’ replied Cthulhu, with a knowing nod.

The Spawn of Vhoorl gave his soup a gentle stir then set the spoon down, and with a gurgling sound to rival all Jeff Goldblum’s best scenes in The Fly, two trails of viscous slime drooled down his fattest tentacle in a double helix and sank the tips of their foulness into the soup.  A row of flaps in Cthulhus’ octopoid head gaped open like spiracles on a maggot, and he sucked hard till his eyeballs spat vomity tears.  Nice soup — if a tad overseasoned.

He was toying with the idea of a treating himself to a nice iced bun when a chime rang out over the café’s idle chatter. 

11am.  Time to go.

With a sigh of resignation, Cthulhu wiped his fingers on his napkin, folded away his paper and stood up.  Then, after a cheery wave to the girl behind the counter and a last comic gurn at the toddler, he undulated out through the door.

Moments later, the neighbourhood burned like an inferno, and flapping, gibbering horrors burst from every charred corpse.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ENTRY 7:  "sleeping souls"

a warm desert wind is gusting through trees

to the flashes of lightning far

the beating drums that pulse through the air

brings fear to the minds ajar

 

and you hear the keys unlocking the gates

of souls long fast asleep

and moments later you pick up the stench

as they through doorways creep

 

then shadows around you move with stealth

one blink and the scenery’s changed

invisible footsteps that cause a creak

leaving your mind deranged

 

with nerves on the edge of a deep abyss

you feel their touch on your back

the icy breath that skims your cheek

you flee from the blind attack

 

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ENTRY 8:  Vengeance on the Unknowing

Each stair creaked more loudly than the last as my foot touched it, my attempted stealth failing completely. As if it would help me now. The air grew steadily colder as I descended into the basement.  The stainless steel knife clutched in my hand would hardly be helpful if my tormentors where, as I believed, ghosts. The sense of safety that comes with holding a sharp weapon slowed my shallow breathing though, and I wished to be as calm as possible.  I hoped everything was in my head and maybe if I calmed down it would all go away, though I feared, and indeed knew, otherwise.

A door upstairs slammed and I jumped, dropping the knife which clattered down into the darkness. I stifled a scream as ice cold water ran down my back. A icy sweat glistened on my forehead. "Keep going." The ethereal, childish voice whispered right next to my ear. It almost sounded lyrical as she goaded me on. The eerie sound, enough to tear down the spirit of the staunchest warrior, nearly killed me itself.

"Why." I cried. "What do you want of me?" My tears froze on my cheeks.

"You will see when you get there. You will see quite clearly. Keep going or I will make you go." The voice threatened to make me fall down the stairs with a strong breath of wintry air pushing against my back, almost strong enough to topple me.

I continued the descent, quaking with every step. The voices of the dead whispered in my ears the whole way down. I knew not why they tormented me so. I wanted to run back up the stairs to my fireplace, but the threats kept me in the downward motion.

Suddenly a white light burst from the dankness of the basement where no light bulb had ever worked. As the light receded slightly I saw a pile of corpses at the bottom of the stairs. Their faces shrouded in shadow even as the light shown upon them. By this time my teeth chattered uncontrollably, both from cold, and from fear.

"This is your doing. You killed these innocents." The voice intoned, "I am one of them, and I have seen firsthand how it is all your fault. You will find me at somewhere in there. I am the four foot tall blond girl with the green eyes. You will find me and you will know."

"But I've never hurt a soul in my life! I'm a church woman, I work for charities."

"And by that you killed us, and you continue to do so with every family you turn away."

Ice enveloped my body as I tried to grasp her meaning. I would lie among those ghostly corpses forever perhaps. Never dying, yet never again living. My own personal hell within my most beloved home.

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ENTRY 9:  The Priest Of Parker's Knoll

Mine has been an unhappy lot these past several months, but as the parish priest, it has been my duty to tend to the sick and the dying, offering what solace I might in their long, dark hours of suffering and need. There have never been so many as there have been of late, however, and I found myself collapsing into bed early each morning from exhaustion.

But, now, there is only one: our village physician, Dr. Matthew Forrest. He had been feeling poorly for a month before taking to his bed, sick with the terrible illness from which I fear he will never recover. I feel quite badly for the poor gentleman as I sit by his sickbed and hold his cold, damp hand in my own for whatever comfort such a paltry gesture may provide. He is upon his last suffering now, and as much as I wish to speak to him that he nears not his end, but another beginning, a transformation of spirit, my heart is no longer in it.

Once, only a few months ago, I uttered such words with a gentle, pious spirit as I envisioned the glories of God's Heavenly Kingdom, but it wasn't long before the emptiness of such comfort became evident. The shining gates of Heaven seem distant and tarnished things to me now, and of them I will not speak to a living soul. There is no peace or solace in contemplating them. It is true that a remarkable transition awaits him, as it did for all those whom I comforted, but of it, I do not speak. He already knows what shape the end of his illness will take, for he is the last of them, save for myself, and has seen it with his own eyes.

I have been feeling poorly, myself, for a little over a month, now. I know that I should take to my own bed, but I cannot. I must see Dr. Forrest off before I do, and for this, I have pushed my own endurance nearly to the breaking point. I watch over him as his breathing becomes ragged, and a rattle sounds deep within his chest at his every breath. It has become familiar to me now, and the sound no longer holds the dread it once did. There is only sorrow, and a desperate feeling that we have been forsaken here.

At length, Dr. Forrest's breathing slows and becomes shallower, as the rattling rises. His complexion has grown waxy and bluish. He looks at me now with an interminable sadness, but I can muster no more tears. I am nearly spent, myself. The rattle dies in his chest with the last breath he will ever take.

It is the end of Dr. Forrest. His last mournful gaze is yet locked on me, and I see the dark, lambent, reddish stain fill his eyes that I have seen so many times before. His clammy hand is hard and sharp. I feel his muscles stir.

I do not like to speak of death, for it has been a comfort denied us. Indeed, death has had no hold upon our parish since that terrible night, those long months ago, when we received our strange visitor. The only prayer I have left is that the Reaper may yet come to us again and save us from our living nightmare, for our graveyards cannot feed us forever.

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ENTRY 10:  The Fear Of Monsters

I recall my childhood with an unwonted clarity.  There are things in it best left forgotten, but often these are the very things which call themselves to my mind when the shadows grow deep and strange around me.  I was a sensitive child, given to nervous fits, and try as I might, I could not convince Mother that all I experienced was real.  When the night was at its blackest, I would often hear the faint rustling of furtive things moving against the floorboards, and the susurration of hushed voices issuing from tiny mouths that sounded as though they held too many teeth.  

At first, Mother simply smiled at me in the gentle way that mothers have of dismissing the fancies of youth.  A fertile imagination combined with too rich a dessert at dinner and the nocturnal sounds an old house will make to concoct these horrors, she would say to me.  But I became insistent, and when a change in diet and long, patient explanations of the noises pipes and joists and furnaces made wrought no change in me, Mother became concerned for my sanity, and I learned at length the value of silence.  

“There are no such things as monsters,” she’d steadfastly declare each night as she switched off my bedroom light.  Her conviction was meant, I’m certain, to comfort, but all it did was fill me with dread and a terrible realization of my isolation, for it meant I would always be alone to face whatever it was that scratched and scrabbled along the floors each night.  

It did not cease.  

As I grew older, I set mouse and rat traps to finally see what it was that bedeviled my nights, but I caught nothing but more dread.  Mere rodents do not twist the traps meant for them into mangled masses of uselessness.  Still, I did not catch sight of them, and I wondered at times if perhaps Mother had been right to question my sanity.  

Thus the matter continued until the days of my youth were almost spent.  I was nearly 18, and I had grown lean, pale and haggard from a decade and a half of poor sleep, when I finally spotted one of the “monsters” that had plagued me for so long.  It was as if frozen in place in the center of the floor as I switched on my bedroom light one night, caught in its imprudence.  Standing some ten inches tall, it was a thing with a spindly and strangely spidery build with long, clever hands.  It stood on two long, thin legs with reversed knees, and long, bony feet ending in widely splayed toes bearing sharp, curving claws that glistened blackly in the stark pool of electric light.  For long moments, I stood in my bedroom doorway and stared at this night-black, imp-like beast with savage teeth and talons.  For long moments, it did not move.  The creature’s face was a mask of terror, its overlarge eyes too widely opened, its needle-like ears too sharply pricked beside sinuous horns.  

But, gradually, a presentiment of a dread greater yet crept upon me.  My heart’s pace, already rapid, quickened further still, and every hair at the nape of my neck became a harsh bristle..  I could feel in those terrible moments every molecule in the air around me colliding with my hypersensitive skin, and the sensation became a maddening torture.  The monster’s eyes, so wild with fear, were not fixed upon me at all.  That which inspired its mad fright waited in the corridor behind me.  

The light from my bedroom spilled only a short way into the hall, and I turned to face whatever half-lit terror lurked there.  My relief upon seeing Mother’s face was palpable. 

My relief was short-lived.   

A bloodcurdling scream issued from the thing in my room, but Mother’s expression never changed.  She could not hear it.  Too late, I saw my bedroom light flash across the steel edge of the knife Mother wielded.  The next moment, I stared dumbly at the weapon, imbedded in my chest to its rune-inscribed hilt.  

I wheeled about, and stunned, fell to my knees.  The spindly creature of darkness tentatively stepped toward me, and I could see tears glistening in its saucer eyes, as Mother laughed.  Gently, the thing took one of my limp hands in both of its own, and I marveled at the comforting coolness of its skin, and the sympathetic touch of its curving claws against my flesh.  

“I’m sorry,” it whispered to me.  “We tried.”  

It scrambled up my arm to pull the blade free, and for a moment, held its long, clawed hand over the wound.  Mutely, I watched my blood flow over its night-black skin.  It was, I mused, an oddly beautiful sight.  The blade clattered to the floor and in an instant, the creature was gone.  

I recall the light wavering uncertainly as I collapsed to the floor, and the rhythmic thunder-crack footsteps of Mother as she approached to watch me die.  At the time, I thought it my imagination, or the strange final sensations of death, as I felt my body twist and shrink, and my knees reverse direction.  Oddly, there was no pain, save for the cold, ruthless memory of Mother stabbing me and the delight and hunger that gleamed in her eyes.  But, I took some measure of solace in the ragged cry of dismay, fury and frustration that escaped Mother’s lips as she saw her ritual blade lying on the floor, rather than buried to the hilt in my heart.  She stood bathed in electric luminescence as I slipped forever beyond her grasp into darkness.  

