Bunny Rabbit Story

 

Here's a story I started. Should I keep going?

Sam awoke to the sweet smell warm smell of carrots wafting directly into his nostrils. He felt the weight of about 20 pounds in the center of his chest. Squinting his eyes open, still feeling sleepy, he was alarmed by the two eyes, black as lumps of coal but shiny and close together, staring him in the face above a pink twitching nose. “Jesus Christ,” he swore, sitting bolt upright and flinging the furry lump across the room with both hands.

He looked at the floor to see if he’d killed it. But no such luck. It hopped about fearlessly, happily, long ears perked and listening, nose quivering, eyes alert.

“Louise,” he screamed. “Your goddamn fucking pet is in here again. I swear to God we’re having a rabbit stew for dinner if you can’t get if you can’t get it under control.”

He looked at the clock. He still had a half an hour to snooze, but knew he’d never get back to sleep and might as well get up. He was due to catch the Blue Sky Airlines flight from Tucson to Boston at eleven.

He sighed and looked across the room. On the armchair by the door was his a single piece of hand luggage, barely under the allowable dimensions. The rabbit sat under the chair, scratching behind its ear with its hind foot and staring at him.

“Damn thing,” he said under his breath. He wouldn’t allow a pet in his home at all if it wasn’t for the kid. The whole fucking house had had to be rabbit-proofed to keep it from gnawing everything in sight. And it wasn’t allowed in the bedroom. But here it was.

He swung his legs onto the floor, yawned, stretched, and stood. He was naked and glanced in the mirror over the dresser, turning sideways to admire his forty-year-old physique. Not bad, he thought. Of course, being in law enforcement, he had to keep in shape, but still . . . . So what was he doing with fat-assed Louise? He dropped this thought as he stepped over to the armchair ready to give the rabbit a good swift kick in its fucking cottontailed ass. But it watched with shiny black eyes as he approached and, sensing danger, hopped under the bed.

He hefted the carry on. It was heavy as hell. He lifted it onto his shoulder. The strap cut int his flesh and the weight already hurt his back, due to an old injury sustained when he’d been on foot patrol years ago.

“Fuck.” He’s furious with his wife for not packing the rolling carry-on instead of this heavy duffle. Why can’t she learn to be a real wife, like the policemen had in the old movies. Kevin Costner’s wife in The Untouchables. Mrs. Elliot Ness. She put that little note in with his lunch that said, “I’m so proud of you”? (Louise would never do that.) The fucking good old days. You could slap them around when they screwed up. If they needed it. And they often needed it. But they shouldn’t need it. His own mother never needed to be slapped around.

A pair of black eyes shined at him from under the bed. Sam noticed, and kicked his foot, but the rabbit dodged him.

Sam said again, “Fuck.”

* * *

From www.katiesrabbithutch.com

Rabbit Mind, Rabbit Memory:

Let’s talk about what goes on inside the minds of our bunny pets.

It’s been said that they have a five-minute short-term memory. If that’s the case, however, how do they recognize the sound of the fridge door opening and come hopping when we prepare their meals or snacks?

The answer is they have both short-term and long-term memory.

They can and do retain information about people, places, and things. Like other animals, they have been, since the dawn of time, controlled by an instinct and desire to survive, and to protect themselves. Otherwise, their cotton tailed ancestors would never have remembered which predators to avoid and how to avoid them, becoming extinct long ago.

So, yes, they can think, remember, and retain data. They can recognize people and other animals. This is especially true when they connect emotional responses with others—pleasure, fear, pain, etc. They can recall who has treated them well—those they should seek out for such things as nibbles—and those who have treated them poorly or made them feel threatened—such as predators or, heaven forbid, mean humans . . . .

* * *

"Recess" A New Flash Fiction Story by Me

 

Recess 

by Tamworth Grice 

“I think they’re trying to poison me,” Joe said. 

“Who,” Matt asked. 

“Somebody. The parents. Somebody.” Joe looked across the playground and sighed. “I don’t know.” 

He stood up from where they were sitting on the end of the bike rack. The rack was filled with boys’ and girls’ bicycles, mostly Schwinns, mostly in good shape. Here in there was one with rust, or a bent basket, or missing fenders. 

But Joe and Matt were in sixth grade and had stopped riding bikes two years ago. 

Matt stood up, too. He had glasses and freckles. He was “husky”—a polite word for a child who overweight. Sometimes the other boys called him “Porky,” but never when Joe was around. 

Joe was tall and slim. 

Joe looked out at the playground and began walking. 

Matt hesitated, then hurried to catch up, sneakers crunching on the gravel. “Why would your parents want to hurt you?” 

“I don’t know. Forget I said it.” 

At the far end of the playground, in the grass beside the chain-link fence, a group of boys was gathered. Some were standing, some were squatting. All were looking down. 

“Let’s see what they’re doing,” Joe said. 

“Okay.” Matt paused. “But think about it.” He held up his hand to shade his eyes from the noonday sun and gazed at the boys by the fence. “It makes no sense. Why would you even say that?” 

“Because my stomach hurts. All the time. Especially after dinner. Maybe they’re putting something in my food.” He turned his head to look at some girls and boys on the swing sets. “I said I don’t want to talk about it, moron.” 

Matt cringed. 

 Joe sped up his pace. Matt, with shorter legs, walked faster. 

Noticing this, Joe slowed a bit. “Do—do you parents ever fight?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Matt grinned and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “One morning Mom said ‘You put on the coffee,’ and Dad said, ‘No, you put on the coffee,’ and Mom said, “No, you put on the coffee.’ And finally Mom put on the coffee.” 

Joe frowned. “I mean like hitting and shouting and stuff.” 

Matt said, “No,” shaking his head. “Why? Do yours?” 

“No. ’Course not. I just saw it on TV.” 

They were silent until they reached the cluster of boys. On the other side of the fence was a neat row of white houses. The structures all looked alike, except some were mirror images of the others. All had black driveways and garages at the back. 

Joe and Matt craned their necks to see what the boys were watching. 

A praying mantis perched on a small flat stone in the grass, chewing a cricket it had captured. The cricket was still alive and struggled, but the mantis held it firmly. The boys were hushed, staring at it, but Matt broke the silence and whispered, “Cool.” 

