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EROS & THANATOS A Newsletter BY Writers FOR Writers http://kenyonslabyrinth.bravehost.com Vol. 1 No. 6 SEPTEMBER, 2008 ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- M. Kenyon Charboneaux, Editor nomadagain2000@yahoo.com This ezine is distributed by subscription only. To unsubscribe, simply send me an email that has unsubscribe on the subject line. It's as easy as that! This month's dedication is to Steven Sills, a literary
writer, author of Corpus of a Siam Mosquito, American Papyrus, Tokyo to Tijuana, and his latest, Nawin,
all available on Project Gutenberg. So check out his work. If you love Proust and Balzac, you'll love Steven Sills. _________________________________________________________________ In This Issue _________________________________________________________________ // Editorial // This Month's Book Review : Open Grave : The Book of Horror // Contest Winning Story - A Mother's Dream by Carol Hadley // Poem - Pikadon by IceDancer // Story - The Thing in The Closet by Nocterna Poe // Poll - Results from August question and September's question // Article - Another
Hard Truth // Contest Announcement // Thanks and Transmission ends! EDITORIAL Hey, Folks!
First I want to apologize for the lateness of this month's edition of Eros & Thanatos. Gustav gets the blame this time. I was evacuated and we were allowed back into our homes over here on the West Bank of New Orleans (technically a suburb called Gretna or Terrytown) until the power was back.on. Then when I did get home, around the 4th, I think it was, my laptop, which had not evacuated, must have taken a power surge or something when the lights went out, because suddenly I found I couldn't receive or send mails longer than a few paragraphs which sucked for two reason : 1) Eros wouldn't go; and 2) the Mystery Class which began on the 1st (and there's still room to sign up - this week is only lesson 2, so if you've a mind, the
class is $25USD for new students and $!5USD for those of you who just coming back for more - and it's taken until the past couple of days to get it up and running
and sent out. The bugs fixed, my explanation over, let me remind you all that the new Horror Class begins on November 1st. Same prizes, same quality as those of you who've taken my classes have come to expect. and there are still seats remaining in the auditorium if you've a hankering. This month I have a new feature will I hope you'll enjoy - Book Reviews. You can either send me a review of your book(s), send me a copy (PDF or RTF) of your book and I'll review it or send in reviews of books you read and think our readership will enjoy. We begin this month with Geoff Nelder's review of An Open Grave, an excellent horror anthology. What else have we got you ask? Our contest winner for August. Another short story by Nocterna Poe. And an
article on - what was that? - oh, yes, I remember! WRITING!! Finally, my apologies for any typos and misspellings I've missed. I'm still finding it hard to
type with just my left hand and two fingers on my right and to read without glasses (don't even ask!). So go for it! Hope you enjoy this issue and remember pass it around. It's free (now that's a deal!) and all your friends, enemies, family, whoever, have to do to get their own copy is email me at nomadagain2000yahoo.com Yours, M. Kenyon Charboneaux Editor ____________________________________________________________________ BOOK REVIEW by Geoff Nelder Open Grave: The Book of Horror by Jeani Rector ISBN-10: 1604417129 ISBN-13: 978-1604417128 Softcover:
273 pages Published: May 2008 Publisher: Publish America Price: USD 19.75 Open Grave is a chilling anthology of ten stories
one of which, the book’s title, is a recondite novella for the connoisseur of the occult. The collection travels where few horror writers dare and down roads no normal humans visit. For example, even those of us hardened by our reading of noir tales look away when we encounter a face with an empty eye socket. Not so Jeani Rector. In her first and possibly most grisly tale, Cat’s Eye, we are obliged to keep our eyelids open while we grit teeth and become drawn into the void. With morbid fascination we are compelled to look and read on to the gruesome end. Other short tales cover such macabre topics as the Ebola virus outbreak in Zaire; following a young woman’s terrifying experience. The story typifies the way Jeani Rector puts effort into researching her subject
matter. We feel we were there, not only in Zaire, but in another story with the Navajo and their Chindis spirits in the hot deserts of Arizona; a touching coming-of-age revelation, in
