The Last Ride
by Eric J. Krause
The latest text message pushed him over the edge. "Danny cussed out his teacher. Probably suspended." He wondered if Julia had been chuckling when she sent it. No doubt she blamed the teacher. Lord knows Danny never did anything wrong. It seemed the only time the two of them talked anymore was when they argued about their delinquent son.
"Mind if I sit, pal?"
Brad blinked and looked up from his phone. The bus had just picked up a few more passengers and not many seats were left. He slid to the window and smiled at the man in shabby business casual clothes. "Yeah, yeah, sorry. Off in my own little world."
"Thanks." Luckily that appeared to be the end of it. Nothing made a bus trip more intolerable than having to make small talk with a stranger.
Half-a-dozen more stops. Knowing traffic--and a quick glance around at the gridlock proved he did--it'd be another fifteen to twenty minutes. He turned his attention back to the phone and mulled over his reply. Anything he typed would be wrong. He needed to find something that would lead to quiet hostility rather than an out-and-out fight the second he stepped in the door. Inspiration did not strike.
Brad watched the next stop come and go. His palms broke out in sweat at the thought that there was one less buffer between him and home. He gripped his phone tight in anticipation of another text, this one wondering why he hadn't responded.
"This is stupid," he said, drawing a look from the big lout next to him. He readied an explanation, but the guy turned back to his sports page without a word. He looked around, saw no one paid him any mind, and shut off his phone, an action Julia deemed sacrilege.
As they made the next three stops, he fingered the power button, but willed himself not to push it. As they neared the stop before his, he almost cheered when someone pulled the cord.
"Why am I doing this to myself?" he said to the guy next to him.
"Don't know, pal." He didn't look up.
Brad laughed. It was so clear now. When the bus pulled away from the curb, he didn't reach up and mark the next stop. He used to have a life that didn't involve Julia and Danny, so why couldn't he have that again?
About a block from his stop, Brad sighed and pulled the cord. He couldn't start a new existence out of the blue. He didn't have the connections to disappear. When the bus stopped, he got off and headed for home.
There were other ways to vanish from life.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
My Novel Revision Pt. 1
As I've said in previous posts, I know how authors are often interested in seeing how others work on their writing projects. I know I like knowing these little secrets. Because of this, I decided to share how I'm working on my revisions. I'm still early in the process (hence the Pt. 1 in the title of the post), but I'll share more in future posts as I get further along in the process. If this helps some people figure out a different way to revise, great. If not, at least you get a peak into my writing life.
The first thing I did was let the project sit unseen for a month. I've heard this is a great amount of time to give the project some distance, and it seems to work. Of course I remember writing it all, but it's not nearly as fresh as it would have been if I'd started revising right after finishing the first draft. The little bit of breathing room really does make it easier to tackle it with my trusty red pen.
After the waiting period, I printed out the manuscript and read it through. In this first read through, I changed very little. The only time my red pen touched the page was when I found a glaring spelling or punctuation error, most likely the result of a typo. The plan for the first read through was just to immerse myself into the story. I wanted to make sure it flowed, if there were any glaring holes, and if the beginning and ending worked. As I read, while I didn't touch much of the manuscript, I did take plenty of notes on how to make the story stronger.
Once I finished reading, I checked all of my revision notes, both the ones I took during that first read, as well as the ones I took while I wrote the first draft. With a fresh mind on my story, I was able to see which notes made sense and which were already taken care of (or didn't need to exist). I rewrote these notes on two separate pages. The first was notes on the overall story--things that didn't have a specific spot, but could be in any number of places in the manuscript. I'll keep this list handy at all times while I rewrite. The second list was ideas that go in certain parts of the story. I wrote these chronologically, and as I go through the manuscript I will add them.
This is actually where I am in the process. I'm starting my second read-through. As I read, I have a red pen, a blue pen, and a black pen, as well as both sets of notes and blank paper. In this read-through I'm not concentrating very hard on grammar or spelling or even word choice, but simply ideas. As I get to points in my notes that I want to add to my manuscript, I'll change it right on the page with my red pen if it's a small item. If it takes more, I'll write a number in blue ink where I want the change to go and complete the change on another piece of paper (labeling it with the page number and the number I put in blue). I'll go through the work until I'm happy I addressed all my notes.
That's where I am right now. When I finish this step, I'll still need to make sure the writing is tight and error free, so I still have a few read-throughs to complete. As I do get further in the process, I'll make another post to show how it's going. I hope you enjoyed a brief look into my revision process. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
The first thing I did was let the project sit unseen for a month. I've heard this is a great amount of time to give the project some distance, and it seems to work. Of course I remember writing it all, but it's not nearly as fresh as it would have been if I'd started revising right after finishing the first draft. The little bit of breathing room really does make it easier to tackle it with my trusty red pen.
After the waiting period, I printed out the manuscript and read it through. In this first read through, I changed very little. The only time my red pen touched the page was when I found a glaring spelling or punctuation error, most likely the result of a typo. The plan for the first read through was just to immerse myself into the story. I wanted to make sure it flowed, if there were any glaring holes, and if the beginning and ending worked. As I read, while I didn't touch much of the manuscript, I did take plenty of notes on how to make the story stronger.
Once I finished reading, I checked all of my revision notes, both the ones I took during that first read, as well as the ones I took while I wrote the first draft. With a fresh mind on my story, I was able to see which notes made sense and which were already taken care of (or didn't need to exist). I rewrote these notes on two separate pages. The first was notes on the overall story--things that didn't have a specific spot, but could be in any number of places in the manuscript. I'll keep this list handy at all times while I rewrite. The second list was ideas that go in certain parts of the story. I wrote these chronologically, and as I go through the manuscript I will add them.
This is actually where I am in the process. I'm starting my second read-through. As I read, I have a red pen, a blue pen, and a black pen, as well as both sets of notes and blank paper. In this read-through I'm not concentrating very hard on grammar or spelling or even word choice, but simply ideas. As I get to points in my notes that I want to add to my manuscript, I'll change it right on the page with my red pen if it's a small item. If it takes more, I'll write a number in blue ink where I want the change to go and complete the change on another piece of paper (labeling it with the page number and the number I put in blue). I'll go through the work until I'm happy I addressed all my notes.
That's where I am right now. When I finish this step, I'll still need to make sure the writing is tight and error free, so I still have a few read-throughs to complete. As I do get further in the process, I'll make another post to show how it's going. I hope you enjoyed a brief look into my revision process. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
Friday, November 20, 2009
#fridayflash: The Refrigerator Door
The Refrigerator Door
by Eric J. Krause
"Can I see you in the kitchen?"