There will soon be another child, we are certain, and we will wait.  This time, we would not fail.  We are furtive, as we must be, and vicious, for we have formidable enemies who would destroy us.  But, darkness is still ours, for those things which really are dangerous to humankind never hide where they are most sought.  

“There are no such things as monsters,” Mother always told me.  And then, I saw one.  Now, I creep upon spindly legs with curving claws where the shadows grow deep and strange.  We dream.  We imagine.  We inspire.  And someday, we will win our freedom from the true monsters that lurk in the light.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ENTRY 11:  Relief

The flapping of leathery wings filled the night and was gone. Frank saw Lyn shiver and pull her coat tighter round her.  

"I hate those things," she said. "I'm always scared one's going to get caught in my hair, specially with all this wind."

"Cobblers," Frank said.  "It's an urban myth. Bats don't get caught in people's hair." He wondered what rubbish she'd been reading now.

The wind tormented the trees around the car park and tangled Lyn's long fair hair across her face. She looked at Frank appraisingly. "It's all right for you."

Frank ran a hand over his bald patch. Trust her to prod a sore spot. "Let's get home," he said. "The trick or treaters will be gone now."

"I wonder what they'll have left us with. Probably eggs on the door, or maybe worse."

He sighed, worn down by her pessimism. "Just get in the car--"

A sudden gust of wind blew dust and leaves into their faces and Lyn shrieked and batted wildly at her head. "It's in my hair! Get it away from me!" 

"I can't unless you stand still! Where's the scissors?" Frank reached into the glove compartment for a pair of scissors then clipped away at Lyn's hair until a bramble branch came free. He threw it to the ground in disgust.  "It's only a bit of twig," he said. She made such a fuss. 

"Look what you've done to my hair! I'm going to have to get it cut short now." Lyn's eyes were filled with tears. "I knew something was going to get in my hair tonight."

Frank put his arm round her. "Let's go home and get to bed," he said. "You'll feel better after a sleep."

***

The house was dark as they pulled up outside. Frank was sure he'd left the porch light on. "Maybe the bulb's broken," he said. "Something must have blown into it in this wind." 

Lyn fumbled inside her handbag, searching for a comb Frank guessed. "You hear these stories about empty houses at Halloween," she said. "There was one where someone  got in the house and trapped this man inside and before he could get out the intruder took his wife away and he never saw her again."

"You read too many magazines," Frank said. He went to the front door leaving Lyn rooting around in her handbag. Before he could turn the key in the lock the door swung open.  His heart thumped.

"I'm sure it's OK," he called back.. "We must have forgotten to lock it." Or she must have, he thought. For someone who worried about intruders she might try locking the doors a bit more often. 

Frank stepped inside and a gust of wind blew the door shut behind him. He tried to open it again but he couldn't. He flicked the light switch but nothing happened and he felt panic rising. He told himself that he wasn't a child now to be afraid of the dark. The door probably just needed a good shove from outside.

He called out, "Lyn? Lyn! Give me a hand. The door's stuck." 

The wind had risen to a scream and he wondered if she could hear him. She didn't come to help. He tried again, first shaking the door then banging it and finally, after some frantic scrabbling with the catch, wresting it open. The car stood in the driveway, headlights on and blinding him. Lyn wasn't in sight. 

"Lyn?" he called, shielding his eyes. "Lyn?"

This is it, he thought. It's all happened just like Lyn said. She said something would get stuck in her hair and it did, and she talked about that woman disappearing  and now she's gone.  It didn't make sense but then nothing made any sense tonight. An unfamiliar feeling stirred in his stomach. He'd better turn off the car lights, check that she really was missing, and then phone the police.

The wind was howling as he reached the car. He opened the passenger door and saw Lyn's bottom stuck up in the air as she rummaged for something on the back seat. She'd been there all along.

Frank slumped. He told himself it was relief he was feeling now, and that what he'd felt earlier was despair. Given time, he'd even believe it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ENTRY 12:  As I Pondered

My foot grated across the thick dust of the bell tower landing. I dragged my other foot up that last step, leaned over, grabbed my knees and panted. The backpack banged against my elbow. I shoved it back. The smell of dirt and bird droppings tickled the inside of my mouth.

 Two hundred steps from above the midpoint to the top of this ridiculous climb. How many steps from the bottom? Too late to go back and count from the beginning. Hitching my stomach on top of the middle rail, I stuck a finger out at arm’s length and pointed at the bottom stair. My finger wavered and I lost count of the switchbacks. Closing one eye helped, but I wasn't sure if the bottom floors had the same number of stairs as the top ones or if the stairs were of a uniform height. Accuracy could not be guaranteed with this method. I put my full weight back on my shaky legs. Starting over was not an option. Mother was right. For once. I should've spent more time in the gym.

The backpack slipped from my shoulder. I let it clunk to the wooden floor, only remembering the glass bottle when I heard it break. Too late, again. The drab green bottom darkened. Rivulets of liquid courage gathered dust as they coursed across the floor, unerringly seeking the lowest point. I followed one stream to the end and started a slow count as a drip let go of the baseboard and fell to the earth.

I unzipped the bag and whipped out my journal; followed by the heady aroma of whiskey. I grabbed a sheet of paper and ripped it down the edge. Bits of white fluttered to the floor. Approximately five seconds in free fall. No idea of the mass of a drop of dirty whiskey. Nor what value to use for air resistance. Gravity is thirty-two feet per second per second – at sea level. This isn’t sea level. If distance equals half the gravity times the time squared, that would be one half times thirty-two times twenty-five.

Sinking to the floor, I bit the end of the pen. Four hundred feet seemed excessive. Using four seconds yielded a distance of two hundred fifty six feet. Too many unknowns and substandard measuring methods. I crawled to the edge and looked down. It was high enough for my purposes. I hoped. Besides, I could come back later and measure; providing there was a later.

I balled up my calculations and tossed them in the corner, then beat my filthy hands against my jeans. Sinking back on my heels, I pondered a new page, a blank page. This needed to be a clear message for those who would read it. I needed them to understand, to empathize, to forgive – just in case I was wrong. My knees objected to my position. I sat down, straightened my legs out and sighed. Not a good time to get writer's block.

CRAW!

My butt bounced off the floor. Damn crow.

CRAW!

I waved my journal at the bird. It settled down on the railing and stared at me. I didn’t have the energy or the ambition to get up and chase it off.

“Suit yourself.”

CRAW!

It spread its wings and flapped them, claws gripping deep into the wood. Then it launched and flew above the bell into the rafters. I leaned over and peered around the bell. No bats in this belfry. The bird sat on the edge of its huge crow’s nest and stared back at me.

“Great. You can be my witness.”

CRAW!

“Yeah. Whatever.”

I leaned back and closed my eyes. My hypothesis was simple. Floating was prevalent in dreams. It could be prevalent in waking life, too. It required the right mindset, the right circumstances, the right opportunity to present itself. I was here to give it that opportunity. I crawled to the edge and looked down again. What price failure?

Staring at the ground some two hundred fifty six to four hundred feet away, I pondered that question. I could easily be wrong. The more practical side of my brain noted I was probably wrong. But my powerful dreams – night after night – were too strong to deny. At least they seemed so every morning when I first woke up. Now, when my feet were complaining about the climb and my lungs about the quality of the air, I was having second, third and fourth thoughts. And that was antithetical to my hypothesis. I had to believe in order to succeed.

I pulled away from the edge and sank to the floor once again. Pen poised, I gathered my thoughts.

To Whom It May Concern;

The soundness of my mind, while questionable from your point of view, is not from mine. I am a scientist first and foremost and willing to pay the price to prove my theories whether that be in hours at the lab, in lengthy discussion of the pros and cons, in mathematical delving into the secrets of the universe. Today, I seek to prove my theory of the human ability to float through the air and land safely on the ground.

I ripped the page out, balled it up and sent it into the same corner as the first. Pompous crap. Delusional. That’s what they’ll say. At best. I hung my head. It was a long way down, but I preferred the stairs. Maybe. I would hate to get to the bottom and have to climb back up again.

I had to make sure of my decision to abandon this scientific quest. I stood and leaned out; my toes dangling over the edge of the platform. Tightening my stomach muscles, I pulled back. Yep. I was not ready to die for science. But I wanted to prove my theory. I believed in my ability to fly. Didn’t I? I leaned out again; holding myself at that point between staying and falling.

CRAW!

Shit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ENTRY 13:  Lost In Greenery

The wind uses the forest to voice its thoughts. It uses the pinions of owls. I hear the words, though I do not know the language. The dragonflies understand. The geckos do, with their flanks working like bellows.

Sitting on my deck, I listen to the clack of wooden wind chimes, the tink-tink of copper ones. Something caws in the distance. I think it is a crow. Or something mimicking a crow. My ears keep me grounded. But my eyes are lost in greenery.

Not twenty yards from my chair, the woods rise. Pines. Oaks. Magnolias. Other trees I cannot name. Spanish moss twists along their limbs like the beards of old men. Blackberry brambles fill the underbrush, gravid with yet unripened fruit. Things are hiding among the green, though with a little effort I can see them.

Shadows sweep across the world with wings. Perhaps there are birds high in the air casting them. My human mind tells me there are birds. But I do not see them; I cannot swear they are there. And the shadows are large. I think perhaps they are fossil shadows, leftovers from the time of pteranodons and pteradactyls.

But the living things that fill the woods are not fossils. A moment ago a long silken blackness raced down the bare trunk of a pine. I saw it clearly, an animal shape some three feet long with a sleek head and long tail. It took a while for my human mind to say anything about that. It told me I’d seen the shadow of one pine swaying past another in the wind. But I don’t believe it.

I don’t believe it because of the god who conceals himself just below that spot in the bushes. He is painted many shades of green and black, and blends so well with his surroundings that I cannot tell where the god ends and the world begins. Sometimes I see only his eyes, which are like specks of sun reflected in tear drops. Sometimes I see his torn cloak and the ratty top hat he wears. I have never seen his mouth. I don’t know if he smiles. I wonder if he has teeth, and if they are long.

The god is watching me, very very quietly watching me. I suspect the silk-black animal is really one of his angels. I’m sure there are more. The are hiding from me, even as the god is trying to hide. I believe he has planted the forest on his back in an attempt at camouflage. But the wind reveals him. I think the voices in the breeze are prayers coming in from worshippers all over the world.

I wonder if the god would join me on the deck if I invited him for a drink and smoke. My mind is divided on the subject. The human part of me suggests that he will not leave the woods, that without the glory of his surroundings he would appear only shabby and small. He could not tolerate that. The animal part of me, though, says he’s already here, hunched over and dripping behind me.

I wonder if I should turn my head. I wonder if I should show him my own teeth. I don’t want to scare him off. I’m very hungry, and it has been a long time since I’ve eaten a meal as fine as a god.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ENTRY 14:  Bottomless

I have been falling for ages.