which a grave ceremony goes wrong, in The Burial. Another well-researched story delves into Voodoo. Ghoul, is so realistic I felt my hairs quiver even though the view point is cunningly through the eyes of a disbelieving psychiatrist, who has to accept the fantastic to save his own life. Monday Night Dive is a freaky original story with a surprise ending about grabbing thrown-out food from High Street stores. I was mildly disappointed with Cold Spot. It has promise of a gritty horror but in my opinion misses and becomes a child’s morality tale. Nevertheless, it is worth the read for it contains my favourite droll line (yes, there is humour in horror): ‘Troop didn’t feel ten years old any more. Suddenly he felt nine.’ Under the House
is a frightening story of how a young girls hides from her vicious father. Can she remain hidden only inches from him for long? Maybe, but worse awaits her. I thank Jeani
Rector for Crystal Ball. Once again authenticity is so strong I felt compelled to dig out a genuine unadulterated quartz crystal I’d harboured in my attic and gazed into the milky oddity inside it. Then, as Keja advised, I rubbed my hands before holding the crystal. After a few moments a revelation occurred to me about how to add panache to one of my own stories. There can be no greater accolade for a story than it inspires other tales. The novella, Open Grave, is a well-structured long story, playing on the mind control of Rick, a university student, by a black-haired siren who lures him into a bizarre life. There’s a genuine feel for student life in this story, of trust, betrayal but then twists into the macabre. A worthy horror story in itself. I have
to confess that I groaned when I saw that the publisher was Publish America. No disrespect is intended with this comment. This book demonstrates how a genuinely worthy volume can fall
into the Publish America fold even though it would probably fare better with a different publisher. Nevertheless, I urge readers of horror to buy this book, especially if they like substantial dashes of authenticity with their awe and dread. ____________________________________________________________________ CONTEST WINNING SHORT STORY ----------------------------------------------------------- A Mother’s Dream by Carol Hadley "Mother. Can you help me?" "Mother. I need your help." "Mother-r-r-r---!" "Enough! I heard you, all of you. I’m taking this bath and not one of you can take me away from it. This is the first quiet moment I’ve
had in days." "Yes, Mother." A chorus of disappointed voices echoed in her head. Mother sank lower in her tub filled with organic muck, letting the warmth relax
her weary limbs. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and resumed her dream novel. **Lightly stepping over bare tree roots he pushed aside leafy branches. There was that sound again. The Galactic game warden searched dense shadows in the forest, seeking the origin of the piteous cries he’d been hearing. He pushed back raven locks of gleaming curls from his manly brow. His bronzed skin rippled over taut muscles as he leaned against a tree and waited for the sound again. Crouching low in the decomposing vegetation, the coral and fuchsia mushroom closed her eyes and mouth, hoping to escape detection. She’d been trying to attract a big-eared moth for dinner. Game wardens weren’t all that tasty, but he’d do if the moth failed to volunteer as the main course. ** Mother
chuckled at her mental picture of a toadstool eating a park ranger. ‘Did the mushroom eat the uniform, too—or did it peel and toss the outer layer?’ Mother spent much of her free
time reading in this particular park on a far planet and had never noticed warden peels lying around. **The warden faded into the shadows, continuing his search for the elusive sound. Suddenly he detected the arrival of a dreamer. Mother materialized and scurried into the underbrush. She had no desire to get between hunter and prey and for a moment she believed that her arrival was undetected. **‘She’s lovely,’ thought the warden with surprise and Mother grinned, continuing to read the warden’s thoughts. ‘Few of the dreamers I’ve encountered are humanoid and seldom worth my notice except when it’s necessary to prevent one from poaching in my preserve. Is she a poacher? Hope not. Would it break any regulations to meet her? None that I can think of.’**
Mother straightened. With a happy grin, she stretched her arms wide, twirling to bathe her body in the warm rays of the amber sun dominating the skies of Longan. Singing a
lighthearted melody, she danced through the forest, eyes raised toward the pale green sky streaked with luminous pink and cream. Choking off a startled shout, she found herself chest-to-chest with the game warden. He smiled and steadied her with his arms. "Well, hello. I’ve never seen you here before, Ma’am."** Mother smiled and shifted in her bath. ‘This novel has potential for some romance,’ she decided. **"Hello, Warden. I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m sorry." She looked down and realized she was still dressed for her bath. With a mischievous intake of her breath, she covered herself in gauzy drapery, more suitable for a frolic in the forest. "That wasn’t necessary, my dear," breathed the warden softly and nibbled her ear.
