The Night Writer

Still not showing up in searches

2006-06-15T09:01:00.000-05:00

I believe I'm going to have to call in expert help; my main website is still not showing up in Google searches. This Blogger blog does (this is my personal blog, as opposed to my professional blog at MSN; which, of course, does not show up)! I wonder if it has something to do with the way the two different sites label posts. Here on blogger, every post includes a line that says "posted by Doug Graves" or "posted by Nightwriter". The other site does not "sign" every post. Maybe that's the difference. No matter. I'll have to call my techie friend and see if she can help me fix it.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch . . .

I've always found summer to be better for writing and not as good for submitting since so many publications take summer break. However, I've found a few open anthologies and non-fee contests this summer, so I am working on stories for submission to those.

The Official Website of Doug Graves (has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?)

Voila!

2006-05-24T12:43:00.000-05:00

The pictures are working! Now my profile picture is on the Blogger servers, which should resolve the "remote linking" problem some visitors have run into. They may regret it once they see how "non-photogenic" I am (grin).

Still playing with pictures

2006-05-22T21:28:00.000-05:00

And it's still not working. I went to Blogger's help files and discovered that other people are having the same problem. Unfortunately, the solutions that have been suggested aren't working-- I've tried resaving the file and changing the name, and I'm still getting the "File type not supported: image must be GIF or JPEG" in spite of the fact that the images ARE GIF and JPEG. This web stuff is hard enough without having things malfunctioning.

Experimenting with photos

2006-05-21T21:29:00.000-05:00

I've received a few reports that the photo in my profile isn't showing. I don't quite understand the explanation, but people keep mentioning "remote linking"-- I know it has something to do with my photo being on the server of a free web host. There is a work-around, I guess, involving imbedding a photo in a blogger post. I'm going to try that and see if it resolves the problem.

As you can tell, it's not working. I uploaded both a ".GIF" and a ".JPG", and the profile page gives me an error: "Unsupported file type; must be gif or jpeg". Hmmm.

Still Experimenting with sites

2006-05-18T08:30:00.000-05:00

I have decided not to continue with the Yahoo 360 blog and MySpace. The Yahoo 360 just doesn't seem customizable enough. And I can't seem to make heads or tails out of MySpace. One of my friends warned me that she had the same problem, but I had to try it for myself anyway.

For now, you'll be able to find me here at Blogger and at MSN Spaces.

I'm still experimenting a bit with MSN Spaces. Originally I signed up for a space under my "internet handle". But it doesn't show up under searches for my name. So I've also signed up for one under my name, in the hopes that during the next database update (what do the techies call it? Web Crawl? Spider Crawl? Something like that) one of the two will start showing up in searches.

To make it easier to find me, I had my computer-saavy friend point my domain to my main MSN Space. Now when you type in "DougGraves.com", you'll end up at my MSN Space. I had hoped to someday have a real website, but I'm afraid this whole "HTML" thing just isn't coming to me very easy. I know how to make a link and how to tag a picture, but that's about it.

I've also created a circle of the confused: since I know so little about web publishing and what site designs work for web-readers, etc., I've enlisted the help of my brother and my techie friend in experimenting with these blogs. Corbin has created a blog here at Blogger . . . I believe he has created one at MSN Spaces, too. My friend Wind has her own blog (part of her ISP or web hoster, or something like that), but she is also testing out MSN Spaces for me. But since it seems that a blog site is the only website I will ever have, I want to make sure I use the best one possible (that's also the easiest for an old dog like me to learn to use).

Pleasant Screams,
The Nightwriter

Experimenting

2006-05-15T08:48:00.000-05:00

I've had this blog for quite some time; I've had a free web site for almost as long . . . and I've done very little with either of them. Lately I've been experimenting with several different blogs/websites to see if perhaps another format might strike my fancy and spur me to blog more.

So far I have tried:
Blogger.com (naturally)
MSN Spaces
MySpace
Yahoo 360

Perhaps I'm just an old fogey, but I can't make heads or tails of MySpace. I don't feel too bad because a friend of mine had the same problem-- but then again, she's an old fogey, too. I definitely won't be very active on MySpace.

Yahoo 360 is not very customizable. I doubt I'll be active on it.

Blogger.com and MSN Spaces are the best sites so far. There are a few more sites I will be investigating, and I'll report back on those once I've finished checking them out.

In the meantime, here is the link to my other space at MSN:
Nightwriter at MSN Spaces.

One of the problems I've found both at Blogger and MSN is that I'm not appearing in searches. That can be a real problem once I'm famous-- how on earth are my fans going to find me if I'm not in the search? Of course I'm being flip, but I do like to think positive and plan ahead.

Poor little neglected blog

2006-05-12T09:34:00.000-05:00

If there is a record somewhere for the person who has the most blogs and does the least updating, I'm sure my name is entered there as the record-holder.

But now I have something to post: one of my stories has been accepted for publication! Yes, part of the reason my blogs are so neglected is that I've been busy actually WRITING!

I'll provide more details as the publication date grows nigh.

And I promise to update the blogs more (Hmmm. Where have you heard THAT before?)

The Mighty Have Fallen!

2006-01-08T22:04:00.000-06:00

As I'm sure you have deduced, I did NOT succeed at National Novel Writing Month in November. The grim reality is that I scarcely progressed beyond the word count on the insidious word meter erstwhile posted.