It began as these things often do – mind elsewhere, a stumble, a collapse. My throat had gone raw from screaming and vomiting before I realized there was no end. The world was ink, gravity was of no matter, and death was coming. Perhaps not in the way my crazed mind had anticipated when the ground first broke beneath me, but it was coming nonetheless.

Several hours may have passed before I was able to adjust to the sensation of constant freefall, and several more went by before I understood that I was not alone in my fate. Debris and creatures rose and fell around me, seemingly oblivious to the laws of physics. The world is strange, but stranger still when darkness and the downward pull are all that keep the crawling, wretched beings at the edge of thought from reaching out to pluck you, allowing you to hang, gasping and broken, before they devour you.

A day might have gone by when my drive for survival kicked in. Hunger and adrenaline had made me weak, and I began to listen. The coiled, venomous, slithering things surrounded me. I could hear their hissing and sense their ooze.  By this time, I had spread my body wide and fell belly-down, adopting a lazy spin, and I waited. I learned about them, these falling things, and my hands clenched and flexed. When the moment was right, my fingers burst into the darkness and closed on something surprisingly dry and unsurprisingly serpentine. The devil was between my teeth before my revulsion could cast it away, and I gorged. It may have screamed; I do not remember. All my memory holds is gritty organ and salty flesh.

The fall stretched on. I’ve no idea where I managed to find the fluids to survive. There must have been enough in the life and blood of the tunnel beasts I could get my claws on. I urinated and moved my bowels when necessary; the stink never lasted long. Sometimes I slept the restless sleep of one who knows their predator rests close by. One fateful morning (as I began to think of them), my arm struck an outcropping and shattered. Oh, how I howled. I sang to the terror-fish and horror-snakes to distract myself as I bound the ruined limb with cloth stripped from my flapping shirt.

In time, they began to understand me, these things of anti-gravity. They understood that I needed them to survive, and they moved closer to confide that they needed me. There were great secrets to share; incredible information they had held in their whirling minds for eons. My singing was greatly admired, and often my performances were greeted with the slap and hiss of applause. One of the largest, who I had feared from the beginning, wrapped me in flat, sheet-like arms and whispered great knowledge to me  – solutions to the ailments of the world that were so painfully simple I could not fathom how I had never considered them before. We fell together, he and I, his soft, dry skin protecting me from the elements and cradling my destroyed arm.

There came a time when a villain, a jealous rat with a slimy tail, decided to destroy me. He felt me an outsider; unworthy to taste the flesh or hear the whispers of his brethren. As the wind whipped by and I fell, deep in discussion with a bold creature, he floated behind me and sank his vicious teeth into my good arm. I clawed at him, reduced him to shredded hair, but his poison had taken effect. He has driven me mad, that rat. The comforting darkness is gone, replaced by burning light. No more do the whispers of my companions lull me to sleep; now there are only moans and howls. I am confined, and I scream for my sanity yet.

And still I fall.

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ENTRY 15:  Facing the Nameless Eldritch Horror

How quickly can joyful excitement turn to terror? Think of the sky-diver whose chute doesn’t open or the bathyscaphe pilot who hears the first crack in his window. Think of me, a spelunker, crawling down a previously unexplored tunnel only to have the quickest glimpse of a slime-covered tentacle as it struck from out of the darkness.

This unnatural appendage gripped my right wrist and drew me down the tunnel toward a lightless, glistening hole. The animal part of my brain knew it did not want to be born into whatever world awaited it on the other side of that vile fissure. I writhed and clutched at the unyielding rock. My fingernails splintered and my bloody hand left a thin scarlet trail in my wake. It was to no avail, I was borne away.

For several long seconds I hung in the void – suspended by my strained and tortured wrist. An unnatural chill crept up my arm as the gelatinous tentacle drew the warmth from my body. Only the nearest wall was visible in the wan light of my glow-stick, the ebon crevice now so near, so heart-breakingly near.

I turned my head and beheld my captor’s pulpy cephalopodan-like body. As if it had been waiting for me to watch, with slow and exquisite cruelty it wrapped me in a second frigid tentacle. Its other tentacles, appendages that appeared wholly unsuited for maneuvering around a cave, propelled the reeking mass over glistening rocks; carrying me away from the fissure through which I’d been drawn.

It was the eyes that struck at my mind. As I stared, I realized that it never blinked. Its gelatinous eyes resembled two enormous albino slugs embracing lightless voids in space. There was neither mercy nor empathy in those eyes, and the soul upon which they were windows was dark, pitiless, and alone.

Its mouth was a long lipless slit. This gash opened and the creature’s breath enveloped me in an icy miasma. Its exhalations were colder than the air in this lightless lithic womb. I pressed against the monster’s grip without doing more than feeding it with my body heat. As I started to shiver in its grip I realized it was content to extract my life, slowly, dispassionately.

This was a creature that was clearly outside of any world known by man. It might have lurked here in this Stygian crypt for millennia, its gelid heart beating to the rhythm of some ponderous and sluggish metronome. There was no name for this monster.

No name. This is the monstrosity vomited out of some other, darker dimension. This would have been the very image of the Nameless Eldritch Horror in Lovecraft’s nightmarish imagination.

In that instant I deduced a way out.

“I see you! I know you! I name you,” I uttered through chattering jaws. The tentacle tightened momentarily and with the breath it squeezed from my body I declaimed, “You are Pat!” As I named it, its pupils contracted in surprise.

“Now, Pat, set me down.” Pat’s mouth turned down in confusion and then, reluctantly the tentacle lowered me to the cave floor. “Let me loose, Pat!” Pat’s eyes widened and its frown deepened, but the tentacle loosened, and pulled away.

I began to back away toward the crevice. “Stay here, Pat. Do not move.” Pat shuddered as it fought against the compulsion of my command. Then it relaxed and its tentacles slumped to the floor. I reluctantly turned my back on Pat and carefully picked my way through the slime and mud on the floor. I glanced back from time to time to reassure myself Pat hadn’t moved but it remained still and quiescent. With each step I felt both warmth and joy again.

As I reached the wall and made the short assent to the crevice it suddenly occurred to me that I now controlled the most momentous discovery in decades. I knew that I would soon return and extract Pat from this lightless grotto. Thousands, no, millions would pay for the chance to look into those soulless eyes.

Behind me, in the dark, Pat's mouth turned up in a malevolent smile.

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ENTRY 16:  The Camera

Afterwards, Dena could not remember how her son had committed suicide, only that he left no note.

She couldn't remember the funeral either. The day that had signalled not only the end of her life as a mother, but also the end of her life as half of a divorced couple connected by an almost-grown son. An ending Tony had underlined only a few weeks later by becoming engaged to Elena. 'My rock,'he'd said. Now Elena had a rock. It sparkled indecently on her finger.

Dena's forgetting was psychological, her doctor said, an emotional shield generated by her mind. He offered her an appointment with a psychiatrist,but she refused. Then he offered her tranquillisers. She refused again. Instead, she carried on, washing once a week, looking after the garden,shopping for one. It was almost as if there had been no Philip.

Only one loose end remained. Six months after his death, Dena drove the two hours to the city where Philip had been studying, to clear out his room.

The landlord had left the key under the mat and she let herself in. The flat was empty, Philip's flatmates long gone. Open doors lined the polished wood hallway. Dust motes danced in late afternoon light that was the golden colour of toast. Dena passed the empty rooms until she came to the one at the end of the hallway, the one with the closed door. Philip's.

The hinges whined slightly as Dena pushed the door open. Then, as she walked into the room, Philip walked back into her life. The room was full of him; the floorboards strewn with shoes, socks, underpants, books and sweatshirts;the bed unmade, the desk scattered with notepads, leaflets, empty chip packets, tumblers, mugs, pens, pencils, mouldy-crumbed plates, CDs, files,more socks, papers and crumpled tissues. Under the staleness of the air, she smelt him too, the blend of earth and ripe apples that she remembered from the moment he was first laid, crying, on her empty stomach.

She almost wept, but, no, there was too much to do. The crockery on the desk must be washed and bleached. That was the place to start. She found Philip's wastepaper basket - empty - under a discarded sweatshirt and started sweeping old tissues off the desk. But, these tissues, all had a little bit of Philip on them, should she keep...a shocked giggle rose in her throat,but died when she picked up an empty chip packet to reveal a photo of her.

Philip had taken it the last time he'd been home, with the digital camera he'd picked up at a garage sale. A deceased estate, he'd said. He'd been so proud of the little gadget, showing her the screen that displayed the photo of her standing in front of the blossoming apple tree. The camera -maybe it had a photo of Philip on it too. Something to add to the photo albums that had once seemed so full, but now seemed so finite.

Dena rummaged through the desk drawers and swept the junk off the desk -uncovering Philip's laptop - but found no sign of the camera. She crawled across the floor, through the crusty cast offs and broken-spined books, and peered under the bed, finding only dust and tissues, and a couple of magazines she didn't much want to look at. She sat back on her haunches. No camera. Maybe one of Philip's flatmates had taken it. Stolen her memories. She cried, briefly, harshly, her face buried in her hands. That was when she realised she had to know everything. Everything about those final moments when Philip had decided that he didn't want to be her son any more.

She tipped her head back and wailed at the cracked ceiling, at the dustylampshade, at the camera, in a blue neoprene case, hanging from its strap ona hook high up in the corner of the room.
Why hadn't she noticed it before? Dena struggled up from the floor, her stiff knees making her wonder how long she had cried. She scrubbed the tears away with her sleeve, streaking her cuff with mascara, then stood on tiptoe and unhooked the camera. She unzipped the case with trembling fingers and fumbled for the 'on' button.

The lens sighed open. The screen was blank. Nothing.

The camera tumbled from her numb fingers to the floor. Something in the mechanism whined and the screen, face up, flickered into life. Dena saw the photo of herself in front of the apple tree. She dropped back to her knees,ignoring the flare of pain, and grabbed the camera.

She was right. After the photo of her came photo after photo of Philip, more photos that she could ever have wanted, photos that told her everything she needed to know. She scrolled through them with urgent fingers; racing through the microseconds the camera had caught, the last flashes Philip had left of his life. Of his death.

Dena watched again and again, her own photo flashing past at the beginning and end of Philip's story, the story told in the photos that showed him moving jerkily around his room. First looping his old school tie into a noose, then tying one end around the curtain rail, then standing on a chair,then placing the noose around his neck, and, finally, kicking the chair away.