Bryan jerked awake. He hadn't even realized he'd been asleep. Nadine, his girlfriend, glared at him from the kitchen doorway.
"What?" he said.
She gave an exaggerated sigh. "I said I wanted to see you in the kitchen."
"Why? We're the only ones here."
Nadine rolled her eyes. "Would you just get in here? Please?"
Bryan grunted as he stood up. There would be no arguing with her, but he couldn't think of what he'd done.
"What's the meaning of this?" She pointed at the refrigerator. Both its and the freezer's door were standing wide open.
He shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't do it."
"Well, when I left, they were both closed. Now look. The ice cream is melted, the frozen pizza isn't frozen, and I'm sure the sour cream and milk have spoiled."
He shrugged again.
Nadine threw her hands up. "Do you think they opened themselves?"
As soon as she said that, Bryan saw a little man on the counter behind her. It stood about six inches tall and wore a tiny green suit which made him think of a leprechaun. He wanted to point it out to Nadine, but it jumped out of sight behind the cookie jar.
Nadine slammed both doors shut. "You were in such a rush to grab a soda and put some ice in it so you could get back to the couch that you didn't even check to see if you'd closed the doors. Am I right? Don't even answer. I know I'm right."
She stormed out of the kitchen and he heard the bedroom door slam shut. He just stood there. He hadn't been in here since breakfast, before she'd left. He was about to go back to the couch when the leprechaun-thing came back onto the counter. It covered its mouth with one hand and pointed at him with the other. It's belly jiggled with laughter.
He took a step towards the little man, expecting it to bolt, but instead it motioned to the freezer. Bryan turned and watched the door pop open. Two more leprechaun-things, which looked identical to the first, jumped out. Once they hit the floor, they scurried towards the sink, opened the cabinet underneath, and scampered inside. The refrigerator door opened next, and four more followed. Bryan looked back at the one on the counter. It stuck its tongue out at him, then pointed and laughed. He stepped forward with every intention of smacking it across the room.
"You have neither the guts nor the strength, human," it said in a soft, squeaky voice. The six other leprechaun-things climbed up the drain and walked over to the first.
"While we distracted you in here," one said, "our pets captured your lady-friend."
Nadine. Bryan ran from the kitchen and burst into the bedroom. She lay on the bed wrapped in what he thought was a coil of rope. After a second look, though, he saw it wasn't rope, but a thick strand of spider web. Her lips were also glued shut with webs. Three spiders, each as big as German Shepherds, stood next to the bed. He took a step towards her, but the huge beasts cut him off. He gave her an apologetic look and hurried back to the kitchen. The seven leprechaun-things still stood on the counter.
"What's going on?" Bryan asked.
"Don't take it personally. Look outside. Don't be shy; we'll still be here."
Bryan took a deep breath and went to the window. He opened the curtains, but just as quickly closed them. Flames engulfed the whole neighborhood.
"You humans have ruled this world with an iron fist, leaving nothing for us. But we've been patient. We devised a plan, stored up our resources, and when we deemed ourselves ready, we struck. As you can see, it's going quite well."
The three spiders came into the kitchen carrying Nadine on a web stretcher. They set her down and turned their attention to Bryan. Before he could react, he found himself covered in webs and unable to move. His lips, like Nadine's, were stuck shut.
"They will make fine slaves. Nemby, the stove. The rest of you, the portal."
All of the little creatures except one ran to the refrigerator and jumped inside. Bryan almost choked on his own saliva. A huge tunnel had replaced the inside of his refrigerator. The spiders placed him on a web stretcher like Nadine's and followed the leprechaun-things into the refrigerator. He watched the straggler cast some sort of spell on the stove, causing it to spit fire around the kitchen. The little man emitted a gleeful laugh and followed the rest down the long tunnel.
Bryan looked back at his now-burning house, and all he could think was that Nadine was going to be pissed. The leprechaun-things hadn't shut the refrigerator door.
by Eric J. Krause
"Can I see you in the kitchen?"
Bryan jerked awake. He hadn't even realized he'd been asleep. Nadine, his girlfriend, glared at him from the kitchen doorway.
"What?" he said.
She gave an exaggerated sigh. "I said I wanted to see you in the kitchen."
"Why? We're the only ones here."
Nadine rolled her eyes. "Would you just get in here? Please?"
Bryan grunted as he stood up. There would be no arguing with her, but he couldn't think of what he'd done.
"What's the meaning of this?" She pointed at the refrigerator. Both its and the freezer's door were standing wide open.
He shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't do it."
"Well, when I left, they were both closed. Now look. The ice cream is melted, the frozen pizza isn't frozen, and I'm sure the sour cream and milk have spoiled."
He shrugged again.
Nadine threw her hands up. "Do you think they opened themselves?"
As soon as she said that, Bryan saw a little man on the counter behind her. It stood about six inches tall and wore a tiny green suit which made him think of a leprechaun. He wanted to point it out to Nadine, but it jumped out of sight behind the cookie jar.
Nadine slammed both doors shut. "You were in such a rush to grab a soda and put some ice in it so you could get back to the couch that you didn't even check to see if you'd closed the doors. Am I right? Don't even answer. I know I'm right."
She stormed out of the kitchen and he heard the bedroom door slam shut. He just stood there. He hadn't been in here since breakfast, before she'd left. He was about to go back to the couch when the leprechaun-thing came back onto the counter. It covered its mouth with one hand and pointed at him with the other. It's belly jiggled with laughter.
He took a step towards the little man, expecting it to bolt, but instead it motioned to the freezer. Bryan turned and watched the door pop open. Two more leprechaun-things, which looked identical to the first, jumped out. Once they hit the floor, they scurried towards the sink, opened the cabinet underneath, and scampered inside. The refrigerator door opened next, and four more followed. Bryan looked back at the one on the counter. It stuck its tongue out at him, then pointed and laughed. He stepped forward with every intention of smacking it across the room.
"You have neither the guts nor the strength, human," it said in a soft, squeaky voice. The six other leprechaun-things climbed up the drain and walked over to the first.
"While we distracted you in here," one said, "our pets captured your lady-friend."