But it is a new year and time for a clean slate. Thanks to the nagging . . . oh, I mean ENCOURAGEMENT . . . of a good friend, I vow to get back on track this year. I pledge to update this journal weekly, at the minimum. To that end, I just squandered two hours learning to create reminders on the computer. If I did everything properly, the machine should give me a gentle reminder every Sunday to come here and deliver an update.

Now let's pray I have something worthy to post each time!

Nightwriter

You can't teach an old dog new tricks

2005-11-06T07:25:00.000-06:00

The word count meter in the previous post has become my nemesis. In preview, it looks perfect; once posted, it malfunctions. Although I know a little about html, my knowledge is apparently inadequate. I cannot fix it. And my "html guru" is busy for the next few days.

So I shall give up gracefully and leave the counter alone until she can fix it for me. I will go back to doing what I DO know how to do: writing my NaNoWriMo novel.

Slaving Away

2005-11-03T10:03:00.000-06:00

Writing seems much more like work this time around. I can't be certain if my enthusiasm for novel writing has waned, or if my novel idea for this year is flawed. Only time will tell.

3,821 / 50,000
(7.6%)

Time Flies

2005-11-01T20:17:00.000-06:00

My stars, it's certainly been a long time since my last update. Ah well, no time like the present.

Today marks the beginning of another "National Novel Writing Month." I finished successfully last year and am hoping to repeat the success this year.

A Hero of Ireland

2005-03-13T15:09:00.000-06:00

Today's writing assignment: write about a hero of Ireleand.

Cuchalainn, the hound of Culaan,
ferocity earned you your name.
Your battle-frenzy struck blind fear:
it took three vats of water to tame.

You trained in the Land of Shadows,
fought an army for your bride.
A beheading match crowned you hero
worthy of Ireland’s pride.

A stranger came to challenge,
and only when it was done,
You saw the golden ring he wore:
the defeated one was your son.

But more misfortune lie ahead
and could not be conquered with brawn:
you scorned the ardent advances
of the dark-goddess Morrigan.

Medb of Connacht’s dark army came
for an Ulster cattle-raid,
but Ulster’s army was laid low
from the curse that Macha had made.

You fought alone despite the curse
the Witches of Calatin cast,
lashed yourself to an upright stone
determined to fight til your last.

Morrigan, she lit on your shoulder,
her dark feathers gleamed in the sun.
You breathed your last and she had you
then, when all was said and done.

Limericks

2005-03-02T17:07:00.000-06:00

This was truly horrifying! Our latest writing group assignment was to write limericks. Alas, I learned something new: I can't write limericks. But here they are anyway.

(The first is from a news headline: granny mistakes superglue for eyedrops)

There once was a gal from down under
Who made a most horrible blunder
She used glue as eye drops
And it took seven cops
To pull her stuck eyelids asunder

A writer who feared block’s befalling
Strayed from his horror-writer calling
He tried his hand at rhyme
But found in short time,
his lim-ricks were truly appalling

Love in an Unexpected Place

2005-02-28T22:16:00.000-06:00

This little tidbit is from a prompt: write about finding love in an unexpected place.

Trey shuffled across the room, the tile floor cold and hard beneath his bare feet. The lights were all dimmed, but he could still see with a clarity that even he found surprising. The lab coat he had pilfered did little to cover up his nakedness or warm him up. But he would worry about finding more clothes later. For now he was only concerned with finding the source of the noise he had heard.

As he reached the far wall of cubicles, he noticed that one door has slid slightly ajar. He felt the first fingers of fear dipping into his chest, but his curiosity was still overwhelming. He reached out and opened the door. Inside, the cubicle was dark and silent.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," he muttered to himself. Though it sounded more like Infp-y, infp-owd to his own ears. He reached into the cubicle and pulled out the sliding drawer.

On all the cop shows he used to love on TV, body bags were always black. So he was mildly surprised to see that this particular body bag was white, and not quite opaque enough to hide the body inside. His hand quivering, he reached for the zipper and slowly slid it open.

The bag fell away, revealing a woman. Her raven hair offset her pale skin and blue lips in a way that probably made her even more beautiful in death than she had been in life. She was slim, but not too slim, and fine boned. To Trey, she looked like a fragile porcelain doll. He reached out and gently stroked her full, blue lips with his thumb.

Her eyes flew open so suddenly that he almost stumbled over his own uncooperative feet as he tried to back away quickly. Blue, he thought to himself as he watched her slowly sit up, looking around in confusion. Her eyes are ice blue.

She looked at him, bewildered. He saw her eyes go wide as she noticed he was naked under his lab coat. Her eyes went even wider when she realized she was completely naked in front of a stranger.

She looked at him, fear causing her eyes to glow fetchingly, and opened her mouth. "nggg, mmmm," she gasped, her mouth working like a fish's.

Realizing her words made no sense to herself, she reached up and gingerly touched her fingers to her lips, as if checking to see if they moved. She paused, staring at her hand, finally noticing just how pale and blue-tinged her complexion had become. She looked at Trey again, her eyes pleading and helpless.

He thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in his life.

He shuffled over to her, his arms, though leaden, reaching out to her. "Inng kay. Uv ooo."

Everything's okay. I love you.

Extreme goofyness

2005-02-23T20:43:00.000-06:00

Something bad happened to this writing prompt between the computer and my notepad: it became stupid. The prompt was to write a short piece about dating advice. I haven't the foggiest clue how I managed to turn it into goofy camp horror.

“It’s all about the eyes,” Vlad said.

Wolfman clucked his tongue. “No it’s not. Chicks dig wild boys!”

“Errgh. Strong!” Frankie interjected.