The insect turned its wedged-shaped head to look up at him, then went back to devouring its prey. 

Matt pushed his glasses up on his nose again. 

 Joe moved aside and raised his head to look at the houses beyond the fence. He stepped away from the crowd. 

Matt stepped away with him. 

Joe pointed. “Sherry Blake lives there.” 

 Matt nodded. “My sister takes piano lessons from her mother.” 

One of the boys turned and scowled and said, “Shhh.” 

Joe grimaced and turned his back on the boys. Matt did the same. They both stared at the brick school building beyond the swing sets and the bike racks and the children playing tag and hopscotch and jump rope. 

“I’m sorry I called you a moron.” 

 “It’s nothing. Forget about it.” 

 The bell rang to end recess. Joe looked behind him. 

The boys still huddled around the praying mantis didn’t budge, as if oblivious to the sound. 

“Let’s head back.” Joe walked slowly this time, head down, and Matt trudged at his side. 

Everyone but the boys around the mantis was already inside when they reached the rear entrance. 

 Joe stopped and moved his hand to his abdomen. He bent forward a bit and winced. 

Matt peered into his face curiously but without speaking. 

“My stomach hurts,” Joe said, not looking at Matt. He straightened, moved his hand from his stomach, and pressed his palm on the bar that opened the school door. 

He muttered under his breath. “I feel awful.”

--end--

Supportiveness

 

I'm enjoying doing research for my new book.

But actually, it's not new. 

It's a book I began years ago.

Stupidly, I let some unkind words from a mean and unsupportive acquaintance discourage me, and I stopped writing it.

People, don't do this!!! Don't let others discourage you. 

I would even say, don't talk about projects to others, for fear of what they'll say.

Don't talk about your hopes, dreams, and goals, either. Unless you absolutely, positively know the hearer is unconditionally supportive of you. 

I'll keep you posted about the book, but in the meantime, I recommend avoiding unsupportive people.

More importantly, always be supportive of others!

BACK TO BLOGGING--AGAIN! LOL!

 Okay, so about 18 months ago I posted something titled "Back to Blogging" . . . and then didn't go back to blogging. 🤣

Now I will.

After a hiatus, I'm going back to writing and back to blogging.

I'll keep you posted here when I publish a new ebook.

I'm also getting ready to issue my ebooks in print form, so stay tuned for more info about that.

I'm very excited about my plans for moving forward, and I hope to excite you, too, with what I produce. 

My mission with my writing is to be a rainbow 🌈 in everyone's day, whether cloudy, sunny, or in between.

Rainbow in Sedona, where I live.

See you back here . . . soon, this time!

Bye for now!

Back to Blogging!

Back to Blogging!

Wow, after over two years of complete inactivity, I've decided to start up this blog again! 

This decision was made, in part, because I'm working on a new book that I hope to publish soon.

I may keep the blog here on Blogger, or I may move it to its own website.

I typically write crime/horror/suspense/mysteries, which are different but interrelated genres with lots of crossover. 

However, the new book will be in the romance genre--with elements of crime/horror/suspense/mystery. 

But because it will essentially be romance fiction, I might publish it under an entirely different name than Tamworth Grice.

Anyway, I just thought I'd do this as my first "back to blogging" post. 

Watch this space for (I hope!) regular updates. 

Thanks!

TG

My Dream

Last night I dreamed I was back in college. I was taking Latin (which I did take in college) and had done some kind of digital recording and was worried that the recording didn't work properly.

I was also worried about a math professor giving me grief for missing the first few days of class.

I guess some worries stick in your brain and never leave! (I think the dream happened because I was helping a friend's college-student daughter with a writing assignment yesterday.)

There was also something in there about taking a shower in a kind of grubby shower stall in the basement, and I was wondering why the shower in the upstairs bath wasn't working.

Also, in the dream I was concerned that I was getting a cold.

Anyway, the weird thing is that in the dream, my mother was there helping me, advising me, and being generally supportive.

My mother died when I was 10, so she wasn't around when I was in college.

Plus she wasn't a very supportive person.

I guess the dream was basically a form of fantasy wish fulfillment.

A guy I know who does dream interpretation recommends asking three questions:

What title would you give the dream?
What was the theme of the dream?
What question does the dream ask?
What question does the dream answer?

Here are my responses:

What title would you give the dream? College Daze

What was the theme of the dream? Do you best in college; if you don't miss class, you won't need to come up with excuses.

What question does the dream ask? Don't you wish you'd had a supportive mother when you were in college?

What question does the dream answer? You know this stuff (concerns/memories about college and your mother) will never go away, don't you?

The First Thing I Remember

The First Thing I Remember

I’m a child, young, perhaps three years old, and I see . . . a face. It is a woman’s face. She’s a brunette, pretty, with bright eyes and a kind smile. I’ve just come from being carried to a strange place with bright colors and brighter lights. Lots of red and green. And shiny things. In the strange place, I was put on the lap of a strange man in a soft red suit. He had a big white beard, like my great uncle, but unlike my great uncle, he wore a peculiar red hat trimmed with white fur and with a white pom-pom on the tip of it.

Then there were more bright lights, and the flashes hurt my eyes. I cried, and everyone laughed. I was taken from his lap and carried away.

More about the woman’s face. It’s flat. It’s on a piece of paper, followed by more pieces of paper with dark lines on them. I am sat down on the floor with the face, and some waxy sticks are dropped in front of me. One is put into my hand—my right hand, never my left, as I’d like. I’m encouraged to drag the waxy sticks around the edges of the paper. A large hand closes over mine, guiding it to move the stick. The wax makes a mark on the paper, a mark the color of the woman’s lips.

The woman is Queen Elizabeth II of England. Her face is in a coloring book I was given after my first visit to Santa Claus. What this book had to do with Christmas or Santa remains a mystery to me today. I think it was just an unsold item, one of many that the department store gave to the kids as gifts after their photo sessions with Santa Claus. I had the coloring book for years, tucked away in the piano bench with a few other treasures. But I don’t think I ever colored in it.

She did look a bit like my mother, Queen Elizabeth did: same lips, same coloring (although my mother’s eyes were brown), but then all women of any era look a bit alike, I suppose—it’s the style of the times.