Eventually Dena rested the camera on Philip's bed. She was surprised by her calm, by her smooth movements as she gathered what she needed. Philip's jerkiness, she realised, must have been due to the shutter of the camera,opening and closing as it captured his actions. Dena hummed as she worked. The camera clicked gently in the background, a nice counterpoint to her voice.

Later, her body spun gently through the golden dust motes. From the bed, the camera watched. Until, after a few minutes of silence, the lens closed and slid into the body of the camera with a whir that sounded almost like a self-satisfied sigh.

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ENTRY 17:  Nothing

Arian Station was frightfully busy. Beings moved in a roiling absence of pattern - striding or gliding with purpose towards boarding platforms or exits, eddying back and forth, admiring the preserved baroque architecture, the vendors of all pleasurest, the subtly flowing lights. It wasn’t possible for any one creature to stand out among all that roiling sea. Yet there she was.

Thalin put on a burst of speed, reaching her side just as she turned dark violet eyes towards him. Her face reflected recognition – and, perhaps, mild annoyance. He stood his ground, awkward behind his thick corrective lenses and worker’s clothes.

“Shaleen! I wanted to see you before…”

She sighed. “Yes, before I’m deported. We’ve been together a long time, and I know you warned me against defiance. I appreciate your care, but, as you see…” and her slim right hand rose in a sweeping motion, pointing out the four cleancut men in grey suits even now moving towards the pair, “…the State has insured my good behavior. You shouldn’t have come.”

Thalin frowned, his light brown eyes darkening under darker brows. “Shaleen, I…” and he bent forward quickly, to whisper in her gently curved ear, “I’ll see you soon. I have a tourist pass for Faic, where the camps are. I…I love you.”

As he straightened again, he felt the hard hand of the law upon his right shoulder, but he was satisfied. As the hand finished separating him from her, and the other three gently but firmly escorted her to the special transport, she looked over her perfectly proportioned left shoulder at Thalin, and wonder was in her eyes.

All in all, she’d been treated rather well, she thought.

Shaleen settled into her roomy coach seat, little bothered by the handcuff securing her left wrist to the specially-added pole beside her. The guard took her papers from the grey suit – and then, of a wonder, they both left her alone in the car. Blissfully alone for the first time in years, she watched idly out the clear, unshuttered port as the transport left the station. Her thoughts sped up with the increasing speed as the stars began to blur and twist under acceleration.

Thalin. His bold declaration of love had surprised her. He’d always been meek, mild, self-effacing, remembering his awkward earnestness, grey eyes blinking telegraph-fashion behind his lenses. He’d always been there with her, for her. He’d sensed her growing anger, and he tried – oh, how he tried! - to help her. But she’d rejected his advice to stay low, to go along to get along. She cared for him, but she cared for her integrity and her people more.

Was she sorry for her treason? They’d asked her that at the trial. She could feel the stares from the video ‘bots, waiting to broadcast a dramatic confession, perhaps a tearful repentance. The penal colony that took up half of Faic had a fearsome reputation, not lessened by the harsh natural beauty and stunning views of Ardri that drew the tourists. She’d disappointed the bots and the remotely located judge with silence and an unwavering stare. The gavel swung down, pronouncing her sentence of eternal exile to the camps at Faic.

Whatever Faic might be, it probably wasn’t the State, she thought.

She turned a little, her attention captured by the atmospheric effects outside the port as the craft descended towards Faic. Rather like northern lights, charged auras in reds and greens eddied past her eyes, twisting and weaving in and around each other and reflecting on the cabin’s polished walls. As her eyes followed the serpentine weavings, her breath came more slowly, and her heart assumed a solemn, almost formal rhythm. The effect was soothing, almost…hypnotic…

She didn’t even blink when they came for her.

Thalin’s heart pounded loudly in his ears as the sealed craft traveled towards Faic. The normal tourist shuttle was scheduled to land only an hour behind the regular penal transport, and he was sure that he would catch a glimpse of Shaleen again. Then…then, who knew? Perhaps he’d “vault the wall” and go native with her – it was whispered that people did so, occasionally. He’d do anything to see that look of wonder again in her eyes. As his body notified him of descent, he wondered idly why the tourist shuttle didn’t have any windows. :Perhaps they’re afraid of photography?:, he thought.

The craft shuddered with landing, and a robotic voice announced departure protocols. Thalin stood up slowly, allowing his body to adjust to the lesser force of gravity that was all Faic could muster. He joined the line of disembarking tourists, presented his tourist pass (good for four hours) to the reception agents, and glided past the desk to the main dome.

Almost everyone else on the shuttle was already gaping at the view through the specially darkened dome. Ardri hung low in Faic’s sky, wreathed in magnetic auras that veiled her beauty as a dancer veils her body from prying eyes. But Thalin eyes’ were scanning the main dome, seeking violet eyes and sandy hair among the crowds. In a second miracle, he found her, standing quietly with her back to him between two guards.

Disbelieving his luck, he moved purposefully towards her, no longer caring about the guards or his future. When he was near, he called her name.

“Shaleen.”

Although he *knew* her – knew her shape, her curve, her hair, as well as he knew his own face in the shaving glass – she did not turn. Disbelieving, he called again.

“Shaleen!”

As the guards grinned, she turned her head to look at the sound - and Thalin reeled back in shock and a dawning horror, for nothing was in her eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ENTRY 18:  Lost Cases

“Mrs. Moore?” the gentleman asked.

“Yes, that’s right.” Mrs. Moore looked him over. A long coat with vest, delicate hands smudged with a little bit of dirt. “Are you another journalist?”

He smiled as if he had to tell himself this was an appropriate moment to smile, but the result was warm. “No, no, not at all. I am an investigator of sorts, of my own sort, who takes up lost cases.” Her face fell as he spoke. He could see that she was at stage D-prime in his schematic: wanting to move on with life but hating herself for wanting to move on. I’m fairly good at what I do. I will find your daughter, Trinket I believe you called her, even though two years have passed since…,” he continued.

“Since she was murdered.”

“Well, quite possibly.”

“Look, whoever you are, I don’t need one more quack bringing this issue up. I don’t need you offering sympathy or nosing around for your own amusement. Do you understand what’s happened? A 10 year old girl taken, abused, assaulted, until-” the anger could only push her grief down so far.

“Titterdon.”

“What?”

“Titterdon is what people call me.”

Mrs. Moore answered, “I don’t care.”

“As you shouldn’t, but many people do. Because that was also the name of a girl who disappeared 53 years ago. My older sister.”

Mrs. Moore stopped. And sighed. “I suppose you want to search our house or something?”

He smiled again. Sincere if odd. “No, I’ve reviewed the case and all. Police are very thorough nowadays. Not like before. I just wanted to know about Sunlight.”

Mrs. Moore paused.

“Sunlight brought my hunger to me.”

One of those disgusting notes scribbled in hidden places all around Trinket’s room.

Sunlight brought my hunger to me.

I watch her over breakfast. So yummy.

I shouldn’t want her. I think of sinking in every day.

I live with them and they do not know.

It made her shudder in fear and disgust. Titterdon’s arm supported her as she sank. Therapy couldn’t take this away. Whoever had taken her baby had been sneaking into their house for weeks, months.

“The psychologist’s best idea was that he saw her in the morning. Maybe-” her throat constricted, “the morning school bus.”

“I observed that location. A bundle of azaleas sit due west of the stop. If you sit behind them, the sun would be directly behind the children.”

The police had never said this to her, but they’d searched that whole area in great detail.

“Could Sunlight be a thing, like a bike or car, Mrs. Moore? A nickname of a person or animal?”

Mrs. Moore shook her head slowly. Then Titterdon watched her head stop shaking and her hands begin to. The shaking spread throughout the poor woman’s body.

“Her horse! Oh my god, her horse. Her horse at camp. Sunlight. Some counselor did this!?”

“Call the police. I will proceed to Camp Mezuma.”

Mrs. Moore stared at him, fists growing. “I am going to tell the police about you as well, Titterdon. Why do you know about her? Is this a game you play? Killing children and then pretending to solve their crimes? I will tell what you look like and every single thing you’ve said.”

Titterdon stepped back from her. “Yes, but please also tell them of Sunlight.”

Mrs. Moore now flipped to the other side. “But Mr. Titterdon! If you find the man, he will kill you. He’s a monster!”

Titterdon smiled again. “I stay armed, legal of course.”

Titterdon drove slowly down the entrance to Camp Mezuma. The police had it cordoned off as he had hoped. He would lose a few hours to questioning when he approached them, but no need to rush about when looking for a body. To his surprise, he found Agent Chang in charge and was allowed to start his search after only an hour of warnings and disapproval. They were now looking for the man who handled the horses for the camp, Randall

I watch her over breakfast. So yummy.

Titterdon retrieved his kit from the car. He’d be looking for remains.

Five days later, there was little evidence. He’d seen signs of humans off the trails, with regular patterns of movement. But this was a camp full of teenage girls with another camp for teen boys 3 miles away. There was probably a lot of human movement at nighttime here. Then on Day 9, he found the skeleton of a fawn, stripped clean, with human teeth marks along all the bones.

So yummy.

Day 11, he found her. Alive.

He could barely tell it was her; he could barely tell it was human. Skin painted on to a skeleton with eyes ready to explode. She lay inside a cluster of rocks, chained. Her arms and legs were covered in wounds with bite marks surrounding the pus and scars.

Titterdon vomited.

She was moving though, sitting up. Staring at him. Titterdon closed his eyes, tried to calm himself, and stepped over his vomit towards her.

“I’m not with him. I-I’m here to find you, take you back to your mother.”

She recoiled.

“Don’t. Leave me here,” the voice was as unhealthy as her body. He stretched his half empty thermos to her slowly. She eyed the water suspiciously as if she wasn’t sure what it would do to her. He reached into his pockets for the lockset. As he picked at the padlock keeping her chain together, her raspy voice came out again. “I told you. Don’t. It’s not safe.”

“I’m armed,” he said as he popped the lock off. She just stared at the chain as he took it from around her neck and arms.

“It won’t help you.”

He decided to ignore that. “I can carry you back,” he explained. “You don’t look more than 50 pounds.” And 12 years old.

However, he was surprised as she stood. Her muscles looked as if they were uncoiling from lethargy, but she had more strength than he had expected. Good for her. Maybe she wasn’t lost like his sister had been.

Titterdon looked outside the little cave. No sign of anyone yet. It was possible the monster had some form of surveillance, but he had seen nothing on the way in. As he studied the surroundings, he noticed a key. For a padlock. As if the man had locked her up and simply tossed the key out from the back of the cave. Titterdon looked back in the cave for cameras hooked to a satellite system. That’s when he noticed the scribblings where Trinket had been chained. Barely scratched into the rock.

Don’t die.

Will eat her. Don’t let me.