“Nonsense. Women enjoy men with a sense of style, elegance, class. Someone who can lavish them with fine wines, someone who can dance the tango with them. Someone with impeccable taste.”

“Give me a break. The only ‘taste’ you have is OF them.” He and Frankie shared a chuckle. “Sure, you start out alright. But you know chicks freak out when you do your crazy rat thing. Chicks hate mice.”

“Bat!” Vlad shouted indignantly. “It’s a bat!” He paused to sip his latte. “And it’s not like the two of you are such ladies men. One look at you, you hairy beast, and they run away screaming.” Vlad glanced over at Frankie. “And you,” he said, his lips curled in disgust. “I don’t even think the Fab 5 could help you.”

Frankie grunted menacingly and pounded his fist against the table.

Wolfie’s gaze roamed to the coffee counter. The café was in the middle of a shift change, and they were getting a new waitress. A wolfish grin spread across his face. “Okay, Vlad. Put your money where your mouth is. When the new waitress comes over, let’s see who can sweep her off her feet.”

Vlad glanced over at the girl. Their original waitress was handing her book of tabs over to the new girl. “Ick,” Vlad said. “She’s type AB. I hate AB.”

Wolfie’s eyes blazed with challenge. “What’s the matter Vlad? Chicken?”

“Errrgggh. Chicken.” Frankie said, his mouth watering.

Vlad pretended to brush a piece of lint from his blood red tie. “No, of course not. It’s just that I find AB so distasteful.”

Wolfie rolled his eyes. “I’m not asking you to marry her. Let’s just see who can get her to agree to a date. Unless,” he leaned back in his chair and tilted his chin up, “you’re ready to give up and admit that the ladies dig me more.”

Vlad laughed, a rich, velvety laugh that caused every head in the café to swivel his direction. He leaned across the table, his voice low. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I accept the challenge.”

Wolfie smiled and turned to Frankie. “So, you want to get in on this?”

“Errgggh! Chicken,” Frankie answered back.

Tardy Posts

2005-02-16T20:27:00.000-06:00

I've fallen behind, so today you receive two posts for the price of one!

The first assignment was to write a cinquain about chocolates. The second was to write a short about a Valentine's Day surprise.

Appetizer: the cinquain

A gift
of chocolates
I see: rich token of
my love; you see: comment on your
big butt

Main course: short

Mirabelle set the crockpot to warm and checked on the side dishes. She nodded to herself, satisfied that everything would stay warm until she returned. And if not, that’s what they made microwaves for. She chuckled to herself.

She glanced at the table again, double-checking everything with a hypercritical eye. The silverware, china, and crystal glasses were spotless. The $500 wine was already on the table breathing. All the flower blossoms in the centerpiece were standing at attention and blemish free. She smiled again. Everything had to be perfect for her valentine’s dinner. And everything had passed inspection.

She rushed back to her bedroom and ran a brush through her raven colored hair until it shimmered like silk, the light catching it and filling it with stars. As she rushed out of the room, she caught her reflection in the full-length mirror. She paused in front of it and frowned.

She turned this way and that, looking herself over carefully. The black dress she had chosen was perfect. Almost perfect, anyway. It covered her over-muscled thighs nicely. But she didn’t like the way the thin straps revealed her arms. Her arms bulged in a definite unfeminine way. She bit her lip and rushed to the closet, desperate to bring herself to perfection, too. She pulled out a blood-red fitted blazer and quickly threw it on.

She resurveyed herself in the mirror and her smile returned. The jacket emphasized her narrow waist and jet black hair nicely. Most importantly, it covered up her arms. It was, however, a little snug around the shoulders. So she’d have to be careful.