Nadine. Bryan ran from the kitchen and burst into the bedroom. She lay on the bed wrapped in what he thought was a coil of rope. After a second look, though, he saw it wasn't rope, but a thick strand of spider web. Her lips were also glued shut with webs. Three spiders, each as big as German Shepherds, stood next to the bed. He took a step towards her, but the huge beasts cut him off. He gave her an apologetic look and hurried back to the kitchen. The seven leprechaun-things still stood on the counter.
"What's going on?" Bryan asked.
"Don't take it personally. Look outside. Don't be shy; we'll still be here."
Bryan took a deep breath and went to the window. He opened the curtains, but just as quickly closed them. Flames engulfed the whole neighborhood.
"You humans have ruled this world with an iron fist, leaving nothing for us. But we've been patient. We devised a plan, stored up our resources, and when we deemed ourselves ready, we struck. As you can see, it's going quite well."
The three spiders came into the kitchen carrying Nadine on a web stretcher. They set her down and turned their attention to Bryan. Before he could react, he found himself covered in webs and unable to move. His lips, like Nadine's, were stuck shut.
"They will make fine slaves. Nemby, the stove. The rest of you, the portal."
All of the little creatures except one ran to the refrigerator and jumped inside. Bryan almost choked on his own saliva. A huge tunnel had replaced the inside of his refrigerator. The spiders placed him on a web stretcher like Nadine's and followed the leprechaun-things into the refrigerator. He watched the straggler cast some sort of spell on the stove, causing it to spit fire around the kitchen. The little man emitted a gleeful laugh and followed the rest down the long tunnel.
Bryan looked back at his now-burning house, and all he could think was that Nadine was going to be pissed. The leprechaun-things hadn't shut the refrigerator door.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
3 Short Stories
This week I want to bring you another few short stories that I've found online and enjoyed.
The first comes from the November issue of the Absent Willow Review. It's a story entitled The Call, written by Daniel W. Davis. This chilling little tale makes you wonder if it might not be better for some phone calls to actually turn out to be prank calls.
The next comes from Volume 10/37 of Allegory Magazine. It's called Simple Pleasures, written by Molly Campbell. This one asks if dolls can replace loved ones, which the main character believes to be the case.
The last one for this installment is an audio story from the podcast, Podcastle. It is called Scar Stories by Vylar Kaftan. Everything has scars, and these are the stories behind them. You can also find this one on iTunes. It's listed as Podcastle Miniature 18 if you'd rather find it there.
Give these stories a shot. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
The first comes from the November issue of the Absent Willow Review. It's a story entitled The Call, written by Daniel W. Davis. This chilling little tale makes you wonder if it might not be better for some phone calls to actually turn out to be prank calls.
The next comes from Volume 10/37 of Allegory Magazine. It's called Simple Pleasures, written by Molly Campbell. This one asks if dolls can replace loved ones, which the main character believes to be the case.
The last one for this installment is an audio story from the podcast, Podcastle. It is called Scar Stories by Vylar Kaftan. Everything has scars, and these are the stories behind them. You can also find this one on iTunes. It's listed as Podcastle Miniature 18 if you'd rather find it there.
Give these stories a shot. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
Friday, November 13, 2009
#fridayflash: Just After Dusk
Just After Dusk
by Eric J. Krause
Jean Luc stretched his limbs, willing what little blood he had left to course through his veins. Even after all these years, he still couldn't get used to the rigor mortis that set in each day as he slept. A meal would improve everything.
A knock. "Master? May I?"
He nodded, but said nothing. Renaldo, his latest minion, read the intention and pushed the door open.
"I have someone for you to, eh, meet, Master."
Perfect. Their code for food. He enjoyed the hunt, but having it delivered was so much easier.
Renaldo led a young girl, she couldn't be more than 18 years old, into his room. She wore a skimpy black dress with fishnet stockings, displayed a dozen or more silver trinkets around her wrists and neck, had black lipstick smeared on her lips, and sported a jet-black bob haircut. He could smell the dye from across the room. Wouldn't do to be a blonde-haired goth girl.
He suppressed a grin. "Good evening. I am Jean Luc. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
She stared back at him, her eyes intense. Shock waves pulsed through his withered insides. Could she be the one, the bride he'd been searching for? Though he couldn't fathom sex with a mortal, he could see lusting after the undead version of her.
The girl rolled her eyes and turned to Renaldo. "I thought you were going to bring me to a real vampire. He looks so ordinary and . . . dull."
Ah well, at least he could still feed. He stepped forward and covered the length of the room in a heartbeat. His fangs sunk into her throat before she could scream, and he lapped up her bloody life force. When she gasped her final breath, he let her fall.
He wiped his chin with a burgundy handkerchief and looked at Renaldo, who shrugged.
"At least they're easy to catch, Master. They all want to meet a real vampire."
"Too bad they expect a teen-age fashion model. Maybe I should wear glitter."
by Eric J. Krause
Jean Luc stretched his limbs, willing what little blood he had left to course through his veins. Even after all these years, he still couldn't get used to the rigor mortis that set in each day as he slept. A meal would improve everything.
A knock. "Master? May I?"
He nodded, but said nothing. Renaldo, his latest minion, read the intention and pushed the door open.
"I have someone for you to, eh, meet, Master."
Perfect. Their code for food. He enjoyed the hunt, but having it delivered was so much easier.
Renaldo led a young girl, she couldn't be more than 18 years old, into his room. She wore a skimpy black dress with fishnet stockings, displayed a dozen or more silver trinkets around her wrists and neck, had black lipstick smeared on her lips, and sported a jet-black bob haircut. He could smell the dye from across the room. Wouldn't do to be a blonde-haired goth girl.
He suppressed a grin. "Good evening. I am Jean Luc. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
She stared back at him, her eyes intense. Shock waves pulsed through his withered insides. Could she be the one, the bride he'd been searching for? Though he couldn't fathom sex with a mortal, he could see lusting after the undead version of her.
The girl rolled her eyes and turned to Renaldo. "I thought you were going to bring me to a real vampire. He looks so ordinary and . . . dull."
Ah well, at least he could still feed. He stepped forward and covered the length of the room in a heartbeat. His fangs sunk into her throat before she could scream, and he lapped up her bloody life force. When she gasped her final breath, he let her fall.
He wiped his chin with a burgundy handkerchief and looked at Renaldo, who shrugged.
"At least they're easy to catch, Master. They all want to meet a real vampire."
"Too bad they expect a teen-age fashion model. Maybe I should wear glitter."