Mother giggled. Yes, she actually giggled! Then she ducked from the warden’s arms and danced away, laughing. Holding out her hands, she invited him to follow her into the
shadows. She circled the clearing, teasing and beckoning. Enjoying the chase, the warden’s eyes suddenly stretched wide and he lunged at her, dragging her from the foliage. "Look out! Friend almost got you, lovely lady." He hugged her again, breathed deeply of her earthy scent and placed her in the center of the clearing. She looked behind her at the biggest mushroom she’d ever seen. It rose from the soft forest mulch until it was as tall as Mother and a large slit opened in the stem. The warden easily lifted her from its reach as thick filaments extruding from the stem and waved in her direction. "Friends have a narcotic current in their tentacles that fool their prey into thinking they want to be dinner," he explained as he led her from the clearing.
"Why do you call something so dangerous, ‘Friend’? I’d say it was anything, but friendly." "Believe it or not, her victims introduce themselves and insist on
being her friend while she eats them. The current she zaps you with instantly destroys normal perceptions." He led her to a rocky outcrop overlooking a lush valley where a thundering waterfall shook the ground and a wide river flowed eagerly to the creamy sea. Mother laid her head on the warden’s muscular chest and thanked him for saving her life. Their kiss was long and thorough. They sat upon the warm stone and leaned against each other until Mother nuzzled the man and slowly sank with him to the warm stone surface. ** "Mo-THER!" The shout jolted her back into her tub so rapidly she splashed expensive health spa goo across the floor. "What do you want? It had better be good!" She shouted back, clearly annoyed. "I can’t find my shoes!" whined
her youngest. "Argh! Calgon, take me away!" pleaded Mother, rolling her eyes. **The warden pulled her into his arms, whispering, "I’m here." Mother
smiled shyly and said, "I don’t know your name." He answered softly, "Yes you do. You just called me."** * Buddy set all the controls back to zero. Just nervous twiddling; he’d reset them a dozen times. The investor was due to arrive at any moment and he could barely stay inside his skin, he was that excited-- and scared. He’d stolen his mother’s invention and was trying to sell it as his own (her fault for not patenting it!) and thoughts of the fortune he was about to make overwhelmed him to the point of nearly fainting. "Buddy? I’m Pol Graham." A large man hurried across the worn Persian rug, following his extended brown hand. He shook Buddy’s with a quick squeeze then sat heavily in the easy chair facing him. "I’ve
been looking forward to meeting you. You have something for me? Let’s see it." "Uh, here, sir," Buddy said, puzzled by Graham’s haste. He pointed to the small box on the low
table between them. Sitting in the lobby of the anything-but-Grand Hotel, the two men leaned toward the table. Both reached for the cream-colored gizmo with three dials across the top. "No!" Buddy slapped Graham’s hand away. "Please, Sir," he stammered, "I--I have to show you how to do the settings before you can handle it. If you disrupt the calibration, I’ll never get it right again." "How’s that? You invented it, you should know how to adjust the settings," the big man argued, scowling suspiciously at the thin young man whose long sleeves failed to cover his bony wrists. Buddy paused remembering what Mother told him about the calibrations: "They all have to start at the same point and be adjusted the same number of degrees in order to stay tuned to your
brain. If one of the settings is off, then it won’t work," he repeated her admonition aloud. "Like I told you in my letters; I accidentally stumbled onto this technology and haven’t
mastered it completely because I don’t have the means for proper research. I offered it to you with the understanding that you have the funds necessary to analyze and reproduce it for sale. I expect royalties as the inventor." "Of course, of course." Graham backed up, but only a little. He licked his lips eagerly and said, "I must insist upon a trial run, before I decide to invest in some little box that lets one travel to far planets. My assistant told me he’d tried it and how it works. You guarantee it’s completely safe?" "Oh, sure. No one’s ever been harmed reading a dream novel. If you’ll tell me the type of story you want to read I’ll set it for you." He held his hand expectantly over the menu. "Is that it? Just dial some numbers?" "Oh,
uh, no," Buddy fumbled in his shirt pocket for a small envelope. "These strips help amplify your brain waves so you control your participation in the novel. "Here." He placed the