How strange that my very first memory is of the face of Britain’s Queen and not of my mother.

Perhaps this heralded things to come.

TEEKSA 27

I have a small box full of pills of different kinds. The box is made of heavy paper. It’s about three inches long by two inches wide by two inches high. The outside is coated with a gloss; the inside has a white matte finish. An aqua or seafoam-colored band runs around the outside, and above and below it there is some small black lettering that I can’t read. On the top is a matte sticker with handwritten lettering. I can’t read it either, but I know what it says: “Teeksa 27,” meaning that it’s meant for me. The box was provided, I think, by the company that makes the pills. Lots of pills are inside it, and they are mostly crudely made, looking like tiny chunks of concrete; few are perfectly formed. Except for the tiny pale-yellow gel capsules, none are colored. They all are just a dismal grey.

I can’t remember what these pills are for. I used to know—that is, I think I used to. But that was back before my memory went, back when I actually used to take the pills. Now I just take out the box sometimes and put it on the varnished blonde oak table in front of me when my father isn’t around, and I look at the many pills inside.

I know the pills were given to me by a woman with dark hair in a white lab coat—unless I dreamed this. But no, it was real, I’m sure. She sat at a desk among a lot of other vacant desks in a large and gloomy office. I think she gave me some instructions about how to take them—when, and whether to take them with milk or water or food, and how many to take, and so on—but I can’t remember. That’s okay because I don’t need to remember. Others remember these things for us now. And I haven’t taken the pills for a long time, anyway.

So I sit at this table peering into the box. It’s not unpleasant, being here, for we live in a large bright and airy house at the seashore. It’s much better than what most people have, I think, and my father says we won the lottery when we got this house.

Today is the Day of the Ships. A long wide window runs along the length of our beach house facing the water, and from where I sit, I can look out across the sands at the dark and despotic-looking ships looming on the water. Some of them are quite large; one is as big as an office building.

The idea enters my head that I should put a ship in the water, too. I rise from the table and go to find the one I have hidden away in the bottom of the coal box. It’s a little black wooden model of an old-fashioned single-masted sailboat, from the Times Before. I bring it back to the table, along with a small nugget of soft coal, and set it gently on the smooth oak surface, beside the box of pills. Another idea enters my head (this is dangerous, having too many ideas in a single hour), and I tear off the flap from the part of the box that folds to close it, the top, the part with the matte sticker that says “Teeksa 27.” With the coal, beside these letters and numbers I draw a star and a flower, and I long to write a wish of some kind for the New Days that begin today. I think I learned how to read and write once, but that has been forgotten. My father can write, and he’ll be home soon—perhaps I’ll wait, and then ask him to help.

The little ship is about the size of the box, but a bit bigger, too big to fit inside. It was my mother’s. She collected boats, or rather, figures of them. Her brother had served on a ship during one of the wars—the one before the one before the last one I think, or one or two before that—and he would get them in various ports of call and send them to her.

She had dozens, displayed carefully and attractively on wooden shelves in a glass-fronted bookcase in the home where we used to live. They were all beautiful—much lovelier than anything you see nowadays, and certainly more attractive than the black looming boats on the water outside for the Day of the Ships. Most of my mother’s small boats were a little bigger than this one, but all were still of a size that you could hold each one in your hand. And they were painted the most gorgeous colors. She had a model of an ancient barge with purple sails. And the flagship of an explorer with a red and yellow cross on the mainsail. Others had gilded masts and silver threads as rigging; one had an intricately carved mermaid figurehead with the scales painted metallic green and her flowing hair painted scarlet. Some had designs or colored trim on the sides, and others had words on the bow telling the name of the ship.

Of course, that was in the days when people collected things. They are all gone now, all but this single tiny black sailboat I’ve kept hidden away. Not wanting to wait for my father’s return, I spindle the shred of paper from the box and wrap it carefully around the bottom of the mast of my little ship.

Clutching it in my hand I run out the door and down the stairs until my bare feet touch the warm sand. It feels pleasant. The sun is high overhead, and my shadow surrounds me like an irregular disc at my feet. A few people are lounging on the beach, but not many. They don’t look at me. They don’t seem to notice me. I pause, and then run into the water until it’s above my waist nearly to my armpits, and I touch the boat to the water.

At first it won’t float. It tips and sinks. I catch it as it falls slowly downward in the black oily water, and set it on the surface again. Again it tilts and starts to sink. But I try a third time, very carefully now, and it takes hold and floats in the thick liquid. I watch it for a moment, and then I trudge back to the shore. Standing in the wet sand at the water’s edge I turn and see it. I shade my eyes from the sun and focus on it, floating—or rather, sailing—there. Of course it’s the smallest one among many giants, but it is there, and that’s the important thing.

For a moment, I imagine the tiny object as a life-sized sailboat, and I picture myself sitting on it and looking back at the shore. I turn my head to gaze over my shoulder at our house: the white perfect paint, the sloping sand-colored roof, the broad and long glass window, and the sand surrounding it. It’s nice, I think, and I’m happy to live here. The nearest one is many measuring units away down the long beach. I wish I could remember how long I’ve lived here, and when we came here, and how. But I can’t. I want to sigh, but sighing is not allowed, and there are still some people lounging nearby on the sand. As before, they seem not to notice me, but then again, maybe they do notice me; maybe they all notice me and are pretending not to. Perhaps the function of the broad glass window is to allow them to watch me inside our home.

Anyway, I don’t sigh. I walk calmly back to our comfortable beach house. My feet gather sand with their wetness as I take long steps to the door.

Back inside, the pill box is there on the polished wooden table waiting for me—the box with all the pills that I haven’t taken in a long time. It beckons to me, and I look inside it again, seeing all of them, wondering what they are for, and wishing I could remember. I go to the sink. I take a green crystal glass from the cupboard and press a button to fill it with water. Then I return to the table and sit there looking out the window at the ocean. With perfect clarity, as if looking through a telescope, I can see my little toy black ship bobbing on the water. But my note, my little shred of paper with the drawings of the star and the flower and “Teeksa 27,” it has just become detached from the boat. And it is floating away. I should be sad, but I’m not. I feel happy to see my boat there among the others, and I think this will bring me luck for the New Days that begin today. “Take pleasure in small things,” my mother used to say. And I do.