He looked at her emaciated body, lips retracted so that her teeth glared forth. And blood under her fingernails.

She had tears. “It will hurt a lot,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

He stepped back a bit and she lunged at him. Her teeth were already into his body, sinking into his collarbone. He cried out and pushed away at her. She ripped at a muscle. He grabbed her and threw her into a wall. Running out, he heard her after him. She leapt on him from behind, sinking her teeth into the back of his neck. He spun around and around as she clung to him.   streamed down his body. A slam into a tree knocked her off. He reached for his gun and fired it at her as she came off the ground. It went through her leg and came out with virtually no blood. She leapt at him as he fired wildly. She was on him again, knocking him to the ground. He looked at her wild skeleton face, teeth covered in his blood. She sank her mouth around his throat squeezing at his voice box. He was being eaten alive. She came up covered in blood and ecstasy. He saw his hand moving the gun towards her, towards himself, as he pulled the trig-

***

Agent Chang read the note from the officer. “Mrs. Moore still not answering, sending a car around.”

She slid a glass of water over to Billingham as her interview of him wound down.

“Yes, I’ll never forget that horse, Sunlight,” he said. “Something was wrong with that one at the end. Went sick in a way I’ve never seen. This thing started taking bites out of other horses. Then fixated on its own mother. Biting her every time she got near. Following, watching, biting. Later ran away, but we found her and put her down. ‘Bout year and a half ago. Best thing we could do. Totally lost case.”

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ENTRY 19:  Maria

This excellent story removed at the author's request so she can revise and submit it.

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ENTRY 20:  What I Seed

Trish was never one for mincing words, and told the realtor exactly what she thought of the outrageous rental fees the owner of the building was charging. "For that kind of money, I'd expect three furnished bedrooms, free groceries every month, a live-in cook to do my bidding, a fully furnished media-cum-living room, and a chauffeur to drive me around in a Rolls Royce.

"I need a small place, no more than $1000 per month, for six months, til my divorce is finalized. A place big enough for me and my two dogs. Can you do that for me, Ralph?"

"Uh...er..." he stammered, "I'll see what I can do, Ms. Price. You sure you're not related to the late Mr. Vincent Price?"

"If I am," said Trish, "it's only through marriage. My maiden name is Becker. That's German, if you must know. So, not related to Vincent, not by a long shot."

"Not very many owners allow pets, you know, Ms. Price, and especially not the size of your two bull Mastiffs, but I'll ask around some more and call you before the end of the
week, for sure," he continued.

"Mutt and Jeff are sweet, to me at least, and I won't leave them behind, no matter what. They've saved my life on three separate occasions already, so, where I go, that's where they go."

"Well," he said, "I really don't think I can find anything in your price range that allows dogs, but we may both get lucky."

"That line better not be about anything more than business," she growled, "I'm not looking for a sport fuck!"

"So sorry," he profused, "of course it's about business. I just..."

"Never mind, then," she said, cutting off his further apology, "I've been on edge for some months and not in the best frame of mind. Here's my cell number. Call any time you have something in my price range, k, amigo?"

"Uh... sure," he said, still worried.

"I'm going back to my motel room, now," she said, "have a good evening."

Without a word being said, both dogs followed her back to the battered pickup truck, one jumped into the tailgate-less box, the other waited for her to open the passenger side door, then assumed his "shotgun" position.

She drove slowly up Cemetery Road, the old V-8 shuddering and wheezing from the incline, and turned into the gravel driveway that led to the Motel Ritz, which was anything but.

Back in her room with her canine companions, Trish locked the door behind them. Suddenly felt in need of a hot shower, she stripped down to her undies, and stuffed the
clothes into a handy garbage bag she could later take to a laundromat.

Closing the bathroom door, she dropped her bra and panties on the toilet seat and was about to turn on the shower water when she glanced into the mirror above the sink
and nearly screamed. A girl of about five stood looking out at her from there, and Trish felt a cold shiver run down her spine as she stared at the girl, uncomprehending.

"Wh... who are you?" Trish managed to croak, covering her breasts with an arm and hand, as if that would make any difference to a ghost, or whatever else the little girl might be.

"Don't matter none," the voice in her head replied [for how else could a nonentity speak?] , "since I seed what I seed. An' I seed ya took dat toy from da boy."

"Now just a goddamn, frigging minute here," Trish snarled at the image, "you're me, thirty years ago! Took a while for me to twig to that. And I know, even today, no one saw me in his room."

"True," replied the child in the mirror, "just testing ya." Giggles.

"What do you want from me, thirty years later?" Trish asked. "And why at this particular time?"

"Just came to warn ya not to leave here til late tonight," said the girl, "there's to be a runnin' gunfight tween bank robbers and cops in a while. There will also be a hostage taking, and many will die. All is to happen along the road ya use goin' back and forth."

"And you know all this because...?"

"I'm magic, o' course!" More giggles.

"Oh right, why didn't I think of that?"

"Cuz y're too growed up, and lost yer touch," she said, and disappeared.

"Uh-huh."

Trish blinked a few times trying to make sense of it all, could not, and found herself trembling.

To counter that she brewed a fresh pot of coffee.

A check of the fridge showed the last of the cream was gone, so she grabbed her jacket with the keys in its pocket and climbed back in the truck, Mutt and Jeff in lockstep beside her.

It wasn't until she rounded the corner on the road that she remembered the warning and drove straight into the gunfight, where she and her companions were killed.

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ENTRY 21:  When Twilight Has Come

“I’m ready,” Maya announced in a happy, breathless rush. “Let’s go!” She bounced past Derek, her skirt fluttering around her, echoing her excitement.  Her wavy, brown hair was loose. She looked ready to fly off on her old-fashioned broom, a LED light-stick taped to the end.

Before Derek could argue, Maya was out the door, almost barreling into his fellow ninja. He rolled his eyes and followed for a block, then pulled Ikaika and Simon aside.

Every kid in Bridgeton knew the abandoned house. It was built on the edge of town.  Past that house was nothing but trees, and an old road, weeds growing through the cracks. No one ever left Bridgeton that way.

The house had been empty for decades. If there was anyone stealing the cats of Bridgeton, they’d hide there.

Ten feet from its leaning, gray fence, Derek turned to his sister. She had a stubborn look on her face. “You can come with us, Maya, but no telling Mom."

“There are no treats in there,” she said with a pout. “And I don’t like tricks.”

“We’re looking for the cat-napper, Maya. It’s not some prank.”

“We didn’t even know you’d be coming with us,” Ikaika added. Maya was a year younger than Derek and his friends, and they were just beginning to think girls weren’t gross.

Derek rolled his eyes. “So you coming, or are you our look-out?”

She answered by sticking out the LED-lit end of her broom. The whole fenced moved as she swung open the creaking gate.

The three boys followed. Derek almost ran into her when she stopped on the top step of the porch, dropping her candy bag. She waved her light-stick at the threshold of the door.

“What’s wrong? Keep going.” He pushed her forward.

She grabbed his arm. “Look.”

Simon turned on his flashlight. The mangled remains of a cat was squished between the door, open a few scant inches, and the frame. Maggots crawled out of its eye socket, but the movement brought Derek’s attention to its face. “Harry Potter,” he whispered.

“What?” Maya stepped behind Simon.

“Look at its forehead. Phillip’s cat, Harry Potter, had that orange lightning bolt.” Harry disappeared a year ago.

“Maybe we should just leave,” Simon suggested. Maya gripped his arm.

“No way.” Ikaika moved closer to the door, nudging it open his foot. “This is a clue. We have the right place.” 

Derek nodded, then flicked on his flashlight and stepped over the cat. Ikaika, a shadowy twin, entered without hesitation. Maya gave an inarticulate sound of argument, but after a few seconds she and Simon followed.

Seconds inside the house, Derek bent over in a coughing fit. Dust covered everything in a thick blanket and seemed suspended in the air. 

Ikaika thumped him on the back and took the lead. When Derek’s fit abated, Ikaika asked, “Which way first? Stairs to the second floor, or door to the basement?”

“We aren’t splitting up,” Maya said sternly. 

“Basement,” Derek rasped. He straightened and tried to wipe away the tears stinging his eyes. Already the dust settled on his clothes and black gloves, irritating his eyes even more. He flashed his light towards the door. “There.” As he pulled the light back, he swore as a small shadow, cat-like, crossed the beam and disappeared up the stairs to the second floor. He glanced to the right, into the kitchen, and thought he saw Phillip’s new cat, Weasel, but his eyes were too watery to see clearly.

Ikaika led the way. The door revealed a set of wooden stairs, a handful of steps rotted through. They stepped down slowly, their backs against the wall, far from the broken railing.

“What do you think you’re going to find here, Derek?” Maya whispered angrily. “If there’s a crazy cat person, they probably already know we’re here.”

“Not if you’d be quiet.” A shuffling sound silenced them both and the group paused. Simon slowly shone his flashlight down, step by step. The beam reached the dirt floor and caught a bushy white tail whipping out of range. “At least one cat’s here,” Derek said, his vision finally clearing up.

“They wouldn’t be here for no reason, though.” Ikaika inched forward again. They heard tiny clacks and a light whispering, but most of the noise came from the four children trying to move silently.

At the base of the stair, they all pooled their light and shone it over the ground, back and forth. Just before reaching the middle of the room, something jumped on Derek’s left shoulder. He jerked away.

“Get off, get off!” He kicked up dirt trying to dislodge the large cat from his shoulder. Something else scratched his hand and he dropped his flashlight. Maya skipped backwards as Ikaika jumped forward to help. Simon frantically passed his flashlight over the ground, but moved too fast to catch sight of anything. A cacophony arose, the sound of a hundred cats yowling in anger.

Maya held her broom like a baseball bat, the bristles near her elbow. “Stop shouting, Derek. Stand still."

A thump and Simon flashed his light on the spot. Derek rolled on the ground near the middle of the room, like he was on fire.  Instead of flames, there was a dark mass on his back.

Simon swore and ran back to the stairs. Ikaika, a few feet from Derek, stumbled and fell as Weasel jumped at his chest and slashed him. Maya ran forward and jabbed Weasel, prying him off and flinging him into the darkness. Ikaika scrambled to his feet then ran, up the stairs and out of the house. A door slammed shut.

The darkness was almost absolute, the yellow lights from Simon’s shaking flashlight and Derek’s fallen one, the weak green LED on the end of Maya’s broomstick, leaving trails of afterimages in their wake. Maya caught flashes of yellow and green pupils. The room was full of cats.

“Derek, Derek, get up!” Simon shouted from the halfway up the staircase.

Derek moaned. It felt like there were scratches all over his body, and the heavy weight on his back sapped his strength as he tried to shake it off.