transparent strips carefully on the man’s dark forehead, just above each brow. "What kind of dream do you want to read? I have travelogues, a horse opera, whatever that is, and some adventure stories about pirates and space travel and some romance settings. Mother likes those." "What about a travelogue? I could go to a-- a forest in another galaxy, right?" Graham asked hopefully. "Can we do this right now? I’m in a bit of a hurry." Buddy’s eyes lit up. "I have just the thing. I’ve read many times in this great forest. You’ll like it; it’s a kind of Galactic National Park on a planet called Longan. Mother dreams there a lot." He made some adjustments using a list from an index card she’d written for his use. "Now, just lean back and let the machine take you
into the dream novel. You control yourself in the story, but not the characters, though you can try. Sometimes they play along with you. You never know; that’s what makes it so
exciting. The novel’s different every time you read it. Now lean back and get comfortable." Graham settled into the deep cushions hearing his own deep sigh as he closed his eyes. **Through a dark haze he saw in the distance an alien forest of tall, angular trees whose boughs twined overhead to form a barrier from the scorching sun. He looked up and marveled at the unfamiliar sight of a pale green sky streaked with gold and creamy pink. The intense heat caused him to perspire heavily. I gotta get to the shelter of those trees. It’s so hot I can’t breathe. Why didn’t that shifty little guy warn me? Wait, he said I control myself, so I want to get there... right now.’ Suddenly Graham found himself in the shade of a thick stand of trees. He gasped
at the sudden drop in temperature, and then expelled a long pleasured sigh. Keeping to the shadows, he began to explore his surroundings. Birds in feathers of dazzling colors hopped
among the branches and chirped haunting melodies. Graham just wanted to sit down and feel the forest soak into all his senses-- and to avoid facing his wife’s wrath. He needed a plan to stay alive. His wife had learned that he’d spent every cent of her fortune and he’d been eluding her assassin since then. He had just located a suitable spot to rest and think when a stranger stopped him. "Who are you?" A tall, slim woman draped in fluttery green cried, stepping into the clearing where the sun bathed her in blinding, radiant amber. "Wuh." He gulped. Astonishment warred with a host of other emotions; all of which merely succeeded in tangling his tongue. "You don’t belong here," she hissed. Stepping closer, she frowned and leaned forward, staring hard at
him. "What’s that on your head?" Before he could stop her, she reached up and pulled off the strips Buddy had placed on his brow. "Where did you get these?" she demanded, her
eyes blazed with fury. "You’re human. You can’t use these!" "Wuh," he tried again to speak. His mouth still wouldn’t work, but his mind raced. ‘I have to wake up. Something’s terribly wrong. I want out of this nightmare, right now!’ Graham thought as hard as he could about exiting the novel. Nothing happened except that the woman stepped back; her face went blank and she faded. Her image floated before him like a mist for several minutes before she again took solid form. "Mister, you have gotten yourself into something you know nothing about. You’re in grave danger and I don’t think I can help you. I suspect Buddy is responsible for you being here, am I right?" He struggled to nod yes. In her absence he’d had time to rethink his position
and wondered, ‘How does she know?’ Understanding had dawned with chilling clarity. ‘She’s dreaming the same novel I am and knows about Buddy. Is she his Mother? She claimed I shouldn’t
be here because I’m human. Does that mean she isn’t? Does it mean Buddy isn’t? He looked human. All seven feet of him, except maybe his eyes seemed kind of strange, now that I think about it.’ The woman folded her arms and tapped her foot angrily while seeming to reach a decision. "I don’t believe this is your fault." Flinging her long, fiery red hair back from her perfectly oval face, she exclaimed with a growl, "Ooh! Buddy is in so much trouble! Try to stay out of trouble, until I get back, Mister." She shimmered and vanished. Graham struggled to move. Without the dream strips, he was no longer in control of himself, but had become merely an observer. How could he return to Earth without them? Not that he wanted to. Birds returned to the low foliage to
sing, feed on berries and seeds while keeping sharp eyes on the intruder. Rooted in the shade, Graham heard a high-pitched singsong. It curled around him, drawing his
attention to something in the shadows. Against his will, he felt himself being turned and saw the source of the pleasing music. A giant coral and fuschia mushroom was rapidly growing from the undergrowth. It slowed when it reached his approximate height and a slit opened in the elongated stem. He watched in dismay as tendrils extended from the opening. When they gently touched his skin he smiled and leaned happily toward the mushroom. He wanted only to be the best friend this fungus ever had and was glad to feed it. To be dinner was his only desire. ** * Buddy watched in horror as the dream strips vanished from Graham’s forehead. It was all he could do to keep from screaming out loud when the sleeping man’s bulk appeared to boil inside his yellow plaid