I hear a noise at the door and look up as my father enters the house. He’s one of the Healing People, from Former Times. He has grown old now; he is bald and what hair he has left is grey. His face is wrinkled, and he is stoop-shouldered—yet he is a proud man, not conquered by his experiences, like so many others are. He’s fatter than he used to be, too, but he’s mostly healthy. Good health is the greatest gift, we’re told, but I don’t think he is happy. He has barely smiled since my mother died, and that was long ago.

She became ill, right at the beginning of the Time of Forbidden Illness. He tried his best to heal her and failed. I think this is the cause of his unhappiness. They forced him to send her away. I was allowed to visit, just once, in the big white building, and I saw her there in her bed beneath a mound of grey blankets. In spite of her sickness, she smiled at me. That’s my last memory of her.

I look back into the small box of pills, cupping it and hiding it with my hands from my father. Again I wonder if I should take just one pill, swallow it with water from the green glass, even though I can’t remember why or when or how. I stare into the box as my father crosses the room without speaking. There are so many pills. Except for the gel cap’s pale yellow shell, each is crudely formed and sinister-looking in its crudeness. I’m old enough to remember the days when pills were perfectly round or square or lozenge-shaped, with flat or domed tops and words and letters stamped into them. They were the most marvelous colors: pink, orange, yellow; some were even aqua or magenta. They were nothing like these dull imperfect things resembling crumbs of concrete.

But these were given to me for a reason. I know this, given to me by the woman with the dark hair in the lab coat at her place among the desks. I recall stepping up to the counter and speaking with her. But that’s all I remember.

Perhaps I should take one? Would that make my memory worse than it is? What harm could be done by a single crudely formed little pill?

My father, not seeing the small box cupped in my hands, gives me one of his rare weak smiles. He carefully folds his coat, places it on the bench under the window, and asks me how was my day. I start to shrug, but shrugging is not allowed, so I say “fine” and think of asking him where he’s been. But I decide not to.

He stretches out in the big comfortable chair across from me between the table and the window. I keep my position, with the box hidden cupped in my hands that rest innocently before me and beside the green glass on the table. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking up at the ceiling, thinking or daydreaming. Daydreaming is not allowed either, of course—but how could they know?—so everyone does it. At least, everyone I know. Which is myself and my father.

Thinking about the box and the pills and whether it would make me sick to take one, the thought comes into my mind of how sickly I was as a child. I was not expected to live, and if my father hadn’t been one of the Healing People, I wouldn’t have. I think of the stories about how, in spite of his being a healer, I was nearly taken away from him and from my mother during my earliest days. It’s strange that I survived.

I speak up and say to him casually, “Hey, Dad?”

He turns to me.

“When I was a little sickly baby,” I continue, smiling at the thought that we’ll have a conversation, “did you think I’d live to be 27, or 37, or 57, or 60?”

He doesn’t answer and gives me an odd look, perhaps not remembering or not wanting to remember, and I drop the subject.

I sigh—inwardly only—and wonder what to do next. In my impotent state of wondering and having no ideas, I inwardly sigh again.

Suddenly, impulsively, I look beyond him to see if my little sailboat, my tiny offering, is still out there on the dark water. There are more people on the sand now, and more large grey ships in the water. They all seem predatory to me: ships like sharks, or killer whales, or sea monsters. I try hard to focus my eyes and finally I manage to do so, again as if looking with a telescope.

But I can’t see it.

It’s gone.

I’m glad it has floated away.

—THE END—

How I Write—In Case Anyone Is Interested!

Sometimes people ask me about my “writing process.” I’m not sure I have one. I have no requirements about tools or time or place: I can write on a keyboard or a notepad—or even on a barroom beer mat. I can write anywhere—at a desk, a café table, in bed, on a park bench, on sand at a beach—and at any time of day or night.

Two things I can say about what writing is for me: first, it’s a process of recording. The ancients believed that the were given their art by divinities, by muses for whom they were simply translators or elements of transmission to a human realm. I completely understand this idea. When I write, I don’t know where the stuff comes from. It surely doesn’t come from me! The words, the images, the characters, the stories—none of this is mine. It all comes into my brain from somewhere, from out of nowhere. It’s like a movie playing in my mind, and it’s up to my hands to get it onto the screen or the page.

Apollo and the Muses
Second, writing is a craft, like basket weaving. Once the ideas start coming, it’s a matter of using the right words, the best words, les mots justes, to render my vision as accurately as possible. If I’ve succeeded, the reader experiences exactly what I experienced when the thoughts came into my head.

I hope you’ll enjoy my book, Listening to Ian Magick, which is due out this fall.

The Introduction to a Talk I Delivered Last Summer in Wales

As I continue to work on my Tudor-era historical novel, I thought I'd post the introductory paragraph of a lecture I delivered last summer in Wales at a conference titled "Representing the Tudors." I'll be releasing the lecture soon as an ebook.

How Issues of Infertility, Illness, and Injury Affect Representations of the Characters in the Showtime TV Series The Tudors

In April 2007 the British-Irish-Canadian television show The Tudors made its debut, and a year later it was referred to as the series that “viewers are eating up” (Gates, 2008). The Showtime series was enormously popular, and this popularity has continued via DVD, Blu-Ray, and streaming. As a USA Today writer observed in an article about the series during its final season, “The 16th-century English king and his Tudor clan are never going away” (Puente, 2010). The Tudors, both as a TV series and as historical figures, have a universal appeal for twenty-first-century audiences. In assessing this popularity, one perhaps thinks first of the themes of love, sex, war, and violence inherent in the series; or of the visual charm of costuming, architecture, and interior design; or possibly of the compelling nature of palace politics and intrigues. But while such representations of the Tudor era are entertaining, one may still wonder what universal elements of the human condition in The Tudors are the sparks that ignite its fire in the imaginations of twenty-first-century audiences. The answer is that problems of infertility, illness, and injury, as well as the characters’ reactions to these, are a large part of what creates the drama of The Tudors; audiences relate to these concerns because such situations create their own human dramas, and taken together these issues are a major common element between twenty-first-century viewers and the characters of The Tudors.