“Hold still.” Maya’s voice was unshaking, and he stilled.

She hit the large cat with a thwack. It didn’t fully release Derek, but swiped the bristles of her broom. She used its distraction to pry it loose with the end. Woden’s single eye glared at her in the dim illumination. He’d been the first to “go missing.” Maya frowned and jabbed the gray cat hard in the ribs. His claws retracted and he rolled off Derek’s back. Without waiting to see where Woden landed, Maya grabbed Derek’s black-dyed karate robe and hauled him up. After a moment, he steadied himself and they ran for the stairs. Simon was already by the door, his head flicking back and forth from the basement to their escape route through the empty parlor. Maya turned back once and saw a one-eared cat cross the beam of Derek’s abandoned flashlight, then they ran, barely remembering to jump over Phillip’s dead tabby as they fled.

The trio didn’t stop running until they were back in front of Derek and Maya’s front door. Simon smiled weakly, but didn’t look either of them in the face before racing to his front door three houses down. Ikaika was nowhere in sight, hopefully home. Derek trudged up the steps and rang the doorbell while Maya glared into shadows, holding her broom in both hands.

“Derek! Maya! You’re home early,” their mother said as she stood in the doorway. “Did you fall, honey?” With one hand, she absently wiped a spot of blood from a scratch on Derek’s cheek, but didn’t notice worse scratches on his hands and body. “Look who’s back kids.” 

In her other arm, she held Woden—dark grey, one-eyed, one-eared—staring back at brother and sister. A cat yowled in the distance.

Contest submissions are closed at the end of today

Hey all!  Thanks to those of you who have submitted entries to the Halloween horror writing contest!  Submissions in my email box dated today will be accepted. even if if the internet or email provider makes them late. I decided I'm not going to worry about exact cut off times.  Too much effort.  Sometime before I get up at 5am EST will do.

I'll compile all of the entries tomorrow and post no later than the 2nd. You'll have a week to read and vote on your favorites.

Thanks in advance for your voting participation, too.  I know there's quite a bit of reading involved!

Contest Status

Well, so far, so great!  We have fifteen entries, all looking ookey-spookey and horrorish to my undiscerning eye.  All fun reads.  A couple poems, a bunch of monsters, a touch of purple here and there, and some really strange things happening slightly askew from our normal reality.  I think you'll love 'em all.

If you are intending to enter to win the cuddly Chthulu plushie, you've got two days--up until midnight on Halloween. 

Send it to me, baby.  You know you want to.  ;)

Opportunity Thursday

Another contest opportunity.  I've been having trouble getting access to my database service and so haven't dug up new submissions opportunities for you guys.  Sorry!  I'll get back to it eventually.

In the meantime, lots of contests out there.  (And you can thank my homie, Sue G for this bunch.  She's more a poetry gal, but sends me good links here and there for other stuff.)  The ones listed here have short deadlines, but I thought that I'd give you a heads up in case you had something gathering dust or hot off the press.

Writer's Digest 10th Annual Short Story competition.  
We're looking for fiction that's bold, brilliant...but brief. Send us your best in 1,500 words or fewer.  But don't be too long about it—the deadline is Tuesday, December 1, 2009.  Go here to enter.

PRIZES
First Place: $3,000
Second Place: $1,500
Third Place: $500
Fourth Through Tenth Place: $100
Eleventh Through Twenty-Fifth Place: $50 gift certificate for Writer's Digest Books

DIAGRAM announces the second Hybrid Essay Contest, with a deadline of October 31, 2009. "We still don't know exactly what we mean by hybrid, and we would certainly prefer to leave definitions up to you. We don't like them. We think the term hybrid suggests a resistance to definition. I guess the only way to describe it is we're looking for essays that are in some way outside the traditional boundaries of the genre. The lyric essay is a great example of a hybrid form: an essay that is essay but also poem. So we're looking for fusion of one sort or another. In particular we'd like to see work with greater visual components, or perhaps audio, or something that will amaze and beguile us. You can check out the issue with the finalist essays in early 2009 if you like, though again, we want crazy, awesome (maybe nixing the comma between them) stuff."  $15 entry fee.  $1,000 and publication to the winner.  Email submissions okay.  Deadline:  October 30, 2009. 

Dana Awards Literary Competition.  "We offer our three $1,000 awards annually in the Novel, Short Fiction, and Poetry, our traditional awards....Whether fiction or poetry, it must be work that is original yet not merely sensational for the sake of sensation."  Guidelines page.  Deadline: October 31, 2009.  No email submissions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Poets & Writers has a wonderful page, "Grants & Awards: Upcoming Writing Contests."  I got most of this post info from there.  And considering there's more money up for grabs on these contests than the small amount you get from a 'zine for a short story, it is worth looking into these things! (Note: some of these are out of date, but the magazines and entities cited appear to have recurring contests, at least some of them.)

Editor Unleashed is having a cool contest

The "Why I Write" contest is an essay contest, details to be announced November 2nd.  I'll remind you then.  In the meantime, here's what they have to say:

This time around we’re looking for great essayists and evocative theme-based nonfiction. This contest will feature a popular ranking on the forum along with final judging by an editorial team. The 50 best essays will be included in the “Why I Write” anthology on Smashwords. And one Grand Prize winner will receive $500 and promotion here and on Smashwords.

Mark Your Calendar:
• The Rules Posted here: Monday, November 2
• Post Your Entry: Monday, November 9 – Thursday, December 31
• Popular Ranking: Monday, January 4 – Friday, January 29

I need to think up a contest for these...

...so I can order a set for my very own.

 

Plush sushi, yum!

Want to win chocolate?

UPDATE:  Details here.

Nicola Morgan at Help! I Need A Publisher (And Maybe An Editor) blog has a contest opportunity with a totally sweet prize.  Details to be announced later today on her blog; but here's the teaser:

[D]o come back here this evening for details of a chocolate + Halloween themed creative writing competition, on this blog only: a chance for you to hone your chosen writing voice / genre in a piece of flash fiction, with TEN prizes generously donated by Hotel Chocolat. Yes, Hotel Chocolat. Thank you, lovely chocolately people.

Another contest

John Scalzi is holding a writing contest.  Check it out:

“Hey, kids! Over at AMCtv.com, John Scalzi is running a writing contest! Pick from one of the ten science fiction film-themed writing assignments he’s provided, and then write a short piece based on that assignment and put it in the comment thread. Scalzi will then go through the comments, and the one he likes best wins a prize: The DVD set of the original series run of The Prisoner, which AMC is remaking into new series this fall. Man, I love that series. I would enter the contest myself, but I have to chew through the crew of the Nostromo. You know how it is.”

There you have it. Enter as many times as you like, but one “assignment” per comment, please. Entries need to be in by noon (Eastern), Wednesday, October 14, 2009.

Contest entries

I've got a couple of cool entries to the contest so far, and commitments from a few more people.  And if we get enough entries, I can offer a runner-up prize.  I ordered an extra Cuddly Chthulu plushie, so the runner-up may elect to get one also instead of the book prize (which I can give away some other time.  Say, next Halloween.)

Got first lines?

Fang-tastic Bbooks blog announced a contest over at Jamie Rush's web page, the "Kick Butt First Line Contest," which is open until November 1, 2009.  Just complete the form on the page. 

Prizes are cool: 

First place: $75 and autographed book*
Second place: $25 and autographed book*
Third place: autographed book

* For international winners, prize will be a gift certificate at B&N.com in the same amount. Autographed books subject to availability.

NOTE that the site is still reflecting deadline and information for the last contest.

October is NaBloWriMo

You've probably heard of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month); but have you heard of NaBloWriMo?  That's the National Blog Writing Month.  Where NaNoWriMo exhorts us to write 50k during the month of November, NaBloWriMo asks for a blog post per day for the month of October.  Thus the two contests aren't in competition for your gray matter.

Today's your last day to sign up for NaBlo.  To do so, email Amy at theoldcrone AT gmail.com by end of day today, September 30th.  Details here.

And if you wish to participate in NaNoWriMo this year, it starts November 1st.  Details here.  I will sign up, but will I get 50k written?  That's the big question, isn't it.  (You cannot sign up for 2009 just yet, however.)  I'm wyrddsmith on NaNo, by the way.

Twitter contest

In honor of the US release of The Ghosts of Belfast, Stewart Neville is holding a Twitter contest.  Horror, of course!  Top five entries will win a copy of Ghosts of Belfast, and the entry with the most votes gets a signed, limited edition copy of Neville's The Six.

So, here are the three simple rules:

1) Tweet your scariest, funniest ghost story in 124 CHARACTERS OR LESS.

2) It's VITAL that you remember to include the hash tag #GhostsOfBelfast or your entry won't be seen.

3) Tweet it before MIDNIGHT 31st OCTOBER.

You can enter as many times as you like, but each tweet must be a different story. So, get tweeting, and good luck!

$10,000 contest!

Speaking of contests, in case you haven't heard, Gena Showalter and her publisher are offering a contest with a $10,000 prize.  It's in honor of her soon-to-be-released YA book, Intertwined, which looks like a good read.

From the site:

From August 21st, 2009, until November 16th, 2009, you can enter the Intertwined sweepstakes (daily!) for your chance to win the grand prize of $10,000!!! Remember to visit daily to play the match game and see if you’ve won Harlequin TEEN swag instantly!

How do you enter? Just click here and simply enter your email address to begin!

Announcing a CONTEST!!

CHANNEL YOUR INNER LOVECRAFT!  In honor of Halloween, I'm going to hold a contest.  Also it's to reward all my blog pals for putting up with the massive TMI (too much information) about my surgery and dieting woes, lol. 

WE'RE GOING TO BE WRITING HORROR. 500 to 1,000ish words of spec fic horror, poetry or prose, humorous or creepy.  (You can go over 1,000 words, but please not by too much.) And no slasher horror pretty pretty please.  

AND YOU GUYS GET TO VOTE ON THE WINNER.  We'll have voting on the entries after it's all over.  I might even submit something, but if I should luck out and win I'll give the prize to the runner up. 

DEADLINE is October 31st, naturally. 

SUBMISSIONS.  Send your submission to me in the body of an email, single spaced.  Addy: writtenwyrdd (at) earthlink.net.  Heading should read "Chthulu contest submission."  Be sure and include the name you want me to use on the post.  I won't be naming individuals during the voting round, but at the announcements round.  MORE THAN ONE SUBMISSION IS ALLOWED, BUT SEND THEM SEPARATELY.  (Please keep it to two, though.  We don't want to stack the deck.) 