suit. He whimpered as Graham’s remains dribbled slowly into a small pile of gray ash on the chair cushion. "Buddy! I want to see you immediately," Mother yelled into his
mind. Shaking so hard he was sure he heard his bones rattle, Buddy tried to keep the quaver from his thoughts as he answered, "I can’t, Mother, I’m kind of busy right now." Mother fizzed angrily before him long enough to jab strips onto his forehead with impatient thumbs, then they both departed from the hotel in a wisp of fog. "What have you done?" Mother angrily shoved Buddy onto a chair in their kitchen at home. "I think I just killed Mr. Graham," Buddy gulped, covering his face with his hands. "He’s fine. I just fixed it so he can’t come back and tell anyone about this. What were you thinking?" "I—I wanted to sell the dream novel gizmo and get out of here. People treat me like I’m a freak and I have no friends. I just
want to go away," he sobbed. "Mother, what’s wrong with me? Why am I so different from everyone else?" "I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that," she bit her lip and
tapped her foot. "What? What are you keeping from me?" "Buddy. Have you noticed that I don’t use the machine or dream strips? Ever wonder why you do?" "You told me the strips were like training wheels. That when I get older I won’t need them, either." "I’m not so sure that’s the case anymore. You haven’t learned to dream read without them like your younger brothers." Mother looked pained as she pronounced: "Buddy, I don’t think you’re going to work out. I truly believed because your father was such a brilliant physicist and mathematician, that you’d naturally be more intelligent than the average human." "What’s that supposed to mean? That I’m a failed experiment?" He asked, bitterly. "That I’m less intelligent than the average human?"
"No, Buddy. I’m telling you that you are human." "Pht!" he snorted, "And you’re not?" "Yes." Mother jumped from her chair and
caught Buddy before he reached the door. "Listen. You can’t run from this! Sit down. I’ll tell you everything." Keeping a firm grip on Buddy’s hands, she forced him to listen. "Those dream novels you ‘read’ are exercises. The sole purpose is to learn to teleport yourself to these places without the use of the machine. Your brothers and I actually go to these places just by thinking it. I had hoped with the aid of the machine that you’d learn to do the same. What you tried to do today proves that you’ll never get it. Your human half is dominant, not like your brothers." "But, I’ve looked in on you when you were reading and I saw you, right here at home." "Sometimes I read, sometimes I go. Depends on what’s happening in the novel," she smiled, remembering
the park ranger. "Mother, my gizmo? I left it . . ." "It’s in a safe place." She suddenly released his hands so hard his knuckles whacked on the table. "You tried
to sell it! Do you have any idea what our technology in the wrong hands could do? Humans cannot control the power in that ‘gizmo’ as you call it. I created it specifically for you, to help you develop your natural skills. That was when I believed you had them." She paused sadly, "Oh, my poor Buddy. Please close your mouth." "Are you some slimy monster with tentacles and poisonous breath?" His voice quavered with fear. "Nope. What you see is what you get." She smiled and sat back. "I may be from another planet, but we evolved from the same human stock as you. For some unknown reason, fewer males have been born on my world in the last five generations. Hoping to save our race, women of incredible stature and talent, like me," she pointed proudly to herself, "have volunteered
to merge with other species in order to strengthen and repopulate our own. "I had hoped that my firstborn would be the savior of my race, Buddy. You have great
intelligence. That’s why I’m so disappointed in your lack of skill in teleporting. Not to mention the competition. Ontee and I wagered a lot on which of us would bring back the male who will save us from extinction." "Ontee? I’ve heard you mention her. Is she really a two-headed witch who cheats and steals?" Buddy shuddered at the thought of having such a relative. "Where is she?" "Ontee chose to merge with the Venusian Khai. They’re a fairy-like race whose life span is a mere seven years, but they breed often and are very prolific. The children are highly intelligent, but have the attention span of tree bark. Ontee is a great-grandmother, while all of my children still live at home. Do you see why I tried so hard to help you achieve the skill? I can’t take you home
with me if you can’t teleport. The gizmo and strips wouldn’t be accepted in my society. They’d emphasize your handicap, making you an outcast there, too. Your brothers and I have already
set up housekeeping there. We only stayed for you." Mother paced around her small kitchen. "I won’t abandon you. You may be my favorite, but I have a duty to my people. Where would you like to go?" "Anyplace but here! Can I keep my gizmo and strips? I have a friend on TaraS, near Orion. We’ve been dating a couple of really nice girls. In their society, a marriage consists of two pairs and I’ve been invited to complete the foursome. That’s what I really want. If I go there, not just dream, could I live on Sarat?" Buddy asked, afraid to hope. "I think that’s a wonderful idea. Your brothers and I are anxious to go home so there’s nothing else to keep us on Earth. If you want to go, let’s do it now. I’ll link with the boys then send you off. Sorry, no strips