WORK IN PROGRESS

Okay, I haven't written a blog entry in, like, forever.

So this is to tell everyone that, inspired by last summer's 100-day trip to Britain, I'm completely changing direction.

My new work-in-progress is a Tudor-era historical novel that takes place at the court of Henry VIII.

Right now the novel is about 2/3 complete, and I'll tell you more about it here as I move forward.

Thanks for reading this, everyone!

Screenplay Critique--aka "Coverage"

Many budding screenwriters pay big bucks to send their scripts out for critiques by supposed experts.

The purpose is to get tips about how to improve the screenplay.

However, sometimes the coverage can go beyond constructive criticism and be brutal.

With this in mind, a writer friend of mine (Chris Neiman) recently sent the following message to a company called Scriptapalooza about the coverage a fellow screenwriter (not me) had received:

Dear Scriptapalooza:

I am sending this to explain why I did not order coverage from Scriptapalooza.

I recently saw coverage that another writer received from Scriptapalooza. It's understandable and desirable that you would be negative in your coverage; no script is perfect, and it is helpful to the writer that you point out flaws to be corrected. However, this coverage went far beyond that. It was extremely negative, to the point of seeming, at worst, hostile, and at best, annoyed. There was not one word of encouragement in the coverage. The overall tone of the coverage was rude and condescending and almost angry.

It's a miracle to me that the writer who received your coverage – who is actually quite talented – went on to write another script.

I think the people who do your coverage need to be aware that writers tend to be sensitive people who can be easily hurt and easily discouraged. The writer who received your coverage apparently isn't, but I am. And because I am, I don't want to risk getting the kind of rude, discouraging, and condescending coverage that was given to this other screenwriter. I certainly don't want to pay $100 for the level of hostility and verbal abuse that I observed in that coverage document.

I hope that reading this will remind you that the people who order coverage are your customers, and that while you are certainly being paid to point out flaws, it is possible to do so and to be kind and supportive and encouraging at the same time. That's what good coverage and good customer service are about, and if your coverage writers in particular and Scriptapalooza in general are unable to do this, you should not be providing coverage.

I hope this message is helpful to you.

Chris Neiman


In fairness to Scriptapalooza, I want to add that the president, Mark Andrushko, promptly wrote a nice note to Chris, in which he said, in part, "I completely agree with you."

Book Review: Roles of Women in Mystery and Suspense Film and Fiction

Here’s a book worth reading for fans of the mystery and suspense genre: Roles of Women in Mystery and Suspense Film and Fiction by Kathryn Ann Ward.

As the author points out, “Raymond Chandler said, ‘Love interest . . . weakens a mystery because it [is] antagonistic to the detective’s struggle.’ Yet love stories are often seen in the mystery/suspense genre, including in The Big Sleep by Chandler himself!”

The author begins with a fascinating overview of the history of the mystery/suspense genre that reaches into the Old Testament to consider whether Cain’s slaying of his brother Abel was the world’s first murder mystery. She moves forward to medieval times to discuss the criminal Robin Hood as a “noble outlaw” character, then crosses the pond to cover Edgar Allan Poe as “the father of the modern detective story.

Having laid this groundwork in an introductory chapter, the narrative moves into the twentieth century to its main subject: an exploration of love stories in mystery/suspense works by Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Kenneth Millar (Ross Macdonald), and in films based on these works. The conclusion surveys love stories in three mystery and suspense films that are not book adaptations: Klute, Chinatown, and a lesser-known thriller, The Late Show.

This book is not one of those feminist critiques—I hate them; they’re typically, I find, too glib or too dense for pleasant reading.

Instead, Roles of Women in Mystery and Suspense Film and Fiction applauds the strong, brave, and able women who people the works the authorWard discusses. Each of these characters is not just equal but superior to her male counterpart, especially when it comes to cleverness, courage, and coping skills.

Roles of Women in Mystery and Suspense Film and Fiction by Kathryn Ann Ward is highly recommended.

You can buy it here: http://www.amazon.com/Roles-Women-Mystery-Suspense-Fiction-ebook/dp/B00CNWGDWC/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8andqid=1392667725andsr=8-3andkeywords=kathryn+ann+ward

My World According to FARGO

[After watching Fargo one night many months ago, I sat down and wrote the following blog post. It’s perhaps the most heartfelt and personal piece I’ve ever written. I wrote it for myself, and for a long time I've kept it to myself and not put it on my blog. But now I’m posting it here to perhaps inspire all who might feel as I once felt, and to show them they’re not alone. I hope anyone who reads it will find it worthwhile.]

You know how at the end of Fargo, the Frances McDormand character is driving away with the bad guy in the back of her patrol car, and she’s talking to him in a kind of sad and befuddled voice?

She’s saying, “So that was Mrs. Lundegaard [dead] on the floor in there. And I guess that was your accomplice in the wood chipper. And three people in Brainerd. . . . And here you are. And it’s a beautiful day. I just don’t understand it.”

That was how I felt about my constant stream of rejections from editors, publishers, and agents:

There I was.

And it was a beautiful day.

And I just didn’t understand it.

I tried to do everything right. I wrote the best query letters I could possibly create. I chose agents/editors/publishers who were interested in the types of books I’d written. I used up-to-date information to be sure of having the right names and addresses. I followed directions about what to submit and how. And I spent a lot of money going to conferences so I could pitch my stuff face-to-face.

Nothing worked.

I couldn’t even get a short story published, let alone a novel.

With nothing to show for all my hard work but hundreds of rejections, I tried to make excuses. My main one was this: “It’s the wrong time.” But I knew this wasn’t true. Other unknown writers got published and soared to the tops of the bestseller lists.

I just didn’t understand it.

I’ve my share of pain but nothing was more heartbreaking than my failure as a writer.

Amanda Hocking writes of receiving a rejection and being tempted to destroy everything she’d ever written, and even to destroy herself.

I totally get that. Feeling humiliated that I’d dared to try. Feeling no one understood.

Feeling like an utter loser.

My faith in my work never faltered, however. I know I’m not Dean Koontz or Stephen King or Elmore Leonard. But I also know my work isn’t terrible. And at the time it was a lot better than some of the other stuff on bookstore shelves.