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Self-Publishing for Yourself
Today is Veterans Day, and that made me think of the memoir my grandpa published a few years back based on his time in the Marine Corps during World War 2. He had no wish to try to get it placed with a traditional publisher and make money off of it. His goal was to get that story in book form so he could share it with family and friends. Because of this, he chose one of the vanity presses (a service that he paid for to print and bind a number of copies of his book). It worked beautifully. The book turned out great, and he passed out copies to the family and his friends. He would even keep extra copies with him where ever he went so he could give them out as gifts of sorts to people he met. For my grandpa, paying to become a self-published author was the best way to go.
Those of us who are tying to make it in the publishing industry as authors usually have it drilled into our heads: it is rarely a good idea to pay money to get your work published--you should be paid instead. This is good advice. Something we need to remember, however, is that not everyone comes into the writing game with the same goals. If someone's goal is to simply be published, paying a self-publishing house to get this done is a fine option. There are people out there like my grandpa. We, as writers, shouldn't discourage people with such goals.
Writers need to know their options about their work. They need to look at both their long and short-term goals. Personally, I hope to find an agent and publisher for my work, but not everyone is the same. I've seen and heard of authors saying vanity presses are the worst thing out there, but that simply isn't true. While it is important to study up on which publisher to trust (as in all industries, some companies are better than others), if you simply want to have your work in print, self-publishing can be your best option. My grandpa discovered the joy of handing his book to people, and others can have that feeling, too. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
Those of us who are tying to make it in the publishing industry as authors usually have it drilled into our heads: it is rarely a good idea to pay money to get your work published--you should be paid instead. This is good advice. Something we need to remember, however, is that not everyone comes into the writing game with the same goals. If someone's goal is to simply be published, paying a self-publishing house to get this done is a fine option. There are people out there like my grandpa. We, as writers, shouldn't discourage people with such goals.
Writers need to know their options about their work. They need to look at both their long and short-term goals. Personally, I hope to find an agent and publisher for my work, but not everyone is the same. I've seen and heard of authors saying vanity presses are the worst thing out there, but that simply isn't true. While it is important to study up on which publisher to trust (as in all industries, some companies are better than others), if you simply want to have your work in print, self-publishing can be your best option. My grandpa discovered the joy of handing his book to people, and others can have that feeling, too. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
Friday, November 6, 2009
#fridayflash--The King and the Spider
The King and the Spider
by Eric J. Krause
He eased himself into the room, mindful of the space above him. It wouldn't do for it to pounce down on his head before the game truly started.
It. The humongous spider terrorizing this room. Striking fear into the hearts of his beautiful queen and their precious princess.
No doubt its plump black form flowed full of deadly poison. Its fangs, the size of small daggers, itched to puncture him so it could feed itself and its unseen clan. As visions of his painful and messy death flashed through his mind, he knew he had to strike first and strike hard.
He spotted the beast as it scurried up the wall, just out of range. It scuttled across the ceiling, and he crouched down, weapon at the ready. Did these leap at their prey? He didn't know, but he wasn't going to court defeat because of carelessness.
Out in the open he found it much bigger than he first guessed. Maybe the size of a large cat or a small dog. Maybe bigger. The thought of sealing off the room and leaving it for the monster crossed his mind.
Instead, it took that option away. It reached the other side of the room and crawled down towards the door. A room was one thing, but he couldn't sacrifice his queen or princess. Without thought to his own safety, he lunged forward, weapon poised . . .
. . . and scrunched it in his paper towel.
"Did you get it, Jerry?"
"Yeah." He examined the squished form. "Tell Sara she can come back in and finish watching her Happitty-Hoppitty cartoon."
by Eric J. Krause
He eased himself into the room, mindful of the space above him. It wouldn't do for it to pounce down on his head before the game truly started.
It. The humongous spider terrorizing this room. Striking fear into the hearts of his beautiful queen and their precious princess.
No doubt its plump black form flowed full of deadly poison. Its fangs, the size of small daggers, itched to puncture him so it could feed itself and its unseen clan. As visions of his painful and messy death flashed through his mind, he knew he had to strike first and strike hard.
He spotted the beast as it scurried up the wall, just out of range. It scuttled across the ceiling, and he crouched down, weapon at the ready. Did these leap at their prey? He didn't know, but he wasn't going to court defeat because of carelessness.
Out in the open he found it much bigger than he first guessed. Maybe the size of a large cat or a small dog. Maybe bigger. The thought of sealing off the room and leaving it for the monster crossed his mind.
Instead, it took that option away. It reached the other side of the room and crawled down towards the door. A room was one thing, but he couldn't sacrifice his queen or princess. Without thought to his own safety, he lunged forward, weapon poised . . .
. . . and scrunched it in his paper towel.
"Did you get it, Jerry?"
"Yeah." He examined the squished form. "Tell Sara she can come back in and finish watching her Happitty-Hoppitty cartoon."
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Newest Published Stories
Posting this week about two new published stories out on the World Wide Web, along with two stories that I thought were lost, but are still floating around cyberspace.
First, my flash fiction story, Scream Time is on the webzine The New Flesh. Check out my story, and then stick around and check out other stories. It's full of great little horror stories.
I also placed 5th in a Halloween writing contest on a Twitter horror-zine called Tweet the Meat. I don't believe there is a link to the story, but I'll just print it here, since it is only 13 words: "She grinned and hummed along with her favorite tune: bonesaw with no anesthesia."
In addition to those two stories, I found two more stories that I thought had floated away to the nether-parts of the web. They're still alive and kicking, though. The first is a horror story called Dagger of the Dread King. The second is a fantasy adventure story entitled Graves of Chance.
I've added all four of these stories to my list of published stories you can read. The link, in case you want to check these and more of my stories out, is on the right side of the screen in the "About Me" section (or just click here). I've recently sent out a bunch more stories to see if I can find homes for them, so hopefully I'll be able to update this more later. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
First, my flash fiction story, Scream Time is on the webzine The New Flesh. Check out my story, and then stick around and check out other stories. It's full of great little horror stories.
I also placed 5th in a Halloween writing contest on a Twitter horror-zine called Tweet the Meat. I don't believe there is a link to the story, but I'll just print it here, since it is only 13 words: "She grinned and hummed along with her favorite tune: bonesaw with no anesthesia."
In addition to those two stories, I found two more stories that I thought had floated away to the nether-parts of the web. They're still alive and kicking, though. The first is a horror story called Dagger of the Dread King. The second is a fantasy adventure story entitled Graves of Chance.
