I’m running a little behind right now. Installed a new entry door on my house last week and have been paying for it ever since. My sciatica is kicking my butt and the heating pad has become my best friend. Hopefully soon it will loosen up and I can get back to our normally scheduled programming. My apologies all around.
I recently found a clip on You Tube taken from the concert film, The Song Remains the Same, a movie released in 1976 that featured the group Led Zeppelin. Filmed during three nights of concerts at Madison Square Garden.
The clip features the song Stairway to Heaven which has become a classic since it’s release in the early seventies. I grew up listening to groups like Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Boston, and The Eagles just to name a few. But this was the first time I even saw the guitar solo by Jimmy Paige halfway through the song, and I was blown away.
In the close up you’ll notice that Jimmy’s eyes are closed as he’s playing. It’s as if he has transcended the mechanical melding of guitar and man, the song no longer coming from the musical score in his head. It is no longer the act of metal strings being strummed while fingers move to the appropriate fret. This goes much deeper than that. In a sense he has become the song itself and what we hear comes from the depths of his soul. Jimmy has entered the zone. If you were to ask him what he was thinking about while he was playing, I’m willing to bet he wouldn’t be entirely sure himself.
Writers do the same thing when they create. During the initial phase of a story’s creation, after the spark that inspired it. To write that first draft the writer finds it necessary to venture into the zone where all things become possible. In the zone there is no grammar, no punctuation, at least not consciously at first. That will come later, during the many rewrites to polish the story to a hard brilliance. No, during that first stage, the very first time a word intrudes upon the unblemished page, the writer infused with the fever of creation slips into a state of self-hypnosis.
For some the ability to slip into the zone becomes second nature. As soon as they sit down at their work they enter that altered state. For others it is a struggle to find that quiet room in the mind where all things become possible. Here time has no meaning. The seconds, minutes, and even hours pass unnoticed as the writer becomes wholly focused on that imaginary place they have created in their mind. Where the words flow like the waters of a swift moving river that passes through their consciousness. Dark, deep, and muddied by the swirling emotions that whisper across the page.
Continuing Fridays 5 with another author we lost too soon.
1.) When did you first consider yourself a writer?
A.) I think I’ve always considered myself a writer – or at least since I could write a legible sentence. Have always written stuff, even poetry, and have earned a living from my words at times. But I didn’t consider myself an author until I had a short story accepted into a magazine and actually got paid for it.
2.) What is the hardest part of writing?
A.) Putting butt in chair and just doing it. Next to that, is the absolute necessary rewriting/revision process.
3.) How did you feel upon publication of your first completed project?
A.) You could have heard me whooping and hollering all the way to the next town, I think. I still have that first dollar made taped to my desktop.
4.) In addition to writing, what else are you passionate about?
A.) Movie making. Can’t call it film making because no film is involved. But I love the creativeness that you can achieve looking through the lens of a camera and then putting the scenes and segments together to tell a story.
5.) If you could ask any author, living or dead, one question, what would it be?
A.) I would love to converse with John Steinbeck. And if I could only ask him one question it would be, Can I borrow the characters from Grapes of Wrath to interact briefly with my characters in the story I’m working on now?
Kat Yares has been writing fiction her entire adult life. She is an author, screenwriter and indie movie maker. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous print publications and online. She passed due to heart failure in 2015.
Her fiction is primarily in the horror/thriller genres. Unlike many, she writes horror not to gross out or startle her readers, but to make them think. Most of her stories are mind games and deal with mans (or woman’s) inhumanity to man (or woman). She is currently working on a two book series – set 2000 years apart. Part fantasy, part thriller – the two stories that comprise The Descendants are reminiscent of both Marian Zimmer Bradley’s Mists of Avalon series and Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code.
If you’re a writer working in the horror, sci-fi, or fantasy genres and would like to participate. Answer the questions above and send them to rschiver@gmail.com along with a brief bio and an author photo 200px by 200px in size Thanks.