Satisfied that everything was ready, she rushed out the door. Her heart was pounding, her breathing rapid, in anticipation of Jake’s delighted expression at all she had prepared for him.

~~~~~~~~~

She watched Jake’s house from the security of her car for almost half an hour. Several times she saw his shadow cross in front of the picture window. Several times she laid her hand on the door handle of her car, her heart pounding in her ears. Each time, she would lose her nerve and return her hand to her lap.

When she saw headlights approaching slowly, as if someone else was about to stop at Jake’s house, she decided she had better act. She rushed out of the car, afraid of losing her nerve, and ran up the walk.

She could hardly hear the doorbell over her pounding heart.

Jake opened the door. He obviously wasn’t expecting company, since he was dressed in an undershirt and sweat pants. Mirabelle thought he looked delicious.

His expression was puzzled at first. “Can I help you?” But as Mirabelle stood silent, a smile from ear to ear, comprehension spread across his face.

His eyes grew wide as he backed away from her, shaking his head.

She walked into the foyer, the smile never leaving her face, her eyes never leaving Jake’s.

“I’m not going.” He said, crossing his arms. His voice sounded certain, but she could see the fear and confusion in his eyes.

She paused, her smile faltering. “But you have to.”

He shook his head vehemently. “No I don’t.”

Mirabelle frowned. In her plans, this had went more smoothly than it was playing out. “Yes, you do. I’ve chosen you. It’s the law.”

Jake darted into the living room, putting distance between them. “I don’t care. I’m not going.” Some of the fear had gone from his eyes. She could see defiance growing in them now.

She tensed and took a few steps closer to him. “Yes, you do,” she said slowly, as though speaking to an uncooperative child. “We can do this easy or we can do this hard. But it will be done. I’ve chosen you as my mate and you have to come.” She couldn’t understand why he wasn’t honored by her choice.

His eyes darted around the room for a weapon. Finding none, he tensed up for a hand-to-hand fight. “I won’t cooperate. I’ll run away.”

She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Don’t be stupid. The town elders will hunt you down and kill you. That’s just the way it is.” Her eyes grew softer and she held out her hand to him. “I’m not going to hurt you, Jake. Not unless you make me. Just come with me. It’ll be much better that way.” She smiled gently. “I’ll be very good to you. I promise.”

Writing group assignment: first date

2005-02-09T20:11:00.000-06:00

The current writing assignment was to write about a first date. I'm posting an excerpt here. You'll find that I rarely post a whole story. The reason is that once a story has been published on the web, even if published in a small blog, editors and publishers considered it to have run its "first printing." So it would be difficult to market any story that was previously published in the blog. To that end, I only publish excerpts. If you wish to read the rest of the story, you'll have to wait until I get it published.

Lou pushed a small box across the table. She picked it up, casting a quick puzzled glance at him before examining the box more closely. It was small, about the size of a jewelry case, wrapped in maroon and gold paper, tied with a delicate gold bow.

“What is it?” She frowned.

“Just a small gift,” he shrugged.

She put the package back on the table and shook her head. “Oh no, I can't.” She resisted the urge to wipe her hands on her pants and instead folded them in her lap. “It's only our first date.” And I just knew things were going too great. You would have to turn out to be a weirdo.

He smiled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I know. But it's not like an engagement ring or anything.” He laughed a little. “My mother always told me never to go empty-handed. If I was invited to your home for a dinner party, I'd bring a house-warming gift.” He regarded the package for a moment and then placed it closer to her again. “Just think of this as a date-warming gift.”

Eloise raised one eyebrow, but smiled in spite of herself at his warmth and genuineness. “A date-warming gift,” she repeated uncertainly.

He shrugged, his warm smile never leaving his face. “I'm just being polite, that’s all.”

She watched him for a moment more, looking in his big brown eyes for some excuse to be alarmed. Finding none, she sighed and slowly unwrapped the gift. As soon as it was unwrapped her brow furrowed again.

She looked up at him, her head cocked sideways. “What is it?”

“It's a necklace. Try it on.” His smile broadened.

She grasped the leather cord and dangled the necklace in front of her face. Instead of a pendant, it was strung with a single tiny bottle, filled with a liquid-silver material.

Her mouth turned down in disgust. “What's in the bottle?”

He laughed. “Just a good luck potion.”

She looked at him skeptically.

“Seriously. It's just a fun little thing. Try it on.”

She thought for a moment, wondering what harm could come of wearing it. Finding none, she moved the slide-knots on the leather cord until the loop was large enough to slip over her head.

She examined the bottle for a moment as it lay coolly against her skin. It actually is kind of pretty, she thought.

She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Are you sure this isn't some kind of potion to make me fall madly in love with you forever?”

He laughed, a rich, warm sound that felt like being wrapped in the softest of blankets. “I wish!” He reached out and took her hand. “But I'm afraid I still have to do that the old fashioned way.”

Another poetry assignment

2005-02-01T14:55:00.000-06:00

This time the assignment was to write a septet about marriage. Having never been married (nor desiring to be married), I had to draw on a little imagination. I guess you really can teach an old dog new tricks.

In the world
I’m Joe Nobody.
But in the golden glow of
This home she makes for us, where pot roast
and understanding are her
gifts to me, I’m Joe
Somebody.

(this poetry stuff is so fun it's SCARY)

Monthly Writing Assignment

2005-01-30T14:17:00.000-06:00

The assignment this month was to write a piece and use in it: a house, a fallen tree, a drunken truck driver.

As is my "standard operating procedure" with most of the assignments, this is not a complete piece. I rarely post a completed piece because, once posted, it is considered "previously published" by most editors. So I prefer to post "snippets." That way, if I later decide to do something with the piece, I'm still free to submit it to a publisher as an unpublished piece.

So here's my "snippet."