PLEASE REPOST AND SPREAD THE WORD.  I WOULD LIKE AT LEAST TWENTY ENTRIES TO MAKE THIS MORE FUN!  And because the prize is cool.  It's this cute, cuddly Chthulu.* 

 

And, if we get more than 20 entries, I'll also be offering another prize to the runner up: a copy of "On Her Majesty's Occult  Service," by Charles Stross, which contains both The Atrocity Archives and The Jennifer Morgue...two of my favorite books in one volume.  Geek humor and Lovecraftian horror.  Priceless!

*You can thank FairyHedgeHog for the prize idea.  She mentioned cuddly Chthulu, and I was inspired. 

And for those of you who don't know what Chthulu is, it's a monster from Lovecraftian horror, and apparently (according to the PSA the other day) quite popular with the ladies.

Opportunity for a big prize

Anthology News & Reviews announces a contest that has a short deadline (October 1st):

The Missouri Review is now offering $15,000 in prize money for the 19th annual Jeffrey E. Smith Editor's Prize Contest -- $5,000 per genre in poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. Past winners' work has been reprinted in the Best American series. Each entry is $20. All entrants receive a one-year subscription to The Missouri Review either in print or in the new environmentally friendly digital format, which includes bonus audio content. The deadline is October 1st, and you can enter online or by mail. For details, check out our webpage: http://missourireview.com/contest

And the winner is...

Using a random number generator*, I have selected a winner for the 1000th post contest:  Sylvia!  Congratulations, Sylvia!  Email me with your particulars and I'll get these puppies shipped off to you on my next day off, which happens to be next Friday.

*Hey, it was simpler than writing down names and putting them in a bag.  I got the # and counted down in the comments.  When I got one of my own comments, I drew another number until it wasn't my own comment that got selected.

Here's what you might win...

Just make a comment in the post (link in previous post below) by end of day Friday (tomorrow).  There'll be a mixed lot of whatever tag ends I have on hand, but likely two or three of each you see here. 

And just so you know what I've done to my semi-organized office (in the name of getting shelves made):

And my supervisory staff, always ready to lend a jaundiced eye:

Contest reminder!

I apologize for lack of blog content lately.  Too much going on so you get random blather.  I have to warn you that it's not going to get better for a while.  I'm terribly distracted, and with having to quit drinking coffee I'll be a total zombie.  I'm pretty bad right now, and I'm down to only 8oz a day!  (Grumble, snarl, snarf.)  Also, when I get back from the hospital, I won't feel like blogging.  I might bomb my google reader just to keep the guilt at bay!  But we'll see.  No telling what I'll feel like doing.  (Hopefully it's getting some solid writing in.)

Anyhow, I wanted to remind those of you who haven't commented to do so here and win a chance to acquire some mighty fine notecards, made by moi.  (I'll get some pictures up tonight.)

Contest (and critique) opportunity

To celebrate their graduation from beta status, Anthology Builder is hosting a contest.  The challenge? Write a 1,000-10,000 word short story  to go with something from the Anthology Builder database of cover art and submit.  All finalists win a $30 gift certificate from Anthology Builder, and a critique of their story by Nancy Fulda, assistant editor at Jim Baen's Universe.   Deadline: September 30.  Details here.

Contest opportunity!

Reposted:

"In Vino Veritas (Truth in Wine)" Short Fiction Contest

This spring, Jaye Wells released her kick-butt novel RED-HEADED STEPCHILD. Her debut. It was a wonderful moment for a hard-working writer and a great blog friend. (Go Jaye!)

RED-HEADED STEPCHILD had a birth of sorts back in August 2006 during the "Lonely Moon" contest here at The Clarity of Night. Jaye penned an honored entry called "I Can Dig It," which introduced the world to a rockin' female vampire/assassin burying her latest handiwork. That character is the beloved Sabina Kane now taking names and dishing punishment in her on-going series. Today, Jaye is returning to The Clarity of Night to inspire YOU, the next debut novelist who will ignite the world. Welcome to the "In Vino Veritas (Truth in Wine)" Short Fiction Contest in honor of Jaye and all of her accomplishments!! (Can I get an OH-YEAH?!!!) Please join me in welcoming her as co-host and in offering well-earned congratulations.

THE CONTEST WILL OPEN ON WEDNESDAY, JULY 8, 2009.

Now, down to business. Here's how the contest works. Using the photograph above for inspiration, compose a short fiction (or poetry) piece of no more than 250 words in any genre or style. After the contest opens, send your entry to me by email at jevanswriter at yahoo dot com before 11:00 p.m., Wednesday, July 15th (Eastern Time, United States). I'd prefer attachments formatted in Microsoft Word or Word Perfect (please see the format request below), but if you have something more exotic, you can paste the text into the body of an email. Each entry will be posted and indexed.

Now for the goodies. The following prizes are up for grabs:

• 1st Place: $50 Amazon gift certificate and a signed copy of RED-HEADED STEPHCHILD
  
• 2nd Place: $30 Amazon gift certificate
  
• 3rd Place: $25 Amazon gift certificate
  
• 4th Place: $20 Amazon gift certificate
  
• 5th Place: $15 Amazon gift certificate
  
• Readers' Choice Award 1st Place: $30 Amazon Gift certificate and a signed copy of RED-HEADED STEPCHILD

But this is about more than prizes. I hope you take advantage of the opportunity to meet and interact with your fellow writers. Our different perspectives, styles, and skills shine when we all start at the same place. It's a great opportunity to learn from each other.

Rules:

1. 250 words maximum.
   
2. Titles are optional, but encouraged. Titles do not count toward your word count.
   
3. One entry per person.
   
4. Any genre or style is welcome. If you choose to submit poetry, you must have narrative movement within the poem if you wish to compete with the prose pieces for the prizes.
   
5. The copyright remains with you, the author; however, you grant me worldwide first electronic publishing rights to post your entry on this blog indefinitely.
   
6. Judging will be conducted by me, Jason Evans. For an explanation of the judging criteria and scoring system, see A Note on Judging. You can also read the winning entries from past contests. Judging will also be conducted by Jaye Wells as co-host. (See below.)
   
7. Please provide a name for your byline. If you have a website or a blog, I'd be happy to link your site to your byline. If you don't have a website or blog, feel free to include a short bio. A bio does not count towards your word count.
   
8. At the close of the contest, I will give the date and time for the announcement of winners.
   
9. After the winners are announced, I will post what I liked most about each entry in the comments.
   
10. The Readers' Choice Award is awarded by vote of the contest participants. The entry with the highest number of votes wins. The rules for this portion of the contest will be posted after the entry period closes.
    
11. Public critiques in comments are encouraged, but must remain respectful. I reserve the right to delete comments and ban participants who do not abide by the collegial spirit of Clarity of Night contests.
    
12. For prior contests and their results, see the links on the sidebar.

Format Request:
These are not rules, and I will not reject an entry which does not conform, but if you follow them, my work in running the contest is much less. For that, I will be eternally grateful!

1. Single space lines, and double space paragraph breaks.
   
2. No tabs or indents for new paragraphs.
   
3. If you have italics in your text, please code it for html by putting a begin italics code < i > where it starts and an end italics code < /i > where it ends.
   
4. Although it's rarely used, handle bold < b >< /b > and underline < u >< /u > the same way.
   
5. Write your title at the top of the document left justified in title case (first letters capitalized). On the next line write your byline left justified (example, by Jason Evans). Add two blank lines, then begin your story.

Judging By Jaye:

As co-host, Jaye will also be judging entries. She is not bound by my scoring system. Here's what she had to say about what she is looking for: "No matter the length, all good stories elicit emotion from the reader. As I'm reading the entries, I'll be paying attention to those that make me feel something--fear, sympathy, amusement, etc. Of course, I'm a sucker for clever word play (but not too clever, if you're trying too hard it shows). The third element is probably the most important: Originality. Surprise me with your take on the photo. Stretch your creative muscles and give me the unexpected. Good luck!"

Welcome to this latest contest! You can send your entries early, but the contest will officially open and entries will be posted starting on July 8th.

Help spread the word!

New Markets!

Death Head Grin.  Length 500-6000 words.  Pay: $0.  "Focus on speculative fiction...all genres considered except for erotica or romance."  Open submissions as they are currently looking for submissions for the first issue.

The Fugitive's Hideaway.  SF/F/H. Length: 3-5k. Pays: $0.  "The Hideaway will eventually become a in-print/online speculative fiction magazine. We're open for submissions in all capacities and are trying to implement content fast, so submit ASAP. The first issue is on target to publish in July, the reading and submissions period will be open until 12:00am June 21st, 2009. Submissions after this are fine, they just will have to wait until later in the summer."

Emerald Tales.  Length: 4k. Pays: $40 flat.  Bi-montly print magazine.  All genres.  "Needs poetry and short fiction from a cross-section of genres all written on the same theme. There will also be an ongoing serial story of six installments, one installment per issue. Volume one: Theme: Follow the Butterflies."  Check the website for current themes and submission instructions.  Submissions@scribblersandinkspillers.com

NewFoundSpecFic.  Length: up to 4.5k.  Pays: $.01/word (Canadian$) or a flat $45 for stories exceeding 4.5k.  Bi-annual speculative fiction anthology.  Aims to showcase the creative spec fic stories of horror, fantasy and science fiction written by "many of the undiscovered talents of Canada."  Deadline: July 6, 2009 for the next issue.  (NOTE:  From the web site, it appears that submissions are not limited to Canadians.) 

CHEER UP, UNIVERSE (One Time Print - TBD) Needs: SF/F. Length: No limits. Pays: 1¢/wd ($15 max) "Seeking ORIGINAL speculative fiction stories (both SF and Fantasy) that make us feel good. Feeling good is subjective so going into specifics is not possible."  Submit: Ai_59@yahoo.com  This one sounded interesting.  I mean, upbeat futuristic fiction?  Tres droll!

HYPERSONIC TALES Length: 1k. Pays: $5.  All genres.  Looking for flash fiction.

QUEER GOTHIC (One Time Print/E anthology - Queered Fiction)  Length: 3-10k. Pays: 50% split royalty.  "We're looking for gothic tales of horror and romance. We are seeking fiction with positive images of queer characters. We’re not looking for clichés."  Submit: Editor@queeredfiction.com  Deadline: 08/31/09.  Publishing Date: Aug/Sep 2009

AND A CONTEST:

CHIZINE & Leisure Books are sponsoring a contest.  "Leisure Books, the company “leading the way in publishing paperback horror,”* is partnering with Rue Morgue magazine in association with horror fiction web site ChiZine, to present “Fresh Blood,” a new writing contest specifically for unpublished horror authors. The winner will receive a contract for publication in Leisure’s 2011 lineup....