A handful of friends who read my work confirmed this. “Your characters are interesting. Your storylines are intriguing. You're a great writer! We don’t understand why you can’t get published,” they’d say.

I didn’t understand it either.

I still don’t.

But it no longer matters.

I took control by self-publishing my novel as an eBook, first for Kindle, then for Nook, then via Smashwords and AllRomance. And then I published another eBook, and another, and I encouraged my friends and fellow writers Destiny Drake and Nick Navarre to do the same.

And we'll all maintain control by self-publishing yet another, and another, and another, and more and more and more!

So now I’m content. I’m no longer at the mercy of the corrupt and callous publishing industry (see a previous post to read cruel things said in rejection letters). I no longer submit my work and pray for acceptance. (By the way, think about that word: “submit.”) I no longer say to myself, “Here I am. It’s a beautiful day. And I just don’t understand.”

I control my own life. I don't "submit." That’s something I do understand.

And right now, that’s enough.

The Opening Scene of My Book, LISTENING TO IAN MAGICK

PROLOGUE

In the moonlight I saw the bright metallic flash of a huge-bladed dagger.

I grabbed it, and the girl fought me.

Her eyes widened, her mouth contorted, and her long-nailed hands clawed my face.

Then I heard his voice, and my name.

“Chelsea. Kill her. Now!”

The knife came down.

Blood splattered my face.

And she no longer fought.

She went limp and collapsed on the lawn, and her severed head rolled across the grass like a bloody volleyball. Her hair was a tangle of crimson wetness. Her wide bulging eyes stared upward at the full moon. Her mouth gaped. Gore seeped through her nostrils.

At my feet, her headless body jerked with spasms. It seemed to be trying to sit up. The legs shook and the arms flailed as blood spurted from the neck. The red liquid splashed onto my hands and my feet. Then the body gave out a tremendous shudder, and the convulsions stopped. The corpse was motionless.

I stared down at the knife in my hand. Blood dripped from its blade.

I was now a killer.

I had murdered someone, and I had done it for Ian Magick.

Buy this book now for Kindle: LISTENING TO IAN MAGICK for Kindle 
Buy this book now for Nook: LISTENING TO IAN MAGICK  for Nook

Guest Author William Gagliani

Guest Author's Introduction:

SAVAGE NIGHTS, a thriller by W.D. Gagliani, the author of WOLF'S TRAP, WOLF'S GAMBIT, WOLF'S BLUFF, and WOLF'S EDGE

I wrote Savage Nights in 2006-07, intending it as a follow-up to my Bram Stoker Award nominated novel, Wolf's Trap. In my mind, Nick Lupo's story was done, finished. I was moving on, writing about haunted Vietnam veteran Rich Brant and what he does when his beloved niece is kidnapped by a sex slavery ring. But my publisher asked for a sequel to Trap because it had done so well, and the Nick Lupo series was born – up to four novels out there now, with a fifth underway.

So as I wrote Wolf's Gambit, I had my agent shop Savage Nights as a stand-alone thriller, but ultimately I think it was too dark. Much too dark! There were nibbles, but no takers. And then Liam Neeson's movie "Taken" was released, and I was dismayed to find that it shared some coincidental plot points with my novel – on the surface, the plot is the same, except it's the protagonist's daughter who is kidnapped. The two protagonists share some past history and experience, too, giving them "skills" they can use to get their loved one back. There is one great difference, however: in Savage Nights the protagonist and his niece also share a tenuous psychic bond that lets him know she's still alive.

Well, there's another difference, and that is how much darker my novel was than the watered-down movie plot. I wanted to be unflinching in my portrayal of the slavery ring and how they treat the girls and women they kidnap, resulting in a novel that's closer to horror as a genre. It was probably too dark for the general thriller market, where many explicit details are routinely glossed over. Coming as I did from a horror background, that was the last thing I wanted to do.

This is how I described the novel for promotional purposes:

"Tormented Vietnam veteran Rick Brant is forced to use his inconsistent and unreliable psychic ability when his beloved 19-year old niece, Kit, is kidnapped from a busy mall. Realizing that Kit has been snatched for auction by an international sexual slavery ring, Brant reconnects with his Vietnam buddies, some of them ex-cops, to help him pry her from the clutches of the ruthless Goran ("the Serb") and his gang. Her ultimate destination may be a modern harem, a brothel, a dungeon, or one of the Serb's kinky slavery clubs. Or worse. As the horror of Kit's captivity increases daily, Brant becomes rescuer, avenging angel – and executioner. In his quest, he may find redemption for his own past sins. Savage Nights is a tough, pulls-no-punches, hard-noir thriller that's not for the faint of heart."

I think I may have coined a new term there: hard-noir. I called my Wolf novels North Woods Noirs because they were set in Wisconsin's North Woods and they followed, in my opinion, a noir sensibility in their pacing, dialogue, and action – and in the darkness exhibited by their antagonists and even protagonists. I came up with hard-noir to describe the thriller Savage Nights with the intention of explaining its hard-nosed qualities, which I think take it beyond traditional noir. The parallel story is set in the past, during the Vietnam War, and focuses on Brant's experiences as a Tunnel Rat – and shows both his psychic tendencies and his occasional forays into his own heart of darkness. All of which greatly impacts how he responds to Kit's kidnapping in the story's present…

The excerpt Tamworth Grice has graciously agreed to post is the start of that parallel story, set in the Vietnam jungle and around one of the many tunnel entrances the Rats were forced to negotiate, often with nothing but a knife and a handgun. Based on actual accounts of the Cu Chi campaign, I tried to stick to reality with only very few creations from my imagination (although there were a few). Here, then, is Chapter Two from Savage Nights, which is doing fairly well as an independent publication for the Amazon Kindle.

Thanks for checking it out, and I hope you'll let me know what you think if you give it a chance. Remember, it's a very dark read. But the reviews have been mostly excellent, and I'm very proud of the way it turned out. Great thanks also to Tamworth Grice for hosting!