for you. Once you land, you stay. Ready? We’ll visit you often, so this isn’t goodbye." Mother whirled around the kitchen, happily drawing power from the air. Buddy’s three brothers
teleported into the kitchen and adding their mental energy with hers, booted a grateful Buddy off his homeworld and into his new life. "OK, boys," she announced to her remaining children, "Let’s go home! I’ll meet you at the house after I make a brief stop on the way." **The game warden waited for Mother. He took her hand and they strolled through the forest in happy reunion. He guided her around a small pile of yellow plaid near the path. ‘So they do peel their food,’ Mother noted. ** -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- POEM Pikadon A brightness too loud to hear, then came a wind that cried as no wind
has done before, wailing with voices of our so suddenly dead ; A black rain fell; tears of our vaporized who left their shadows on the walls, mere
ghosts in stone. * Forgive me for having no burden to like yours.... * The doctor's face, his hands, his smock, red with blood (not all is his), and black streaks like a child's calligraphy upon his cheeks and clothing, called out, "Nurses! Waste no time on the dying! Conserve your efforts for those who will live." "But which are they?" "I do not know." A confession and a submission. * Forgive me for having no burden like yours.... * Their bodies lay in rows, in lines of order so like their lives, this order laid down by soldiers who did not weep, though they ordered corpses of those they
had loved when living . Watching impassively through the night as delphinium blue flames flickered in the burns of the dead and we were
frightened. These too were tears of our dead ones, the blue flames that came from and returned to the splintered August sky. * Forgive me for having no burden like yours .... * A nurse, new, from another prefecture, cried to the doctor who had been in a constant spiral of circular motion for five days past, still bloodied, unwashed, unclean, "Oh, what I have seen!" He, too, had seen; women, with kimono flowers burnt forever into their skin, red flowers on golden mandarin skin, men with strips of burned flesh like ribbon offerings to the dead at Atami shrine, burned skin slipping of their hands like
gloves and the ghosts in the stone, still wailing with their captivity. * Forgive us for having no burden like yours. *
"When they destroy the stone, will their souls be released, Doctor?" "I do not know." To a white and dying priest lying near, "Do you know, Father?" "I do not know. But there is a Haiku 'Now that my house has burned down, I have a much better view of the moon.' " * Forgive us from having no wisdom like yours. 14 January 2005 _________________________________________________________________________ STORY The Thing in the Closet ©Noctavia Poe, Nov. 2005 In Glascow, perched on the barrister’s ultra-modern chrome and naugahyde couch, half-blinded by the noonday sunlight streaming through the 10th floor windows and distracted by what sounded like the horn section of a symphony orchestra tuning up far below, Mrs. McReady’s new codicil at the bottom of the contract
seemed like just another minor impediment, a quirky formality, the last rickety hurdle before the finish line of the home-buying marathon. It wasn’t even that much of a surprise, though it did daunt me a little, being typed up and initialed all official like that. We had already discussed that I would be sharing the house, if you can call such an arrangement sharing, when I walked through the old cottage on the pre-signing tour. But now, miles away from the nearest neighbor, with the hands of the bedside clock inching toward midnight and those baleful eyes staring out of the closet, having agreed to share my new home with something inhuman seemed a very serious thing indeed. My compliance was
the deciding factor in getting this place, I reminded myself. The pastor and his wife were just as interested as I was, and probably would have offered a bit more, but he had gotten such
a nasty look on his face when the thing went gliding past us in the kitchen, Mrs. McReady was sure he would cast it out the minute they moved in. "And where would the poor thing go then?" she clucked. I couldn’t argue with her logic. Even though I’d never actually seen one, and this one had slipped by so quickly I couldn’t say with much authority that I’d seen one even then, Scotland was famous for them. Most castles had several, and the more ancient cottages boasted of at least one. Mrs. McReady’s cottage, though small, had been here as long as anyone could remember, and came with several acres of boggy marshland. "Does it have a name?" I asked, as the pastor’s car disappeared into the fog.