Welcome back to my weekly writing challenge where I continue work on my short story God’s Chosen. To the left you will notice a permanent link to the Weekly Writing Challenge page where the story is updated. If you would like to read the story in its entirety up to this point head on over that way. Without further delay I give you the next 621 words of the current story God’s Chosen.
God’s Chosen
Contd!
His sleep was anything but restful. Fitfully he tossed and turned as the days events replayed themselves in his mind before sleep finally claimed him. He found himself trapped in a coffin, the silk lining pressing against his face as he pushed uselessly against the lid held in place by nails and six feet of earth. Unable to see even his hand in front of his face he started hyperventilating as he kicked at the bottom of the casket with his feet. It all felt so real as he scratched at the lid, it even felt like he’d gotten splinters under his fingernails. A persistent whine filled the emptiness around him as he struggled against the cloying nature of the lining that had become wrapped around his head. He pulled at the fabric as a scream slowly built up in his chest.
A single thought drove through his mind. They had abandoned him in the grave while they returned home to enjoy the fruits of life. The taste of fresh mountain air carrying the crisp scent of the coming snow. The warmth of a fire roaring in the hearth. The touch of another living being. These things he would never know again, trapped in the eternal night of the grave, alone. This last was the most frightening and the scream that had been building since the realization of his predicament escaped its prison and roared from his chest, shattering his throat as he sat up in his bed.
He looked around his small room with uncomprehending eyes, aware of his clothes clinging to his sweaty flesh as the last of the terror from his dream drained away.
A knock came at his door, “are you okay sir?”
It was his housekeeper, Mrs. Bailey.
“Yes,” he replied in a shaky voice, “I just had a bad dream, I’ll be okay.”
“My gramma always said dreams were a brief glimpse of our future,” Mrs. Bailey said from the other side of the closed door.
“I’ll be okay Mrs. Bailey, thank you.” He certainly hoped this nightmare would not prove to be his future. We all died. It was this knowledge that separated them from the animals of the fields and the forest. To be aware of your impending death was both a blessing and a curse. Knowing it was coming allowed you to prepare yourself for your inevitable end, to get right with the lord and assure your place in heaven. Everybody died.
Blessed and holy is the one who shares in the first resurrection. The passage came to him and offered some comfort. The first resurrection would be those who served the lord faithfully. As a man of god, he imagined he would be included in this first group when it came, as the second death would hold no power over them. Yet a small part of him knew it was blasphemous to assume the life he led would be sufficient to secure his place at the lord’s side.
A shout from outside drew his attention and he pushed himself off his bed to cross to the window. From his vantage point he had a clear view of main street alight in the shifting orange glow of the torches burning along both sides. A stranger was staggering down the center of the street and as they came into view he recognized them as Boris Jantz. Am immigrant from Germany who had been hanged three days ago for rustling cattle. The noose that took his life was still around his neck, the frayed end dangling between his legs.
A gunshot rang out and Boris staggered back momentarily before pushing on. Another shot rang out as an inarticulate cry sliced across the night. To be continued!
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Jimmy and his friends have come to the roof of their apartment building to watch the passage of the comet Omega9. Little do they know the dust from the comet contains ancient organisms that are about to turn their world upside down.
They’re already dealing with tough times, but things get even crazier when Robert’s mom is attacked by his dad and turns into a zombie. This is only the first act in a chain of events that plunges the world into the zombie apocalypse. Forcing the boys to figure out how to survive in this new, terrifying reality.
Trapped between the undead, and the evil living in the building, their future becomes more perilous until Robert makes a startling discovery in the basement. In the end it’s all about survival, friendship, and facing their fears as they fight to protect each other and their home.
When I decided to bring back Fridays 5, I knew for the first few weeks I would share responses I received in the past from those who are no longer with us. First up is William F. Nolan, who we lost in 2021.
1.) When did you first consider yourself a writer?
A.) When I sold my first story to Playboy. At that point, I knew I was a professional. That was in 1956.
2.) What is the hardest part of writing?