Leisure is looking for finished horror novel manuscripts, either supernatural or non-supernatural, of 80,000–90,000 words. A panel of experts, including Leisure Executive Editor Don D’Auria and editors at ChiZine, will judge entries. The finalists will be announced in November 2009."

Help Orbit Books create the World's Worst SFF Book Cover!

World In A Satin Bag has a link to Orbit Books' contest to create the World's Worst SFF Book Cover.  This sounds like some fun to be had.  Right now, they are asking for crappy titles; soon they'll be asking for book cover elements. 

Also on that post is a link to Smashing Magazine's list of the Fifty Best Free Resources to help you with your writing. 

Opportunity Thursday - this time, contests!

Some contests with plenty of prep time:

Oncewritten.com (an online magazine) has the "2009 Midnight Hour Halloween fiction contest".  First prize: $500 and publication.  Runner up: $100 and publication.  Deadline: August 31, 2009.  There's a reading fee of $15, however, so you need to decide if you want to participate based on that.  per the site:  "Do you have a really great ghost tale to tell?  Are horror stories your specialty?  maybe you've written a Halloween story that you can't wait to share with the world?  Perhaps midnight is just a time of reflection for you and your characters.  Scare us, depress us, inspire us, we don't care, but tell us a great story about what happens in The Midnight Hour.  We aren't too strict with word counts, but use 3,500 words as a loose guideline."  http://www.oncewritten.com/Contests/MidnightHour.php

Minnesota Society for Interest in Science Fiction and Fantasy (MISFITS) has the "11th Annual MISFITS Writing Contest."  First prize, Open Division:  $125 Amazon.com gift certificate.  Two winners will be chosen from this category.  Not much on what they want except, "Science fiction,fantasy, horror, supernatural or alternate history fiction." (There are also youth division and poetry division contests; check the site for details.)  Submissions:  April 1, 2009 through May1, 2009.

NOTE:  If you were already aware of this contest, check the rules link anyhow, as the rules have changed. http://www.misfit.org/writingcontest/rules.htm

Aeon, "Ireland's magazine of Science Fiction, Fantasy & Horror" presents the International Aeon Award.  Prize:  1,000 pounds and publication in Albedo One.  2nd and 3rd prizes are 200 and 100 Euro and publication in Albedo One.  Again an entry fee of  7 pounds.  http://www.albedo1.com/html/aeon_award.html  Length: No more than 8,000 words, no minimum length. Multiple entries are allowed (separately submitted, I presume.)  From the site:  "The contest opens 1st January 2009, and runs for four rounds throughout the year.  The submission deadline for the first round is March 31st, the second round [is] June 30th, the third round September 30th and the final round November 30th.  (i.e. you can submit any time from 1st Jan to 30th Nov.)  At the end of each round, the best story submissions received within each round will be chosen by a panel fo judges and shortlisted for the Award.  The stories chosen for shortlisting in each round will be announced…on the Albedo One website…shortly after the end of each round."

 

ElectricSpec does slush!

Betsy over at Electric Spec ezine's blog has asked that I help spread the word about their First Page Critique Game.  Basically, email her the first 200 words (or to the end of the sentence where the 200th word lands) and staaaaand back! 

And I have to share what she adds: "I'm doing this out of what little goodness is left in my sour, blackened editorial heart. Please don't harass us if we don't fall in love with your page. Also, no toadies or sycophants, please. I get enough of that from Gremlin."

Bwahahaha!  I'm going for it.  See if you can pick out the red penned and snaggle-toothed bit of prose I submitted. 

CONTEST!!!

From a member of my critique group, this contest announcement for flash fiction and prose poetry contest sponsored by OdysseyCon.  There is a $10 fee.

The details.
Adults 18+, $10 entry fee per story/poem; multiple entries allowed.
Prizes: $500 plus OddCon membership to first place, books etc. to top 3.
Adult entry fee of $10 per story/poem via PayPal to treasurer@oddcon.com [Ed. go to website for payment link], or mail a check payable to OddCon to address below (postmark by January 1). E-mail your work (maximum length 500 words, excluding title), pasted into body of e-mail or attached as .doc or .rtf, to contest2009@oddcon.com. Put last name, first initial, and CONTEST: Youth or Adult in the subject line. Be sure to include your name, date of birth if Youth entry, mailing address, phone number, and the name/e-mail under which payment was made, if not the one used to enter. Receipt will be acknowledged within 3 days.

Contest results!

Sorry, I had to share one of the demotivators I subbed to EE's blog.  What can I say? I had all these photos of cactus and nary a use for 'em...

Aaaaanyhow, I received six entries for the contest in honor of the 2-year blogoversary.  I liked them all, and find it difficult to choose a clear winner. 

Scott from Oregon:  Establishes a great setting and a lot about the characters and made me want to read more.  Can't imagine the havoc of a lit torch when the guy falls off the ladder onto the scrapheap, but something about your not-so-nice character grabs me. 

Charles Gramlich: I could draw that landscape, I think.  And I loved that last line!

Bernita:  Lush and lovely.  I can practically hear Clannad crooning in the background.

Gutterball:  I'd not choose eternity there, either!  Pretty close to a finished flash story there.

Whirlochre:  Your usual bizarre entrapment of the mind...and carpet shampooing.  (I begin to think you have a fetish.) 

Sylvia:  Nice stuff!  I can picture the disaster and the bitterness of your character comes through nicely.  A great sense of tragic backstory, pendulous over the pov character.

Like I said, all great stuff.  So I copped out and decided to pull numbers from a hat.  Then I felt guilty for copping out and decided I'd have to make a Decision.  So, based purely on my visceral reaction to the snippets and not the wearing of any editorial hat, I call it a tie between Scott and Bernita, and Whirlochre gets the prize for making me chuckle.  (If you don't want a coffee mug that's likely to get broken in the Queen's mail, WO, I'll send you a print, too.)

So congrats to the winners and do send me your snail mail addys and I'll get the goodies in the mail in a week or so when I have another day off! 

2 Year Bloggaversary!

August 7th marked the 2nd* anniversary of me as a blogger.   UPDATE:  I'VE DECIDED TO EXTEND THE DEADLINE UNTIL MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8TH.  Sorry, I lost track of time and didn't notice when the post didn't.!  But it's been 431 posts on the typepad blog, 502 on the old blogger site.  (Has it really been 933 posts?  Gawd, you can't shut me up!) 

Anyhow, in honor of this less-than-momentous event, I'm having a contest.

I'm going to keep it simple, which is to say simple for me in the area of judging.  You can get as elaborate as you like with your submissions.  The judging part, however, is going to be subjective, or I might draw names from a hat if I can't pick a clear favorite.  (And knowing all y'all's talent, that's likely the end result). 

The challenge.
K.I.S.S. rule applies.  Or not.  But I want a 150- to 300-word narrative describing a different reality.  I want to feel pulled in to that world you describe so hard and so deep I'm deafened and my ears rupture from the power with which I'm forcibly transferred to your fictional world.  You can use dialog if you wish, but I would prefer mostly description.  The real challenge is to do this with a minimum of dialog and a maximum of exposition--and not be boring.  Extra points scored for adding in a character or action that makes me want to know more.  (You know, a story beginning, but heavy on the worldbuilding.  What one calls a 'scenic' opening.)

Wow me.  I love it when you do that.  The deadline shall be next Friday, September 5th, 2008, at 6pm.

The prize.
WINNER receives a signed photographic print of my logo California poppies. (I'd frame it, too, but my experience of shipping art says it's gonna break.)

I also have a couple of RUNNER-UP PRIZES:  An Evil Editor mug up for grabs if you can tell me (in 100 words or less) why aardvark is a funny word--or anything else side-splittingly amusing; and a nifty forest green Maine souvenir mug if you can give me something more bizarre than this, yet which is somehow (no matter how vague the degree of separation) Maine themed.

*In a couple of recent comments I got the times confused and said it'd been 3 years.  Yeah.  I'm getting senile.  I forget how old I am sometimes, too.

Mystery & mayhem

Kristin Nelson on her PubRants blog has some good posts.  A couple of contests and informative discussions she mentions:

"Chuck Sambuchino at Guide to Literary Agents is looking for the worst logline ever for his The "Worst Storyline Ever" Contest. This is going on now until the end of August. A glory of sorts… [this is the mayhem]

Lucienne Diver, client and fellow literary agent, is hosting Mystery Week over on her blog so if you write in this genre, you might want to pop by and check it out. Some great advice going on over there." [this is the mystery]

THERE IS A PRIZE OF A QUERY CRITIQUE FOR WINNING THE BAD LOGLINE CONTEST!

A contest!

Editorial Anonymous is having a pitch contest.  Details here.  And she really wants to read 'em and weep, judging by the 'awards' she lists.  But you can send in good ones, too.

Short story contest opportunity

From a critique group member, this link.  Contest is for short stories 1,000 to 2,000 words in length and is open to all unpublished GB residents.  Entries due by 3June2008 via email.

Want to win something?

Amazon has an interesting contest going on.  It has to do with getting reviews for the finalists in their "Breakthrough Novel Award" contest.  You could win a Kindle (bleh), a $2,000 Amazon gift certificate (Woot!) or an HP photo printer (Hmm...).  The price of entry?  Do reviews on the excerpts of the semifinalist entries.

Worst sexual passage of 2007 - UPDATED

The Literary Review has an annual award for worst overwrought phrase describing sex.  Norman Mailer gets it this year, the two-time Pulitzer Prize winner.  Apparently, he called a penis a battering ram. 

Full article is here, with related articles here, and here.  No list of the actual quotes that got the candidates nominated, though.  If you find it, let me know and I'll link it.

THANKS TO JAN HARADA FOR THE LINK TO QUOTES OF THE SHORT-LISTED PROSE.  And Mailer also refers to a limp penis as a coil of excrement.  Eugh.  The other contenders are bad, but this one really is the worst of the worst.

The ultimate first line contest

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness." Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford (1830)

Back to first lines with the most infamous first line in the English language.  It has, however, done some good:  It has spawned the San Jose State Bulwer-Lytton contest.  This site is always worth a read, if you are a writer. It is incredibly challenging to be bad and funny at the same time. Beyond my meager abilities, I'm afraid. Some of you guys, though, I'm sure you can win.

I owned the original book Dark & Stormy Night, which was how I learned of this contest.  And they have a new book out now, too, as well as several previous offerings.  I'm thinking stocking stuffers for writerly types.

The 2007 winner:
Gerald began--but was interrupted by a piercing whistle which cost him ten percent of his hearing permanently, as it did everyone else in a ten-mile radius of the eruption, not that it mattered much because for them "permanently" meant the next ten minutes or so until buried by searing lava or suffocated by choking ash--to pee."  Jim Gleeson