"If it does, I wouldn’t know it," Mrs. McReady said. "I don’t talk to it much, but when I do, I call it Spook. It knows perfectly well who I’m talking to
when I call it that." Spook. Most legends described them as harmless, though they occasionally emitted foul odors and hair-raising howls. In the case of families, they sometimes took a liking to one member in particular and filched their soiled clothing, especially socks. I wondered if the laundromat near my old apartment had one. I used to lose a great many socks there. I tried not to remember the rest – their icy touch on your hand or the back of your knee, sometimes damp as well as cold. And -- Mrs. McReady peered at me over her tortoiseshell reading glasses. "You’re not afraid of them, are you?" I grinned weakly. "Should I be?" I
tried not to recall the awful things some of them did in the movies or the lurid tabloid headlines. "It’s never – attacked – has it?" "Attacked? I
should say not! I’ve lived here almost nine years, girl, and it was here before me. Poor thing, it must be ten or eleven years old by now. It’s attacking days are long gone now, if it ever had attacking days to begin with." She pursed her lips tight before beginning again. "It’s all in the way you treat them, just like people. I’ve always found it to be quite companionable. Just give it what it wants!" What it wanted was what was keeping me awake right now, peeking over the edge of my puffy down coverlet at those glowing green eyes afloat in the closet. "You let it sleep with you?!" I remember screeching. "Of course, dear." said Mrs. McReady,
unwrapping a stick of cinnamon gum and popping it in her mouth. "Oh, I know it sounds – what’s that word you young people use? -- kinky, but they’ve been crawling into bed with
people since the beginning of time. You could try to keep it out, I suppose, but if you figure out how, you’ve done better than me. It’s patient as time, dear, and just as determined. You have to sleep sometime. It will wait." The clock struck midnight . Eventually, I’d sleep. Maybe. But not now, not my first night alone with that thing. I could stay up for days when I was in college, and my former flatmates often kept me up till 3 or 4 in the morning laughing and drinking, or throwing up noisily in the adjacent toilet. Let it wait. I wouldn’t go to sleep. I’d turn on the bedside lamp and read until daybreak. Still keeping my eyes on the closet, I reached out
for the lamp cord. But the lamp cord wasn’t there. This wasn’t my tiny little apartment with my tiny little lamp on my tiny bedside table. This was a 200-year-old cottage with only one
outlet per room, which was on the far wall behind the low chest of drawers where I’d plugged in the tv. And the lamp. I tossed the covers aside. A hollow, rhythmic thumping began, or was that my heart? It was a long way to the chest of drawers, and those things were famous for their speed. What if it were in bed waiting for me when I got back? I decided to stay awake by force of will alone. The clock struck one, then two, then three. Why had it taken up residence in the closet, of all places? They supposedly craved wide expanses like castle courtyards or the moors. That closet was the only cramped space in the entire cottage, only wide enough for a few coats and my dresses. I’d had to hang my
t-shirts and jeans on the rolling rack I’d planned to put in the laundry room. How it found room to lie down like that was beyond me, though lying down was the only position I could
conceive of that would bring its eyes so close to the floor like that. Lying flat, with its chin on the cold plank floor. Three ten , three fifteen , three thirty . The thing’s eyes slowly closed. I waited five more minutes, then lay down ever so carefully, but in spite of my best effort, a spring creaked. The eyes popped open and rose several feet. It was sitting up, or standing. I heard a low groan, then soft, stealthy footsteps. It was done waiting. It was coming, whether I was sleeping or not. I dove under the covers and lay trembling. The bed creaked under its weight. It loomed over me, and I dreaded its touch. It nudged me just once, then lay down. The length of it stretched five feet or
more. I lay there, trembling, feeling its backbone press into my ribs with every breath. Mrs. McReady had assured me it wouldn’t bite, but with jaws the