W.D. Gagliani

Milwaukee, WI

October 2012

SAVAGE NIGHTS

A NOVEL OF SUSPENSE

By W. D. Gagliani

EXCERPT

Chapter 2

The jungle canopy spreads out over them like a leafy umbrella. Its sounds have stilled to occasional raucous cries that give each of them pause as they stand circling the hole, their fingers tight against the triggers of their rifles. There is Sarge, his thick eyebrows knotted over roving red-rimmed eyes. There is Smitty and Packey, standing guard against whatever might come crawling from the hole or stumble out of the jungle's darkness. The others form a small, nervous ring of guns and sweat in various poses.

No one is more covered in sweat than he, and he feels the sheen on his skin soak his clothing all over again. He sets down the black rifle and pack and strips off his web belt. From the pack's loose flap he withdraws a Colt .38 snub-nose revolver and checks the cylinder.

Sweat droplets gather on his chin and dribble in a line to his chest, where the olive drab fabric has turned black. His hand shakes as he methodically inserts six fat cartridges into the Smith's cylinder. The brass slips between his damp fingers but he gently seats each round in its nacelle and snaps the cylinder shut. Full. Six rounds.

"Loot," drawls Sarge. "Let me lob a couple grenades in there. We got plenty."

"You know that's not good enough, Sarge. Grenades don't do shit in Charlie's tunnels. There's only one way to flush 'im, and that's this old fashioned way. Keep an eye out for other exits, and don't shoot my fuckin' head off if I come squirtin' back."

"Kay. Smitty, Digger, fan out and watch for moving bushes."

Sarge pulls back the bolt of his M-16 and lets it snap quietly forward. The others follow suit.

Loot — Lieutenant Richard Brant — shrugs out of his pack and extra gear, unsnaps his webbed belt and holster, and taps both boot knives down so they can't slide out on their own.

He checks the opening carefully. Charlie's been known to booby-trap everything. Coke cans. C-ration tins. Fallen logs. Trapdoors are a likely booby trap, but Loot traces the edge with a finger and senses this one's clear. He can't see any wires, there's no sign of a hasty set-up or glob of plastique. His sweat trickles into his eyes and he blinks hard. Charlie might be  crouching just on the other side of the square door, AK in hand, bayonet fixed, ready to make a suicide strike on the first GI to face him. Maybe there's a squad past the second trapdoor, or maybe there's a hollowed out side chamber behind which Charlie lies, clutching a spear and just waiting for a pink-skinned target to ease into the square hole. Maybe—

Loot senses he's psyched himself out. If he had just opened the trapdoor and climbed in, it would have been fine. But instead he started to play the scenarios in his head. Remembering other holes, other tunnels. He squirms as if the giant spiders were crawling on him again, as in the last tunnel, yesterday, the one that nearly reduced him to tears. He cocks the trigger of the Smith, quietly.

"Fuck this," he mutters under his breath and in one swift motion he pushes the trapdoor into the hole with one hand and reaches into the darkness with the .38 ahead of himself.

The blast blinds him and the pain is an intense lance to the

brain and heart, and then to his hands. He sees his bloody hands

writhing on the tunnel's dirt floor, one still gripping the pistol, and he screams long and hard even as he realizes that the blast wasn't all, the booby-trap wired to the back of the trapdoor also includes a small container of home-made napalm, and then he blacks out, his eyeballs melting into the skin of his face and his lips liquefying over his teeth like runny glue. His scream turns to a gurgle and then it's blessed nightfall—

—blessed cool nightfall and his eyes blast open but there's no light (yes there is, there it is, the nightlight) and he realizes that he can see after all and his skin feels rough but it's all there and his hands are, where are his hands? In front of his eyes, twitching and clenching, but most certainly still attached to his wrists. He can feel the pain in his wrists, but it's not his pain, it's someone else's.

Fuck, it's Strachowski. That's what happened to him. Not me.

Not me.

Jesus.

He remembered Strach's ravaged face, the blood, the stench. Then, for a second, Strach's face seemed to morph into someone else's. A girl's.

He shook his head violently to erase the image.

The familiar sharp twitch below his neck began to throb and he twirled his head until he felt a tender snap, somewhere deep inside his upper chest near his shoulder blade.

He rolled on his side and checked the ghostly blue display.

Another night shot to hell. It was 3:19 and he wouldn't be able to sleep until light filtered through his drapes.

He flicked on the lamp and slid the book onto his chest. The latest Peter Straub thriller. Glasses or no glasses? He hated his bifocals. Still not quite needing them, but already beyond the point where he definitely did not need them, he always debated. He thought his sight was better without the glasses, whenever he read in bed. He could squint a little with his left eye and the words were almost crystal clear.

He sighed. The king-size bed was too empty for him. Too empty

since Abby had gone away.

Who was he kidding? Abby hadn't gone away. She had died, and there was no mind-fuck he could give himself to change that fact. She'd been almost a decade younger than he, and that still hadn't kept her by his side for the rest of his miserable life. Jesus, he'd been over this so often it was almost like rehearsing a comedy act in his head, except that it wasn't humorous and if he allowed it to continue he'd just cry. What was the point of that?

He sighed again and opened his book. Sometimes the only escape was to lose himself in someone else's words, someone else's crisis, at least for a while, until the charade wore thin.

Today, it took fifteen minutes. Then he set the book aside and closed his eyes. It wasn't immediate, but the jungle's dark treeline was always there, taunting. Hiding something gruesome. He was accustomed to scanning that treeline in his mind's eye, hoping to recognize the danger in time. There was always a new place to look, a new venue to consider. A new sound to process.

In his nightmares, Loot always saw the others have their hands, their legs, blasted off, or their bloody intestines uncurled like blood-slippery ropes. Sometimes it was him instead of them, in stark representation of the way he wore his guilt like a coat. Guilt for having survived, he assumed. Guilt for what he had done. He had spent considerable time analyzing his feelings, his dreams, and his own thought processes. The analysis kept him sane, for the most part.

But altogether too often his clear thinking clashed with the

realistic visuals that accompanied his nightmares. The dark jungle, the treeline, the intense redness of arterial blood. Bone fragments and stripped skulls. Each of these imposed itself on the inerasable tablet contained in his brain like an eternal hard drive and replayed in front of his eyes when open, even in the dark, or seemingly projected onto the insides of his eyelids when he attempted to seek sleep. Almost like the Zapruder film, it unreeled over and over again, proving too much and yet leaving too many questions unanswered.