Howard’s fingers tightened around the phone until his knuckles were shining white. “You know I don’t have my license anymore. They took it away from me.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Yeah,” the voice rasped, “but that’s all behind you.” Howard could hear the note of uncertainty in the Richie’s voice.

Howard’s eyes shifted around the room. He looked at the moth-eaten curtains, the threadbare thrift store furniture, the old TV he picked up from the curb on garbage day. His gaze fell on the pink eviction notice on the counter. He set his mouth in a firm line, ignoring the empty whiskey bottles on the counter and beer cans littering the floor. “Well, yeah. I’ve dried out. Haven’t had a drop in months,” he said confidently.

“So what’s the problem then?”

A coughing fit seized Richie and Howard had to wait until it stopped before he could answer. “I’ll get in a hell of a lot of trouble if they catch me, that’s what.” His gaze fell on the nearest empty whiskey bottle. He tore his gaze away.

“Trust me, they won’t catch you. It’s back woods all the way. The road’s good, but there aren’t any cops. As long as you don’t speed or do something to call attention to yourself, they’ll never know.”

“I don’t know,” Howard began, uncertainly.

“Please,” the voice rasped. “I committed to the contract, and they have to move now. If I don’t get them moved, I’ll end up losing more than just this deal. They’re the sort of people that will sue my ass off.” The coughing on the other end of the line resumed. “Howie, man. You’re my last hope,” Richie gasped between coughing spasms.

“So how are the roads?” Charlene sat a plate of over easy eggs and corn beef hash in front of the old man and waited for him to reply.

He regarded his food carefully and spoke without looking at her. “They’re a bitch, like always. I don’t know why they don’t get the plows out before traffic can pack the snow.” He finally looked up at her, his expression resigned. “It’s like a skating rink.” He grabbed the salt and turned his attention back to his food.

Charlene smirked. “Our tax dollars at work.”

As she turned away, she caught a glimpse of a truck out on the road. She cocked her head sideways and paused. Business had dropped off at the Pine Tree Truck Stop drastically since the interstate had gone in a few years earlier. Now their patrons were mainly locals and truck drivers in the smaller delivery trucks. Big rigs were a rare curiosity these days.

She caught sight of another flash between the trees. It was definitely a semi. And it was hauling ass.

“What the hell,” she muttered to herself and stepped down a few booths to get a better view.

Charlene watched as the big semi burst into view from between the trees. He was hauling a house and cruising down the twisty little highway at top speed. Her forehead wrinkled as the engine growled, downshifting.

She turned and yelled to Pauly. “Hey! Check this out!” But Pauly was busy laughing with one of the customers and didn’t hear her.

She turned back to the window, her eyes widening even more. The truck turned in, still going too fast. She watched as the truck tipped and leaned as if trying to twist itself free from the trailer. For a split second, Charlene thought the driver might get it back under control. But the semi gave up and fell over with a window-rattling thud. The trailer stayed upright for a split-second longer, dragging behind the semi like a reluctant dog. The torque finally got the better of it and the trailer flipped violently.

Charlene held her breath as the house on the back of the trailer broke free, crumbling as it went. It reached the Pine Tree’s sign as a tidal wave of wood, shingles, and plaster. As the tidal wave split around the sign’s base and slowed, the sign itself rocked and wobbled precariously. Charlene watched, hypnotized, as the sign crashed down to join the pile of house debris.

The screeching of chairs being pushed back and the rush of footfalls roused Charlene from her daze. She glanced quickly at the truck as she left her post by the window. It was on its side, its nose partly obscured by pushed up asphalt. The small crowd from inside the truck stop had already neared the truck.

Charlene raced toward the cluster of watchers as the passenger door lifted. The driver’s head appeared first, looking dazed. Then he twisted and wriggled, trying to worm his way up and out the passenger door. He paused for a moment, dangling on his belly, then fell hard to the pavement. The crowd rushed over to help him.

As the first person from the crowd reached his side, the driver stood up and gave his head a hard shake.

“Dang,” he said to himself.

He turned and looked back at the crowd staring at him and the stranger wide-eyed with concern beside him.

“What?” he asked belligerently.

He stared a moment more before giving his head another hard shake. “Where’s the restroom,” he growled to the man beside him, “my eyeballs are floatin’”.

Writing group assignment

2005-01-15T14:19:00.000-06:00

This one is based on a writing group assignment of using these words in a piece: a police man, a bridge, a river, and a suspect. Remember, this is only an excerpt and it is a first draft.

The River

“He’s a river.”

“What?” Carlton looked up from the chest of junk he was squatting in front of and squinted at Leahy.

“A River.” Leahy frowned. “Someone who’s a professional at separating meat from bone. Like a master butcher. They found his tools in the basement,” He gestured at the trunk. “And these are the leftovers.”

Carlton looked back down at the chest. Inside was a drift of rings, wallets, eyeglasses, necklaces, all sorts of odds and ends, right up to the top of the chest. Carlton grimaced as he pulled out a dental bridge. He held it up, pinched between finger and thumb, and showed it to Leahy. “This is digusting.”

Leahy squatted down beside Carlton and admired the bridge. “Everything this guy did was repellent. But you have to admit, he was efficient.”

Carlton gaped at Leahy.

Leahy stared into the trunk with rapt attention, ignoring Carlton’s look. “I’ll bet my life that this trunk is the only evidence we’ll find.”

Carlton turned back to the trunk, shaking his head. “I’m glad we got him.” He paused and swallowed hard. “What do you think he did with the rest of them?”

“It’s pretty simple. He carved them up and ate them.”

Carlton looked at Leahy, one eyebrow arched. “You think he ate them?”

Leahy plucked out a watch and studied. “I’m sure of it.” He fiddled with the watch a moment before continuing. “It’s the most effective method of getting rid of them. Carve them up, throw away the extras. The bones, skin, and other offal fit nicely inside a garbage can. He must have kept these odds and ends as trophies.” He tossed the watch back into the pile.