A.) Sitting down in front of a sheet of blank paper (or a blank screen nowadays) and filling it with good words is the hardest part.
3.) How did you feel upon publication of your first completed project?
A.) Seeing my name in professional print gave me a tremendous lift, and seeing my name in print still gives me much of the same feeling today.
4.) In addition to writing, what else are you passionate about?
A.) I love cartooning and sports car racing, and the work of Max Brand.
5.) If you could ask any author, living or dead, one question, what would it be?
A.) Bradbury said that he wanted to be buried on Mars in a Campbell soup can in the “Bradbury Abyss”. I’d ask Ray Bradbury if he found his way home to Mars.
Wlliam F. Nolan (1928-2021) wrote mostly in the science fiction, fantasy, and horror genres. Though best known for co-authoring the classic dystopian science fiction novel Logan’s Run with George Clayton Johnson, Nolan authored more than 2000 pieces (fiction, nonfiction, articles and books), and edited 26 anthologies in his 60+ year career.
An artist, Nolan was born in Kansas City, Missouri, and worked at Hallmark Cards, Inc. and in comic books before becoming an author. In the 1950s, Nolan was an integral part of the writing ensemble known as “The Group,” which included many well-known genre writers, such as Ray Bradbury, Charles Beaumont, John Tomerlin, Richard Matheson, Johnson and others, many of whom wrote for Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone. Nolan is considered a leading expert on Dashiell Hammett, pulps such as Black Mask and Western Story, and was the world authority on the works of prolific scribe Max Brand.
Among his many awards, he was voted a Living Legend in Dark Fantasy by the International Horror Guild in 2002. During 2006, he was bestowed the honorary title of Author Emeritus by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, Inc. In 2010, he received the Lifetime Achievement award from the Horror Writers Association.
On a personal note I knew William only as the person on the other end of the emails he and I exchanged when I was starting to get serious about writing. Sadly I never got the chance to meet him in person. He never hesitated to respond and always had time for my sometimes stupid questions. His book How To Write Horror Fiction will always sit on my desk, within easy reach.
If you write in the genres of horror, sci-fi, or fantasy, and would like to participate in Fridays 5 drop me a line at rschiver@gmail.com
I’m bringing back my weekly writing challenge. Every week I will add an additional 500+ words to a short story in progress. My plan is to write 26 stories, one for every letter of the alphabet. During my last foray into this I managed to write stories for letters A thru F.
I previously wrote 500 words for the short story for the letter G – God’s Chosen. Last night after my trip to Baltimore, I added another 618 words to the story in progress. Below is the story from its beginning to its latest point. This is raw work with minimal editing.
God’s Chosen
“Why is it so hard for us to forgive?” Reverend Wilkes asked from the pulpit as he scanned the parishioners gathered to hear his sermon. Many were fanning themselves with the days program, the heat inside stifling even with the windows open. Last night’s storm brought with it an intense heat wave that promised to be the worst they’d known in some time. The reverend also noted that Sally Umstead was shifting in her seat and he zeroed in on her. It was terrible what she and her sister were doing to the Plimpton girl. She’d never hurt anyone but to hear them tell it she was evil incarnate.
“Because the evil one is a good salesman.” Reverend Wilkes shouted, slamming his fist on the pulpit to get their attention. He was satisfied to see many of the younger ones stop their squirming and were sitting up straighter in their seats. They knew it was about to get interesting.
“He hates forgiveness because he knows that if he can persuade us not to forgive even one person, our own forgiveness from God will be cut off.” He stopped, letting his gaze linger across the parishioners who were all now paying close attention. For a moment it seemed the heat had been forgotten.
“The devil whispers very persuasive lies to us,” he said quietly, forcing the congregation to lean forward to catch his words.
“Did he lie to you?” He shouted, pointing at Sally.
“Did he lie to you?” He asked, shifting his attention to the widow Barnes. He knew she was responsible for the problems the Plimpton girl was experiencing.