size of tennis shoes, I didn’t want to take any chances. Its breathing slowed. It began to snore. I wormed slowly out of my cocoon. It resembled a bear rug with silver grey hair and a black shiny snout. A rug blissfully drooling on my brand new down comforter. Its front paws twitched like it was dreaming. I pushed it gingerly. It moaned in its sleep, but didn’t growl. I pushed again, a little harder, and it moved over a few inches. I plumped my pillow and lay down again. Tomorrow I would drive into Glasgow and buy three things: a battery-powered lamp for my bedside table, a latch for the closet door, and the biggest, cushiest dog bed I could find. I didn’t mind
having a dog in the house, even one as huge as a Scottish deerhound, but unlike Mrs. McReady, I was drawing the line at sharing my bed. And, once he got
used to that, I was changing his name. Rover, Shamus, Goliath – anything but Spook. __________________________________________________________________________ POLL : Should this writer finish this novel? was last month's Poll Question. Interesting while most responses said that it should be finished, they also specified that it should be a short story and not a novel. This week's question is probably a bit easier to answer : What would you like to see incorporated into the newsletter? Prompts Agent
& Market Listings More (or less) fiction ??????????? Remember, this newsletter is yours. Let me know how it can best serve your needs as a writer and I'll do more than my best to make sure that it does serve you in the way you need it to! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ARTICLE - ANOTHER HARD TRUTH "Atmosphere is a really important thing - it's what makes you forget you're sitting in a theater." - Roman Polanski "So?" you say. "I'm a writer not a screenplay writer or a movie
maker." Ah, yes, but remember Suspension of Disbelief? You don't hear it much these days, but suspension of disbelief is still what keeps a reader glued to your work, builds you a
following and - bare truth here - is very locked, arm in arm with something very out of fashion under today's paradigm of bare bones narration. Books these days are beginning to look like screenplays padded out with just enough information to let you know what city you're in, what the plot is (if there is one) and who the characters are - at the moment. That's fine for short stories, although atmosphere can't be ignored in short story writing either, but in novels, it is essential if you want to write, as Hemingway called it, "something of value" and that if you make your book well enough, you will give it immortality. Hemingway was the master of short, muscular sentence and in his time, it was a unique way of writing, as was Miller's when he redefined the way we use the first person singular.
For several years now, this has been the paradigm all over the Net. It's not only literary novels that need atmosphere, layered characters and
stories. Anything other than a straight genre book written to today's "Rules" (and remember when there were no "rules" to writing - other than the first and still only rule of writing - telling a story?) no book can afford to ignore narrative prose, the basis of all atmosphere in a novel. It's what takes what could have been a purely genre novel, like Mystic River (Dennis Lehane), and turns it into a book of genre transcending work - a blockbuster NY Bestseller List and a movie directed by Clint Eastwood. Read one of Lehane's bread and butter mysteries and then read Mystic River. The difference strikes you immediately and you see why Mystic River has outdistanced his other work. Atmosphere, narrative prose. Stick up your nose to it at your own risk.
Yours, Kenyon _________________________________________________________________ CONTEST ANNOUNCEMENT Due to semi-popular demand, I'm resurrecting the Short Story Contest. Living in New Orleans, where we're extorted for gas, food and lodging, I still can't pay for your donations or contest entries. But I appreciate them all and besides, they look good on your resume! So, send me entries for next month's contest. The winner will be announced in October's issue. There's no specific subject this month, so just let those Muses roll!!! ___________________________________________________________________________________ This edition
of Eros & Thanatos goes out with my enormous thanks to the contributors and the continued support of its fans!!!! For now : Transmission ends ....
"In a century of false testimonies, a writer becomes a witness to man." - Octavio Paz
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