Carlton shook his head in disbelief. “I think we should have the investigation team do some work in the backyard. Surely you’re wrong. No one is THAT sick.”

Leahy looked at Carlton, a sly smile on his face. “You remember Mrs. Nachett next door? Remember what she said when we interviewed her?”

Carlton frowned, trying to remember. “She said he was a model neighbor, that we had to have the wrong guy.”

Leahy smiled wider. “And what did she repeatedly say that he did for the neighborhood?”

Realization spread like a wave across Carlton’s face. His eyes were filled with disbelief. “Dear god, she said he barbecued for the whole block. Even in winter.”

“Yep. She may not have known how he could afford all that meat, but WE know.”

Carlton’s complexion had gone grey. He swallowed hard repeatedly.

“I wonder how that nice little old lady is going to react when she finds out her model neighbor fed her, and the whole damn block, his victims.”

Carlton stared into the trunk, gripping the sides as if clinging to a life-raft, his knuckles gone white. “What the hell is this world coming to?”

Leahy shook his head and sighed. “It’s a sick world. You’ll just have to suck it up and get used to it.” He went to the bedroom door and leaned out, calling for one of the evidence technicians. “Hey, we hit the jackpot in here.”

He crossed back to Carlton, who was still clinging to the trunk and staring into it, his mouth twisted in a grimace.

“Hey, you gonna be okay?” Leahy’s eyes were filled with genuine concern. He placed a hand gently on Carlton’s shoulder. Carlton’s career had been pretty sheltered, in spite of working in the city. This was the sort of thing that could make or break an officer, and it was Carlton’s first.

Latest Writing Group Assignment: the Noodle

2005-01-12T16:06:00.000-06:00

The most recent assignment for the writing group was to write a poem in the Englyn Unodl Union form (or as I refer to it, "The Noodle" form). This form has the following pattern:

* * * * * * A * * * (10 syllables)
* * * * * A (6 syllables)
* * * * * * A (7 syllables)
* * * * * * A (7 syllables)

Where "A" is the rhyme.

It's incredibly difficult, especially for a writer of horror fiction! But I am finding that I'm enjoying the challenge, and the strict structure is actually a benefit (it gives me a definite framework to work within).

Enough of the blather! Time for the "Noodle":

A Walk at Midnight

Walking in the inky night, I’m aware,
creatures cloaked in midnight,
creep and crawl, just out of sight,
watch me tarry in lamplight.

Safe within its shielding glow, I listen
To the moaning wind blow,
Rustling of the hedgerow,
Clatter of leaves swirling slow,

Shivering in light’s feeble glow, I watch:
Swaying of the tree row,
Gnarled arms reaching to-and-fro,
Fog slither and slink below.

A pounding flurry of wings. I recoil,
Hear the scrabble of things
Rushing away from the wings,
Hooked-talon death that it brings.

Squeak, flutter and squeal blended with hedgerow,
Shrill squeak quick suspended,
Owl’s dinner apprehended
Back to darkness ascended.

Immobile in my cone of light, my heart
Hammering, my chest tight.
Beyond the cone: endless night;
A distant dream, dawn’s first light.

Amusing Diversion

2005-01-09T08:35:00.000-06:00

Here's an amusing little diversion. This quiz came through a horror list I belong to, and I just couldn't resist.

You are a Return of the Living Dead Zombie. You
were brought back from the grave by exposure to
245-Trioxin. You crave the heavenly taste of
spicy brains to stop the pain of being dead.
You are virtually indestructible, as even
burning you up will create Zombie Rain and
raise more zombies.

What kind of Zombie are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Writing group assignment: News events of 2004

2005-01-05T14:27:00.000-06:00

The year of 2004 was a year filled with big news events. But, as is usual with such things, very few of the “events” had any real perceptible impact on my little slice of the world. But a small, local event had a deep impact on my life, and it didn’t even involve me directly.

Someone I know had her stomach stapled (she’s an in-law of a friend and fellow writer). I barely know the woman, but see her enough to bear witness to the before and after. As long as I’ve known the woman, she’s always been as round as she has been tall (and my friend confirms this; my friend has known her longer, and says she never knew her as being skinny).

So first came the surgery. Then came the long aftermath of suffering. It started with the general surgery recovery (stiffness, soreness, digestive disturbances). Once that was over, there was still digestive disturbance (she had to eat liquid foods, which wreaked havoc on her digestive tract). Then she moved on to being able to eat solids, but only in very small amounts and only of certain foods (and more digestive misery as her body re-accustomed itself to solid foods).

When I saw her a few months after her surgery, she was amazingly thin. And she was picking at the sauce and a few mushrooms on her pizza (her diet, in type and amount of food, is forever limited, lest she want her stomach to stretch again). And she was talking to my friend about her next upcoming surgery (the weight loss has apparently left her with excessive skin, like a Shar-pei dog, and she needs to have it removed).

She was also saying that her doctor wanted her to lose fifteen more pounds and then she would be at her ideal weight. I honestly had to bite my lip at this point. This woman is about 5’ 2” or so, and currently weighs 125. Another 15 pounds off would put her at 110. Is that even healthy? My friend and I looked at each other in surprise. My friend is in great shape and weighs 135. And she’s only an inch or so taller than the woman who had her stomach stapled. So what will the stomach-stapling woman look like at her doctor’s “ideal” weight? A boob-less, hipless stick?

I stood there a moment more making polite chit-chat with the two of them. I kept my amusement in check at the sight of them: my friend, curvy but not overweight, wolfing down her pizza, and her in-law, picking mushrooms and then sliding the rest of the pizza away, uneaten.

After I left them, I couldn’t get the stomach-stapling idea out of my head. The whole idea of it is unfathomable to me. And I know it’s not a bad thing per se: losing all that weight is very beneficial to your health, especially when diet and exercise has failed. So I think the stomach stapling woman, once she has gotten through the rough periods, will be much healthier in the long run. And I certainly don’t begrudge her the improvement it has given her in self-image. I would hate to go through life being self-conscious or insecure about my looks, so if a little surgery can make a person feel better about themself, then I think they should “do what they gotta do”. But it still seems so very extreme to me. I think it’s too bad that our society standards are such that someone has to feel bad about their appearance in the first place.