I've added all four of these stories to my list of published stories you can read. The link, in case you want to check these and more of my stories out, is on the right side of the screen in the "About Me" section (or just click here). I've recently sent out a bunch more stories to see if I can find homes for them, so hopefully I'll be able to update this more later. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
Friday, October 30, 2009
#fridayflash -- Pumpkin Patch of the Damned
Pumpkin Patch of the Damned
by Eric J. Krause
Why the hell wasn't this ever an easy process? And every year Daisy had to come during the game. Just because there were games morning, noon, and night on Saturdays didn't make it any better. Think of all the great plays he was missing.
"Daddy, can I go in the bouncy house?"
He looked over at the purple balloon structure shaped like a haunted house, complete with a blow-up Frankenstein and a few sheets with eye holes cut in them glued to the side. Those things used to be a huge treat when he was a kid, but nowadays you couldn't go a city block without bouncing into one.
"No, we're going to grab a pumpkin and get out of here."
"Don't listen to your father. Go have fun, baby."
"Yo, Dad, a corn maze. I'm gonna go check it out."
A corn maze? In the suburbs? He'd been in a corn maze once when he was a kid. His parents drove he and his brothers an hour and a half out of town to get to a farm in the country. Now here was one in this empty lot that'd probably be a Denny's or a Walgreens by this time next year.
"No, we're just here for a pumpkin. Go grab your sister and pick one out so we can get on home."
"Pish-posh. Go have fun, sweetie. Don't get lost!"
He turned to Daisy, ready to tell her off. She'd promised him fifteen minutes, half-an-hour tops. Now here she was sending the kids off to pointless activities instead of what they were here for: to find a carving pumpkin.
Before he could lay into her, her eyes sparkled. "Ooh, a craft fair. You don't mind, do you honey?"
Holy hell, a craft fair? How could this lot hold so much crap? Were there even any damn pumpkins in this pumpkin patch? None that he'd seen. Next year they'd just get one at the megamart down the street. If they'd done that this time, he'd be on his way home by now to watch State versus U.
"No, Daisy. Come on. You promised. Get the kids, let's pick out a pumpkin, and we'll get out of here."
Of course she paid him no mind and wandered over to the half-dozen or so booths, her hand already in her purse to snatch out her wallet.
He found a random bale of hay and took a seat. His eyes scanned all three attractions, but he couldn't spot the kids or his wife. Would he ever see them again, or was he stuck forever here in this pumpkin patch of the damned?
by Eric J. Krause
Why the hell wasn't this ever an easy process? And every year Daisy had to come during the game. Just because there were games morning, noon, and night on Saturdays didn't make it any better. Think of all the great plays he was missing.
"Daddy, can I go in the bouncy house?"
He looked over at the purple balloon structure shaped like a haunted house, complete with a blow-up Frankenstein and a few sheets with eye holes cut in them glued to the side. Those things used to be a huge treat when he was a kid, but nowadays you couldn't go a city block without bouncing into one.
"No, we're going to grab a pumpkin and get out of here."
"Don't listen to your father. Go have fun, baby."
"Yo, Dad, a corn maze. I'm gonna go check it out."
A corn maze? In the suburbs? He'd been in a corn maze once when he was a kid. His parents drove he and his brothers an hour and a half out of town to get to a farm in the country. Now here was one in this empty lot that'd probably be a Denny's or a Walgreens by this time next year.
"No, we're just here for a pumpkin. Go grab your sister and pick one out so we can get on home."
"Pish-posh. Go have fun, sweetie. Don't get lost!"
He turned to Daisy, ready to tell her off. She'd promised him fifteen minutes, half-an-hour tops. Now here she was sending the kids off to pointless activities instead of what they were here for: to find a carving pumpkin.
Before he could lay into her, her eyes sparkled. "Ooh, a craft fair. You don't mind, do you honey?"
Holy hell, a craft fair? How could this lot hold so much crap? Were there even any damn pumpkins in this pumpkin patch? None that he'd seen. Next year they'd just get one at the megamart down the street. If they'd done that this time, he'd be on his way home by now to watch State versus U.
"No, Daisy. Come on. You promised. Get the kids, let's pick out a pumpkin, and we'll get out of here."
Of course she paid him no mind and wandered over to the half-dozen or so booths, her hand already in her purse to snatch out her wallet.
He found a random bale of hay and took a seat. His eyes scanned all three attractions, but he couldn't spot the kids or his wife. Would he ever see them again, or was he stuck forever here in this pumpkin patch of the damned?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
#fridayflash--Shadow in the Mirror
Brianna ran her brush through her long blond hair, counting each stroke, a ritual she'd kept up since high school. She sometimes felt silly, but it really did make her hair that much silkier. Since she and Tim had found this old-fashioned vanity, complete with its fancy mirror, at a garage sale, brushing her hair at it felt right. She didn't know if it was real or faux antique, but she could picture an old-timey, high society lady from years past doing the same.
She set down her brush and did a double-take. Her reflection brushed its hair an extra time. They stared at each other, neither moving. Brianna let out her breath and giggled at her overactive imagination. She stood up to head for the kitchen when a shadow flashed in the mirror.
"What the hell?" She whirled around but didn't see anything. Tim was working late, so it couldn't have been him. Besides, she'd have heard the bedroom door open. It creaked even if moved an inch.
She turned back to the mirror and gasped. Not only was her reflection gone, but there were bright crimson splotches all over the surface. She hesitated for a second before runner her finger over one of the spots. It came back dry and didn't distort the crimson. It was on the other side of the mirror. Impossible. She ran her hand along the braided wood pattern of the frame and felt the back. Just wood-paneled backing, as she expected.
Before she turned her attention to the puzzle of the crimson splotches (blood?) and no reflection, the shadow again crawled across the mirror. It moved slow and seemed to focus on her. It glowed black, as if it not only blocked the light, but ate it as well.
In the mirror, the shadow lightened. Behind Brianna, in her room, in her world, the lights dimmed. The proportion of light lost from the lamps matched the loss of dark in the shadow's mirror world. Whatever it was that murdered her reflection (that's what it did, right?) was coming for her.
Brianna did the only thing she could think of: she picked up her hairbrush and smashed it into the glass. The vanity and mirror, being bolted together, rocked back, but the glass didn't have a mark. The light continued to seep out of her room.
She smacked the brush into the mirror again, this time leaving a dimple in the glass. The light flickered back to full brightness behind her. The shadow in the mirror world remained, but it looked halfway between solid and gone.