Glancing to the back of the church he spotted the ushers gathered around one of the windows. Bobby Franklin pointed at something outside and turned to look in Reverend Wilkes direction. The terror on his face was clearly transmitted across the room and a ripple of voices followed his gaze.
“What is it Bobby?” The reverend asked, wanting to get this issue out of the way so he could continue his sermon.
“It’s the widow Franklin, sir.”
That wasn’t possible, he’d personally overseen the widow’s grave side services less than a week ago. The scattering of voices became focused on Bobby’s words as several of the parishioners closest to the window left their seats to see for themselves. Several ‘Oh my gods’ were punctuated by a woman’s scream. Reverend Wilkes pushed his way to the window.
The widow Franklin staggered down the center of main street dragging what looked like the lining of her coffin behind her on one foot. The clothes she’d been buried in were a muddy mess
Turning from the window Wilkes pushed back through the crowd and crossed to the doors for the church.
“Where are you going?” Someone shouted behind him. He stopped and turned to face the crowd.
“I don’t know what happened but I’m going to find out.”
“Don’t, please, what if she hurts you?”
“What if she wasn’t dead when we laid her to rest.” Reverend Wilkes said, “certainly, she’s terrified by now and needs someone to help her understand what is going on.”
On the street the heat hit him with a physical force that slowed his steps. The widow Franklin approached, staggering down the center of main street. It was early yet, and though not all of the inhabitants of Whisper Cove attended services regularly, the streets were empty.
Where does she think she’s going, he wondered as he stepped off the curb and moved to intercept her. With every step closer his resolve began to wane. It wasn’t his job to maintain order on the streets. His was to protect the souls of his congregation. When he was a few feet away he stopped and pulled his kerchief from his breast pocket to place it over his nose. The smell coming from the old woman was overwhelmingly bad.
“Mrs. Franklin, are you all right?” It was a stupid question to ask. Obviously she was not all right. For one thing she stunk, for another her eyes had taken on an unnatural cast, and as if to add insult to injury her lips had been sewn shut. She was far from all right.
She turned in his direction, her feet becoming tangled in the coffin lining, and she fell headlong to the pavement. Reverend Wilkes tried to catch her, but was too slow, and she hit the ground with a wet squishing sound that strayed dangerously close to unnatural. It was enough to give him pause, and he stepped back as she thrashed about on the ground, grunting and groaning in a primitive manner that further distanced her from the prim and proper matron she’d been when she lived.
But she was alive. Wasn’t she? He wondered as he remained rooted in place, afraid to get any closer.
The sound of an approaching vehicle drew his attention, and he looked up as Deputy Frank arrived in his cruiser.
“What’s wrong reverend?” Deputy Frank asked as he stepped out of his patrol car.
“It’s Mrs. Franklin, we buried her last week, but it appears she wasn’t dead. How she got out I have no idea, but she needs help.”
“Well, what are you going to do?” the deputy asked.
“Me? What about you? Help the woman.”
Deputy Frank stepped closer, and though he stood a good six four, his expression collapsed into that of a frightened young boy confronting his first nightmare. “I don’t even know what to do.”
“Let’s help her up,” Reverend Wilkes said as he stepped forward and stooped down to grab one of the woman’s arms.
She nearly yanked him off his feet as she thrashed about, and the spongy way her arm felt under his hand left a sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach. It felt like he was trying to grab something stuffed with wet noodles.
Deputy Frank managed to find his balls long enough to step forward and lend the reverend a hand, but he quickly backed away when she lunged at his hand with her face.
“She tried to bite me,” he said, his voice rising in an unmanly manner.
“Nonsense, her lips are sewn shut.”
“How do you even know that?” Deputy Frank’s expression had dissolved completely into that of a frightened schoolboy.
“I called an ambulance,” Derrick, one of the ushers, said as he came up behind Father Wilkes who continued to struggle with the old woman. “Let me help you,” he said as he tried to slip the old lady’s loose arm over his shoulders. She lunged at his face, pulling at the stitches holding her mouth closed as she tried to bite him.
To be continued!
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