And who came up with these standards, anyway? The women I know generally blame us men. But all the men I know don’t care much (within reason, of course). And though some men go to great lengths over their appearance, it certainly seems to be more of a female-oriented phenomenon.

So that one little event in the life of a person I hardly know has had a profound impact on me. I’ve developed an intense fascination and awe of the lengths we go to meet these mysterious standards, right down to going under the knife in the name of beauty. It’s truly amazing.

Happy New Year!

2005-01-01T11:49:00.000-06:00

Ahh, another year gone by, another stretching before us. An amazing thing, this "New Year" concept. In realistic terms, it's just an arbitrary delineation of time, based on our equally arbitrary calendar. Yet in our minds, it has become a time of renewal. The time when we reflect over the good times of the past year, and leave the bad times behind us. The time when we look forward to the year ahead with dewy eyes filled with hope. And the time when we all, hearts full of possibilities, make resolutions to be better people with better lives in the coming year.

With all this hope in the air, I resolve to not be so cynical in this new year.

Yeah, right.

More poetry

2004-12-11T18:37:00.000-06:00

On the recommendation of a friend, I searched Yahoo for writing workshops and writer's groups, and joined a few that seemed interesting. One group, however, has proved more interesting than the rest: it assigns poetry in addition to prose.

At first, the mere idea of writing poetry frightened me to my core. But I decided to give it a go, and it's turning out to be quite the learning adventure. Perhaps I'll even try to write a horror poem sometime (after all, if it's good enough for old Eddie-boy . . .)!

The latest assignment was to write a Christmas poem. You can read my clumsy attempts at poetry by following this link:

Writing workshop assignment: Christmas Poem.

Please, be gentle; I stumble on newborn legs into the world of poetry.

2 Haiku

2004-12-01T09:12:00.000-06:00

Bitter wind, its kiss
steals the ghost of my breath; free,
they dance with snowflakes.

Crowds at dawn push, fight,
curse. Must have! Sorry, sold out.
Happy Holidays!

These are my first-ever attempts at poetry. They were an assignment for a writing group I've joined, and I have to say, I quite enjoyed the experience (much to my surprise and delight)! I believe I might just explore poetry-writing a little further.

Guess What?

2004-11-27T19:40:00.000-06:00

Much to my amazement, I did it. Even after being lazy and falling so far behind schedule. I did it.

Now I'm off for a snifter of brandy and to bask in my success. The novel is still far from finished, but as Scarlett O'Hara would say, "I'll think about that another day!"

NaNoWriMo update

2004-11-26T22:06:00.000-06:00

Typing feverishly . . . no time for eating . . . or sleeping . . . must finish NaNoWriMo.

Admittedly, this last minute fervor is my own fault; if I had been more diligent about keeping up all along I wouldn't be in this mess right now. But there is a light at the end of the tunnel (I just hope it's not an oncoming train).

The word count stands at 45,257.

And Corbin seems to have given up. When I inquired about his word count, he growled and told me to mind my own damn business. So I think it would be a logical deduction to say that my word count exceeds his own.

Laughing maniacally on my way back to the typewriter . . .

NaNoWriMo update

2004-11-22T19:09:00.000-06:00

I'm feverishly at work trying to catch up. There are only eight days left, and I'm only at a word count of just over 29,000. Normally this wouldn't bother me; but thanks to Corbin, this is personal. I have to hit the 50,000 mark, whether he makes it or not. I must succeed. To fail is humiliation.

I'm off to write more. No pressure, no pressure.

Corbin's NaNoWriMo

2004-11-16T09:19:00.000-06:00

Corbin has agreed to give us a little taste of his NaNoWriMo project, albeit a VERY small taste (he has always been stingy). So enjoy the appertif:

The clear liquid sat in the sealed vial. Peaceful. Innocent. Alyami held it closer to his face . . . he studied it. He wasn’t wearing a hazard suit, but he was careful—he refused to come this far, work this hard, watch so many of his brothers die, and not see the project through to completion.

Certainly, if anything did happen to him, others could step in and continue on with the work from this point. But it was dangerous work, the work of a martyr. Anyone should be proud to die for such a worthy cause.

But he would see it to its fruition. Only then could he be at peace. He smiled and held the vial a bit more tightly . . . but not too tightly.

NaNoWriMo update

2004-11-15T13:09:00.000-06:00

It's certainly been slow going, but that's my own fault for trying to work outside of my usual genre. The word count stands at 22,364. I'm slightly behind where I should be (halfway through the month should mean 25,000 words), but not so far behind as to be a crisis.

So here's a little excerpt (and please remember, this is all rough draft material; there's no time in NaNoWriMo for revision):

Daniel drove west. He had no idea where he was going or what he was going to do. He was driving in a daze, listening to the drone of the engine. In such a short time, he had lost his wife, his children, his home, his community, even his job. All the things that he had defined himself by were all gone with one quick stroke. His head spun at the thought that the will of one man could take it all away so easily. All he had left was a handful of cash, his pickup truck, and two garbage bags of clothes and personal items. And his rifle. He glanced over at it. He entertained the thought of going back and using it on the Prophet, but he knew that would be pointless. It wouldn’t get his life back. He would just end up going to jail. His eyes grew wide and he screeched the truck to a stop on the gravel shoulder. He sat with the engine idling, the seeds of a plan taking root. His eyes narrowed to vengeful slits as he spun the truck around, throwing up plumes of gravel. He pushed the accelerator almost to the floor, pointing the truck in the direction of the apostate town. He would reveal all. He wouldn’t be able to get his life back, but at least he would get his family back.

NaNoWriMo update

2004-11-03T19:38:00.000-06:00

Right now, the word count stands at:

Doug's novel: 13,507

Corbin's novel: 6000 something

The progress has been phenomenal! Although the subject is completely out of my genre, the novel seems to be writing itself.