She swung again, this time breaking the impact zone into a spider-webbed crack. The shadow disappeared. Another smack brought a second large crack and got rid of the crimson goop. Her reflection flickered back--her true reflection from an ordinary mirror.
Brianna took a deep breath and stared at herself through the ruined glass. Whatever magic that had lived in the mirror was gone. Would it come back? She didn't know, but had no interest in keeping the vanity set to find out. She wasn't sure what she'd tell Tim. A lie would have a much clearer ring of truth than this mess.
She stood up and walked out of the room. All of that could wait. Right now she needed a stiff drink.
She set down her brush and did a double-take. Her reflection brushed its hair an extra time. They stared at each other, neither moving. Brianna let out her breath and giggled at her overactive imagination. She stood up to head for the kitchen when a shadow flashed in the mirror.
"What the hell?" She whirled around but didn't see anything. Tim was working late, so it couldn't have been him. Besides, she'd have heard the bedroom door open. It creaked even if moved an inch.
She turned back to the mirror and gasped. Not only was her reflection gone, but there were bright crimson splotches all over the surface. She hesitated for a second before runner her finger over one of the spots. It came back dry and didn't distort the crimson. It was on the other side of the mirror. Impossible. She ran her hand along the braided wood pattern of the frame and felt the back. Just wood-paneled backing, as she expected.
Before she turned her attention to the puzzle of the crimson splotches (blood?) and no reflection, the shadow again crawled across the mirror. It moved slow and seemed to focus on her. It glowed black, as if it not only blocked the light, but ate it as well.
In the mirror, the shadow lightened. Behind Brianna, in her room, in her world, the lights dimmed. The proportion of light lost from the lamps matched the loss of dark in the shadow's mirror world. Whatever it was that murdered her reflection (that's what it did, right?) was coming for her.
Brianna did the only thing she could think of: she picked up her hairbrush and smashed it into the glass. The vanity and mirror, being bolted together, rocked back, but the glass didn't have a mark. The light continued to seep out of her room.
She smacked the brush into the mirror again, this time leaving a dimple in the glass. The light flickered back to full brightness behind her. The shadow in the mirror world remained, but it looked halfway between solid and gone.
She swung again, this time breaking the impact zone into a spider-webbed crack. The shadow disappeared. Another smack brought a second large crack and got rid of the crimson goop. Her reflection flickered back--her true reflection from an ordinary mirror.
Brianna took a deep breath and stared at herself through the ruined glass. Whatever magic that had lived in the mirror was gone. Would it come back? She didn't know, but had no interest in keeping the vanity set to find out. She wasn't sure what she'd tell Tim. A lie would have a much clearer ring of truth than this mess.
She stood up and walked out of the room. All of that could wait. Right now she needed a stiff drink.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
3 Short Stories
Here are 3 short stories that I've enjoyed. I hope you enjoy them, too.
The first is called When the First Petal Falls by Sylvia Hiven. This is from the August 15th edition of The Absent Willow Review. It's a story of how a young man's true love sees him only as a friend, but he uses the magic of flowers to change that.
The second story also comes from The Absent Willow Review, this time from the September 15th edition. It is called Precious Blood by Greg Chapman. This one is an interesting take on a vampire story.
The third story is called Sweet Breath by Lenora Farrington-Sarrouf. It comes from the Fall 2009 issue of Allegory Magazine. When you read this one, you won't believe how great that breath mint is!
As is the case when I spotlight these short stories, I don't know these authors or anything about them. I'm not getting anything from the magazines. I simply enjoyed these stories and wanted to share. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
The first is called When the First Petal Falls by Sylvia Hiven. This is from the August 15th edition of The Absent Willow Review. It's a story of how a young man's true love sees him only as a friend, but he uses the magic of flowers to change that.
The second story also comes from The Absent Willow Review, this time from the September 15th edition. It is called Precious Blood by Greg Chapman. This one is an interesting take on a vampire story.
The third story is called Sweet Breath by Lenora Farrington-Sarrouf. It comes from the Fall 2009 issue of Allegory Magazine. When you read this one, you won't believe how great that breath mint is!
As is the case when I spotlight these short stories, I don't know these authors or anything about them. I'm not getting anything from the magazines. I simply enjoyed these stories and wanted to share. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Revision Tip
Since I finished my first draft of my novel not too long ago, I thought I'd give a quick tip about revision during the draft process. Namely, don't. If you polish your first draft while you're writing, it's just keeping you from getting all of your initial words on the page. One of the best tips I've ever heard about the first draft process (and I have this taped to my bookshelf next to my writing desk) is: All first drafts stink. Just keep writing.
What this means is that you're not going to get a polished, publishable piece on the first go-through. You'll need to revise. Give yourself permission to write bad in the first draft process. Why? Because you'll be able to fix it up, make it wonderful, in the revision process. Let yourself get to the 2nd draft by finishing the first.
How many times have you heard of writers having unfinished novels filed away somewhere. Why are they unfinished? Because they didn't give themselves permission to simply write the story. Their inner critic told them it was stinky, that this idea would never fly, so the writer just gave up on the project. I know because I've done it. If we ignore the inner critic and realize we don't have to put our best prose out in the first draft, we'll finish a lot more of our work.
First drafts should be about experimenting with the story. Even if you're a heavy outliner, you still need to play around with the words to make everything authentic in your story. While you get these words down on the page, don't go back and fix things you've already written. Finish what you started, and fix it later.
What happens if you come up with a stroke of brilliance that will help the beginning of your story? Make a note to yourself to fix it in the 2nd draft. If you know the change will be made, write the rest of the story as if you already wrote it. That'll save some of your revision time.
Finish your first draft, and fix it in the second draft. In this early part of your novel, the most important thing is to get that initial draft done. If you don't, there's going to be nothing to revise later. What good is a polished first chapter with nothing following it? I hope this tip helps. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
What this means is that you're not going to get a polished, publishable piece on the first go-through. You'll need to revise. Give yourself permission to write bad in the first draft process. Why? Because you'll be able to fix it up, make it wonderful, in the revision process. Let yourself get to the 2nd draft by finishing the first.
How many times have you heard of writers having unfinished novels filed away somewhere. Why are they unfinished? Because they didn't give themselves permission to simply write the story. Their inner critic told them it was stinky, that this idea would never fly, so the writer just gave up on the project. I know because I've done it. If we ignore the inner critic and realize we don't have to put our best prose out in the first draft, we'll finish a lot more of our work.