The phone's shrill ringing jabbed through his muddled thoughts and the menacing dark treeline disappeared when he opened his eyes. He reached for the receiver blindly and pressed the Talk button, already dreading the voice at the other end.

"Yeah?"

The caller was crying. Sobbing, almost. There was a wet snort as if he'd been surprised at the fact that anyone had answered.

"Rich?"

His brother Ralph, once again victim of some sort of attack on his pampered life.

"Yeah," he said quietly, trying to sound non-judgmental. The relationship had soured years ago, but for one element. "What's wrong?" He wasn't sure he wanted to hear his brother's problems at this time of the night, but he steeled himself for one of the usual selfish whining sessions that had driven him away in the first place.

"They—" Ralph's voice stopped, suddenly interrupted by another sudden snort. "I think they've got Kit, Rich. Somebody's got Kit!"

Brant's eyes snapped open. "What? Say that again, Ralph. Who's got Kit?"

The other end of the line went silent for a second and Brant could hear sniffling, as if his brother was wiping snot from his nose with tissue and trying to clear the nasal passages so he could continue.

"Tell me!" Brant winced when he realized that he sounded imperious, commanding. He felt his heart racing, but tried to calm his voice. "What's going on, Ralph?"

"I'm not sure," Ralph stammered. "I — I got a call a couple hours ago, and I can't... I don't know what to do. I've been debating... I don't know."

"Damn it, Ralph. Who called you? What's going on with Kit?"

Ralph audibly wiped his nose again and seemed to compose himself. "First I got a call from Kit's roommate, a strange call that I almost didn't believe. She sounded — weird, you know. Said Kit had disappeared. Maybe she was snatched. She used the word snatched. Does anybody use that word except TV news guys? Anyway, I didn't know what to do. I told her I would call the police and she said no, that she would do it. But then I called them anyway. I couldn't get them to transfer me to anyone, so I left a message for some chief of detectives, I was told to do that. This guy, he called me back and wants me to go in. Rich, he says nobody there got a call from Kit's roommate. I'm not sure exactly who or how it happened, but somebody kidnapped Kit. That's all I know. But I think there's more, this cop didn't seem to believe me though, but I don't think — it doesn't sound good. She's all I've got, Rich, you know that. She's the only thing left after... After everything and all that... I don't know what to do, Rich. Rich?"

Brant had cut off his brother years before, for many reasons, but he had kept one line of communication open. Kit, Ralph's daughter. Miraculously intelligent, beautiful, level-headed, everything that Ralph was not, and he had found ways to help her, to be more than a distant uncle to her. He had become a friend and almost a father. Ralph had remained a weak link in the family chain, someone they were forced to tolerate.

Now Ralph was begging him to do something, and telling him that something had happened to Kit.

Kit was the only good thing in Brant's life, too.

"Damn it, Ralph. Pull it together and give me facts." He heard his voice barking at his brother — his weak brother — but he couldn't help himself.

"I can't. I don't know much. I just... Can't you come over and we'll go there together?"

"Go where?"

"They want us — me — at the police building downtown, central precinct, whatever. Zimm — Zimmerman or something. I can't face this alone, Rich. You love her as much as I do. You —"

Christ.

"Give me a half hour," Brant said, interrupting.

"Okay, Rich. Please—"

Brant hung up.

The shower was necessary, the heat bringing blood singing back to his veins. He knew men who swore by cold showers, but ever since he couldn't take hot showers in the military, he'd wanted nothing but. Sometimes so hot the water threatened to cook and strip the flesh off his bones. Beyond cleansing. Perhaps he sought the ultimate cleansing. So his last therapist had suggested.

Fucking weasel was probably right. Overcharged me, but I guess he was on the right track.

Brant toweled off vigorously and watched his red skin finally return to its normal color. The scars visible in the mirror he ignored, as usual. He finished his bathroom routine in half the normal time, and in five more minutes he was dressing. A black turtleneck over dark jeans, and a leather jacket over that. Running shoes, as if he'd be running. He'd been running since the jungle.

Maybe the jungle was catching up.

Guest author bio:

W.D. Gagliani

W.D. Gagliani is also the author of the horror/crime thriller WOLF'S TRAP (Samhain Publishing), a past Bram Stoker Award nominee, as well as WOLF'S GAMBIT (47North), WOLF'S BLUFF (47North), WOLF'S EDGE (Samhain), and the upcoming WOLF'S CUT (Samhain). WOLF'S TRAP was reissued by Samhain Publishing in 2012.

Gagliani is also the author of various short stories published in anthologies such as ROBERT BLOCH'S PSYCHOS, MORE MONSTERS FROM MEMPHIS, WICKED KARNIVAL HALLOWEEN HORROR, THE BLACK SPIRAL, THE MIDNIGHTERS CLUB, THE ASYLUM 2, MASTERS OF UNREALITY, DARK PASSIONS: HOT BLOOD 13, MALPRACTICE: AN ANTHOLOGY OF BEDSIDE TERROR (the last three with David Benton), and more.

He has written book reviews, articles, and interviews that have been published (since 1986) in places such as THE MILWAUKEE JOURNAL SENTINEL, CHIZINE, CEMETERY DANCE, HORRORWORLD, PAPERBACK PARADE, CINEMA RETRO, HELLNOTES, FLESH & BLOOD, BOOKPAGE, BOOKLOVERS, THE SCREAM FACTORY, HORROR MAGAZINE, SF CHRONICLE, BARE BONES, and others. He has had nonfiction and craft articles published in the Writers Digest book ON WRITING HORROR (edited by Mort Castle), in the Edgar Award-nominated THRILLERS: THE 100 MUST READS (edited by Morrell & Wagner), and in October 2011 THE WRITER magazine published his article on writing werewolf epics.

His interests include old and new progressive rock, synthesizers, weapons, history (and alternate history, secret history, and steampunk), military history, movies, book reviewing, and plain old reading and writing. He is an Active member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA), the International Thriller Writers (ITW), and the Authors Guild. He lives and writes in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Find him on Facebook and Twitter.

Twitter: @WDGagliani

www.wdgagliani.com
www.williamdgagliani.com
www.facebook.com/wdgagliani