Off to write again (Good Lord, man-- it's practically an addiction). I'll be posting excerpts soon.

Coming soon

2004-10-21T19:04:00.000-05:00

Ah, at last: a plan. My friend Windlistener has talked me into participating in NaNoWriMo. So during November, I will be rising to the challenge of producing a 50K word novel. My topic has been chosen, and I will be posting selected excerpts of it here.

To make it even more interesting, it will be a personal competition. My brother, Corbin, will also be participating. So I have agreed to post excerpts of his work here also. Of course, my work is far superior, but it just wouldn't be right to discourage him (a big brother's duty, and all that).

So watch this space for excerpts from both our novels, plus updates on how we are doing with NaNoWriMo.

Some links, to stall

2004-10-11T16:59:00.000-05:00

I'm having a dreadful time keeping up with my commitments lately and apologize for being negligent in my postings here. Rest assured, there will be more of my work available for your enjoyment soon. In the meantime, I fall back on a stalling tactic: Links! For those of you who have writing aspirations of your own, I offer these inspirational links:

Toasted Cheese Writing Exercises

Toasted Cheese Writing Prompts Calendar

The Scriptorium Writing Exercises

These links (and more) will eventually be available on my website. It will be a while yet, though-- I'm still learning html (thanks to a local lady I met through a writer's group-- she has infinite patience, and is helping this old goat move into the 21st century; Thank you, Wind).

And I promise to have new writing up in this blog very soon.

My Return

2004-09-28T13:19:00.000-05:00

I apologize for my absence. I was graced with the pleasure of surprise guests, and therefore have spent the last week or so immersed in fine wine and pleasant conversation. And, of course, the occasional road trip or too. No fear: I will be resuming a regular writing schedule again. In the meantime, here are two pictures from my impromptu vacation for your enjoyment.

The first picture is from a delightful evening of fishing (and yes, that is my fishing rod in the corner). The second is from Crazy Horse Mountain (the model is in the foreground of the picture; the actual mountain carving is circled in the background).

As a side note, the Crazy Horse project is one very near and dear to my heart. If you'd like to learn more about it (or donate to this project-- they are doing this all by public donation; no government money is involved), follow this link:

Crazy Horse Memorial

Home is Where the Heart Is

2004-09-16T13:25:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the first story excerpt. Please keep in mind that this posting is a "free write" (as most of the postings will be). This means it is in the first stage of the writing process: raw, unpolished, practically stream-of-consciousness. So spelling errors may be present, as well as awkward grammatical constructions. But here it is anyway, for your reading enjoyment.

Excerpt from "Home is Where the Heart Is", by The Night Writer © 2004

     “So how’s the new mower working for you?”
     Bill had been waiting for someone to ask, he broke into a big grin as he returned to the patio table with fresh drinks.
     “Awesome! I’m so glad you helped me pick it out. I would have just bought the cheapest thing there. I thought a mower was just a mower, but you’ve shown me the light!”
     He handed one of the drinks to Ellen as he sat down next to her. As the two men started yet another long, boring discussion, Ellen’s attention drifted to the yard. The mower really did do a good job, not that she really cared. And not that it would have mattered, anyway. A yard as big and beautiful as theirs would probably look good even if you went after it with a butter knife. All of it seemed to almost grow to perfection, as if the roses knew they weren’t supposed to get too bushy, that the hedges knew they were supposed to be square. As if the landscaper had read the “Growing Things Bible” to all the plants, and they were doing as told.
     She smiled and sipped her drink. She and Bill were so lucky to have found this house, this town. It was almost a miracle, when you got right down to it. The town was small enough to feed her need for an “old-fashioned community” for raising their children, but close enough to the city that Bill could still get home from work before it was dark.
     And the price! Ellen shook her head in amazement as she surveyed the beauty around them. The price was amazingly, incredibly low. The initial asking price on the house was almost $40,000 below market value, and Bill, always frugal, had put in an offer for ten thousand less than that! She complained, because she had fallen in love with the house as soon as they pulled up with the realtor. But Bill wouldn’t relent. “We can start low and go up,” he assured her. But it hadn’t been necessary. Less than 24 hours after they had signed the offer, the realtor called and told them it had been accepted. Ellen still hadn’t gotten over the shock of it all.
     Vaguely, she heard Carl asking her something. “I’m afraid you caught me daydreaming,” she admitted. “What did you say?”
     “I asked if you were looking forward to your first Field Day,” he smiled, and swirled the ice cubes in his drink.
     She shot a puzzled look to her husband, thinking she must have missed more of the conversation than she thought. But he just smiled and shrugged. She looked back at Carl and asked, “I’m afraid I haven’t heard about the Field Day. What is it?”
     Carl leaned farther back in his chair and rested his glass on his ample belly. “Field Day is our big community event. Surely you’ve seen all the flyers around town?”
     Ellen vaguely remembered seeing a crop of flyers popping up lately on the lampposts, but had just assumed they were the usual summer garage sale and lost dog type of things.
     “By Thursday, the committee will have all the banners and gaslights up. Friday night, the festivities begin. There will be lots going on: bands playing, jugglers, food booths, a pie eating contest. Mamie Sanderson even found a sword swallower!” He shook is head in amusement over this. “It’s our version of the old-fashioned county fair, but on a smaller scale.”
     Ellen smiled. The idea of a Field Day just reinforced her feeling that this was exactly the sort of community she had been looking for.

Introduction

2004-09-15T12:51:00.000-05:00

Welcome to The Night Writer. I'm a horror writer, and here I will be posting excerpts from my writing as well as an occasional rant (I'm a writer and a ranter). Either way, I hope you'll enjoy it. And if not, well, in the words of the Familiar, "Just bite me."