First drafts should be about experimenting with the story. Even if you're a heavy outliner, you still need to play around with the words to make everything authentic in your story. While you get these words down on the page, don't go back and fix things you've already written. Finish what you started, and fix it later.
What happens if you come up with a stroke of brilliance that will help the beginning of your story? Make a note to yourself to fix it in the 2nd draft. If you know the change will be made, write the rest of the story as if you already wrote it. That'll save some of your revision time.
Finish your first draft, and fix it in the second draft. In this early part of your novel, the most important thing is to get that initial draft done. If you don't, there's going to be nothing to revise later. What good is a polished first chapter with nothing following it? I hope this tip helps. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
#fridayflash -- Different Perceptions
I stared at the baby. "Why am I looking at it?"
The doctor frowned. "I apologize. I thought you'd want to. I should have asked."
I shook my head. "No, no. What I mean is, why am I looking at it instead of me being inside of it looking back at me?"
The doctor frowned again. It seemed to be one of the few expressions he was capable of. "I'm not sure I understand."
"I'm supposed to be in there. In its head. I paid a fortune to live forever, but I'm still me. In this cancer-ridden deathtrap."
He frowned, and oh god I wanted to slap it off his face. I might have done it, too, if I could move my arm that high.
"Mr. Riggs, I assure you all of your memories, your personality, everything is locked within that child. You. It's all in the brochure you read a hundred times, in the video you watched a dozen times. None of this should be a surprise."
"But I'm still stuck in this." I tried to thump my chest, but my arm only lifted off the side of the wheelchair and plopped into my lap.
"Did you believe your mind would cease to exist in that body? That we'd make you nothing but a vegetable, a shell? I don't know what sort of idea you have about us, Mr. Riggs, but we're in the business of saving and prolonging lives, not taking them."
A tear rolled down my cheek. "But you promised I'd never die. I'm going to die."
The doctor shook his head. "When you die, you, this new you, will be aged to 21 years old. You chose that, I believe?"
I slumped down. "It won't be me. This me. This me is going to be hollowed out by this damn disease, and I'll be in it the whole way."
The doctor put a hand on my shoulder. I didn't look up, but I wondered if he'd managed to put on a different facial expression.
"I apologize if you didn't understand." He gestured to the baby. "He'll, you'll, have all of the memories up until this morning. When the new body is worn out, we'll make another. All of the new and old memories will be transferred. It'll go on and on. Forever. I don't understand why you don't get it."
I sighed and wondered the same thing about him.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Freewriting
Freewriting is an important tool every writer should use. There are many benefits to this simple exercise, which involves simply sitting down and letting the words flow onto paper or your computer screen. You can use it in a number of different ways.
--Start your day with a freewrite. This will knock the rust off that part of your brain that gets the ideas flowing. If you are the type of writer who agonizes over the first few minutes of writing because the words struggle to emerge, a freewrite could take you past that step. Whether you're writing the first draft of a novel, a short story, poetry, or whatever, this could help you get out of the daily gate smoother.
--Kick start a project with a freewrite. If you're ready to move onto your next project, but you're not sure what it is, sit down and freewrite. Set an amount of time to write, and let the words flow. Don't think about what you're writing, and don't actively search for ideas. Once you've finished your allotted writing time, read over what you wrote. Most often, some sort of idea will be staring right back at you. Many times you'll get more than one, and you'll have plenty of ideas for future projects, as well.
--Use freewriting to flesh out your ideas. You may have a killer idea you know that'll make a great story, but you don't yet have all the details. Think about that idea, sit down, and freewrite. As always, don't let your conscious mind get in the way. Just let your pen or keyboard fingers do the talking. When you're done, read over what you wrote. You might not get everything you want out of a single session, but you should be well on your way.
--Writer's Block be gone! Freewriting is an excellent way to push past difficult parts of your work in progress. You may know what you want to do in your story, but the exact process might be a bit fuzzy. Does your protagonist fight or give in to flight? Freewrite out the possibilities and see what you like best. Or, if you haven't started something yet, and that dreaded blank page is staring at you, freewrite. Don't worry about coming up with ideas, just let your subconscious work through the fear that you'll never write again. A good freewriting session could be all you need!
These are some ideas of how to use freewriting to your benefit. I'm sure you have other ways in which freewriting has helped you. If so, feel free to leave these ideas as a comment. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
--Start your day with a freewrite. This will knock the rust off that part of your brain that gets the ideas flowing. If you are the type of writer who agonizes over the first few minutes of writing because the words struggle to emerge, a freewrite could take you past that step. Whether you're writing the first draft of a novel, a short story, poetry, or whatever, this could help you get out of the daily gate smoother.
--Kick start a project with a freewrite. If you're ready to move onto your next project, but you're not sure what it is, sit down and freewrite. Set an amount of time to write, and let the words flow. Don't think about what you're writing, and don't actively search for ideas. Once you've finished your allotted writing time, read over what you wrote. Most often, some sort of idea will be staring right back at you. Many times you'll get more than one, and you'll have plenty of ideas for future projects, as well.
--Use freewriting to flesh out your ideas. You may have a killer idea you know that'll make a great story, but you don't yet have all the details. Think about that idea, sit down, and freewrite. As always, don't let your conscious mind get in the way. Just let your pen or keyboard fingers do the talking. When you're done, read over what you wrote. You might not get everything you want out of a single session, but you should be well on your way.
--Writer's Block be gone! Freewriting is an excellent way to push past difficult parts of your work in progress. You may know what you want to do in your story, but the exact process might be a bit fuzzy. Does your protagonist fight or give in to flight? Freewrite out the possibilities and see what you like best. Or, if you haven't started something yet, and that dreaded blank page is staring at you, freewrite. Don't worry about coming up with ideas, just let your subconscious work through the fear that you'll never write again. A good freewriting session could be all you need!
These are some ideas of how to use freewriting to your benefit. I'm sure you have other ways in which freewriting has helped you. If so, feel free to leave these ideas as a comment. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
Thursday, October 1, 2009
#fridayflash--The Chosen One
No one believed him. No matter what he said, no matter how much he swore he wasn't lying, they just wouldn't listen. And, really, who could blame them? His stories were a bit outlandish for most folks. But if someone had just paid him some mind, he might still be here.
Greg Jordan was your average, middle-class male, with a pretty wife and two point five kids. (Janice, his wife, was four months pregnant at the time.) The Jordans had left their dingy two-bedroom apartment and moved into their own home. Greg and Janice had fallen in love with the ranch-style home in its nice neighborhood. They tried to mask their interest so the sellers wouldn't peg them as easy marks, a tip provided by Janice's dad, but the owners were eager to sell. They agreed to the Jordan's first low-ball offer without negotiating. The Jordans, including little Timmy and Britney, couldn't have been happier.
Their first month was terrific, even if it did include a ton of hard work. Being pregnant, Janice mostly sat down and gave orders. She could have done more, but she was the boss and everyone knew it. The kids, bless their hearts, tried their best, but being five and three, Timmy and Britney often did more damage than good.
About that time, Greg felt a presence in the house. He claimed he heard footsteps, voices, and other weird sounds. He swore a strange man occasionally walked through their living room, and at times a young man, maybe a teenager, sat in the breakfast nook. Neither the kids nor Janice heard or saw any of these things. Everyone, including friends and relatives who heard the tales, began to wonder about him.
Greg wouldn't be dissuaded. He knew what he heard, saw, and felt. He'd lay awake at night, listening and watching. Whatever was going on, this was his house, and he wanted to know what he shared it with.
That's when the voices started. At first it was just small talk. "How are you, Greg?" "Wife thinks you're nuts, eh?" "Can you buy us some beer?" (Actually, that last one was those teenagers who loitered outside the liquor store. It all blended in.) Then the voices grew more persistent and, Greg wasn't afraid to say, scary. "Join us." "We need you." "Kill the non-believers."
He learned to ignore the voices, but that just pissed them off. They turned from simple murder whispers to full-blown poltergeists. At first Janice blamed the kids when she found her grandmother's knick-knacks shattered on the floor. Then Greg got the brunt of her fury. It was a dark week in the Jordan household. Mercifully, the poltergeist activity didn't last long. Janice must have scared the hell out of those ghosts because they never touched her stuff again.
The final showdown came one day after work. With Janice and the kids out running errands, Greg had to face the spirits on his own. They materialized on the staircase, and he finally got a good look at all four of them. He still had no idea who they were, but they weren't in a talking mood. Greg tried to run out the front door, but it was stuck. He even tried jumping through the plate glass window, but no matter how hard he threw his body at it, the glass wouldn't shatter. He had only one option; he turned and faced his destiny.
Janice and the kids came home an hour later. Timmy and Britney ran into the house as soon as their mom opened the front door, and when Janice walked in, two little kids rolling on the floor laughing hysterically greeted her. It seemed Daddy had taken off all his clothes right there in the front hall. "Even his nunderwear," little Britney said between howls. Janice didn't find it nearly as amusing. The three of them wandered through the house looking for the "necked daddy." When he didn't turn up, Janice drove around the neighborhood. The search proved futile. Greg had vanished.
Not long after, Greg Junior arrived. Janice had to get a second job, but she managed to keep the house and a relatively good lifestyle. She hated Greg for abandoning the family, but something changed her mind. Actually that something was Greg Junior. Not only were his first words "Daddy," but he had the oddest habit of looking at nothing, holding his arms out for a hug, and giggling wildly.
Greg Jordan was your average, middle-class male, with a pretty wife and two point five kids. (Janice, his wife, was four months pregnant at the time.) The Jordans had left their dingy two-bedroom apartment and moved into their own home. Greg and Janice had fallen in love with the ranch-style home in its nice neighborhood. They tried to mask their interest so the sellers wouldn't peg them as easy marks, a tip provided by Janice's dad, but the owners were eager to sell. They agreed to the Jordan's first low-ball offer without negotiating. The Jordans, including little Timmy and Britney, couldn't have been happier.
Their first month was terrific, even if it did include a ton of hard work. Being pregnant, Janice mostly sat down and gave orders. She could have done more, but she was the boss and everyone knew it. The kids, bless their hearts, tried their best, but being five and three, Timmy and Britney often did more damage than good.
About that time, Greg felt a presence in the house. He claimed he heard footsteps, voices, and other weird sounds. He swore a strange man occasionally walked through their living room, and at times a young man, maybe a teenager, sat in the breakfast nook. Neither the kids nor Janice heard or saw any of these things. Everyone, including friends and relatives who heard the tales, began to wonder about him.
Greg wouldn't be dissuaded. He knew what he heard, saw, and felt. He'd lay awake at night, listening and watching. Whatever was going on, this was his house, and he wanted to know what he shared it with.
That's when the voices started. At first it was just small talk. "How are you, Greg?" "Wife thinks you're nuts, eh?" "Can you buy us some beer?" (Actually, that last one was those teenagers who loitered outside the liquor store. It all blended in.) Then the voices grew more persistent and, Greg wasn't afraid to say, scary. "Join us." "We need you." "Kill the non-believers."
He learned to ignore the voices, but that just pissed them off. They turned from simple murder whispers to full-blown poltergeists. At first Janice blamed the kids when she found her grandmother's knick-knacks shattered on the floor. Then Greg got the brunt of her fury. It was a dark week in the Jordan household. Mercifully, the poltergeist activity didn't last long. Janice must have scared the hell out of those ghosts because they never touched her stuff again.
The final showdown came one day after work. With Janice and the kids out running errands, Greg had to face the spirits on his own. They materialized on the staircase, and he finally got a good look at all four of them. He still had no idea who they were, but they weren't in a talking mood. Greg tried to run out the front door, but it was stuck. He even tried jumping through the plate glass window, but no matter how hard he threw his body at it, the glass wouldn't shatter. He had only one option; he turned and faced his destiny.
Janice and the kids came home an hour later. Timmy and Britney ran into the house as soon as their mom opened the front door, and when Janice walked in, two little kids rolling on the floor laughing hysterically greeted her. It seemed Daddy had taken off all his clothes right there in the front hall. "Even his nunderwear," little Britney said between howls. Janice didn't find it nearly as amusing. The three of them wandered through the house looking for the "necked daddy." When he didn't turn up, Janice drove around the neighborhood. The search proved futile. Greg had vanished.
Not long after, Greg Junior arrived. Janice had to get a second job, but she managed to keep the house and a relatively good lifestyle. She hated Greg for abandoning the family, but something changed her mind. Actually that something was Greg Junior. Not only were his first words "Daddy," but he had the oddest habit of looking at nothing, holding his arms out for a hug, and giggling wildly.
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