An Update on Editing, Writing, and Florida (with a bit about contagious illnesses and mass transit)

Hello, all!

I haven’t written any blog entries for some time now, so I thought that I’d take a moment today, as a break from daily editing on “Mark Red,” to give those who are interested an update.  I apologize for the delay; I’ve been sick as a dog for a surprisingly long time recently, and as a consequence my motivation has been lagging.  It seems that, after catching one respiratory infection, and being on the tail end of it, nearly recovered, I caught another one.  These are the hazards of riding mass transit, I’m afraid.  With so many people using the train every day, touching the poles and the hand-rails, the petri dish for contagious diseases is prodigious.  I’ve resolved to minimize my contact with said surfaces as much as I can, since I’m still coughing up nasty phlegm after almost a month of illness, waxing and waning.  It’s frustrating, but I’m nevertheless a big fan of mass transit, not the least reason for that fandom being that I can do my writing and editing while on my way to and from work, dreaming of the day when I will no longer have to do so because I’ll be able to make a living solely from my writing.

With respect to the editing of “Mark Red,” it’s proceeding well, but there’s much work still to be done.  I think one of the very best guidelines for editing that I have found is the one an editor gave to Stephen King back when he was starting out (as detailed in his wonderful book “On Writing”), namely, to make your final draft ten percent shorter than your first draft.  This is a terrific rule for me, because I tend to digress a bit in my fiction as well as in my non-fiction.  It’s not such a crime in non-fiction—digressions can be fun and can keep things interesting.  However, when writing fiction, digression tends to slow the story down.  Also, I get too much into my characters’ thought processes, which is particularly bad when they repeat those same thoughts many times.  This isn’t necessarily unrealistic.  After all, people do tend to ruminate a great deal in their daily lives, and if the voices in our heads were all played aloud, every human would no doubt sound hopelessly neurotic.  It does, however, tend to get boring pretty quickly in a novel, or even a short story.

So my goal, among others, is to make “Mark Red” only ninety percent as long as it was when I first started editing, by trimming off the stray bits that don’t add anything to the flow of the story.  This may seem elementary, and I suppose it is, but it’s crucial.

Regarding other matters:  I’ve been getting more exercise lately, despite being ill, because I’ve been walking from my train stop to my new office location instead of taking the bus, and sometimes walking back to the train at the end of the day.  It’s about 2.4 miles each way, so it’s a nice, healthy stroll, and can be very pleasant in what passes for winter in south Florida.

On that note, a few weeks ago while walking, I came upon a sad but interesting sight:  the beheaded corpse of a coral snake on the park path which I take from the train:

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This is, of course, the most venomous snake in the western hemisphere, but it is also not particularly dangerous, since coral snakes tend to be mild-mannered.  I think it must have come out onto the pavement to sun itself during the relatively chilly weather, and someone saw and recognized it for what it was and overreacted.  It’s a shame, but an interesting example of the sorts of amazing wildlife that we have here in south Florida.  I recently read Dave Barry’s “Best. State. Ever.” and I couldn’t agree with him more in that conclusion.  The politics of Florida may be insane—an insanity that has apparently spread to the national level—but it is an amazing environment.  Also, the national weather service reported about a week ago that 49 out of 50 states had snow on the ground.  You should know which state was the exception (Hint:  It wasn’t Hawaii).

Well, I think that’s enough meandering for today.  I considered writing my own semi-deliberate digression about the curious phrase “sick as a dog,” since in my experience dogs don’t tend to get sick as often as humans, but I’ll leave that at the immediately preceding comment and spare you any further speculation.  I hope you’re all well, and enduring the ongoing winter in the northern hemisphere with as much equanimity as you can muster.  The days are now getting steadily longer, and that’s good news for those of us who get moody when the nights predominate.  For those in the southern hemisphere, enjoy the summer!  For those who live in the tropics…well, you don’t need any boosting from me, I would imagine.

Stay healthy, everyone.  Watch those doorknobs, hand-rails, and standing poles, and wash your hands regularly!

TTFN

Prometheus and Chiron

haringWell, here it is, for your reading enjoyment:  A little bit of horrific relief from your enforced holiday cheer.

 

PROMETHEUS AND CHIRON

by

Robert Elessar

 

copyright 2016 by Robert Elessar.  All rights reserved.  Any unauthorized reproduction of this work by any means is strictly prohibited.  Sharing the link to this post is perfectly acceptable, by any media you like.

 

Tommy first saw the woman at the station in the evening as he waited to catch the train home.  He had done some drywalling in a friend of a friend’s house that day, and was tired and in pain as he waited. Continue reading

A SOUTH FLORIDA CHRISTMAS SONG

(Sung to the tune of “White Christmas,”…obviously, I guess)

I’m dreaming of a green Christmas,
just like the ones I never knew,

with the flowers blooming
and sea birds zooming
across the crystal sky so blue.

I’m dreaming of a green Christmas
despite the Christmas cards I’ve seen.

May your snow be sparkling and clean,
but may all our Christmases be green.

“In the Shade”

What follows is part of an unfinished short story I began writing by hand, then began rewriting by computer (never fully retyping the hand-written portion), but for which I lost the fire in what would roughly be the middle of the story.  I’m not sure what happened, exactly.  It’s a more or less straight-up horror story, and I like the general idea of it, but for some reason I lost interest in it some months ago, and haven’t been able to rekindle it.

I’m posting it here (it will make for a pretty long post, I’m afraid) in hopes of getting your feedback.  Do you like the story so far?  Do you hate it?  Do you think it’s worth trying to revitalize, or should I leave it well enough alone?

Your comments are welcome and encouraged.  “Enquiring minds want to know.”

Without further ado, here is the story, as it is typed in thus far:

 

IN THE SHADE

by

Robert Elessar

 

When Gary Sawyer first heard the screams, he thought they were just the usual noises of boys playing.  His son, Kyle, had been out most of the morning with his friend, Sean Corcoran, from two streets up, and they were rarely the quietest of companions.  Gary assumed, when he first heard the high-pitched, almost girlish noises from one of the boys, overlaid with shouted words from the other, that the two were just involved in some strange adventure game, or even that one of them might be angry at the other.  It happened at times, even with boys that were as good friends as Kyle and Sean were.

Gary thought of the stretch of road on which he lived‒and from the end of which he heard the voices‒as a “block,” but of course it really wasn’t.  It was actually a cul-de-sac, a little protuberance sticking off the main road, with three houses along each side, and four circled around the bulb of blacktop at the end.

Well, actually, there were three completed houses at the end, and one that was still under construction.

Gary was not a big fan of the way streets were laid out in those Florida housing developments.  He had grown up in the northeast and midwest, and one thing you could say about northern suburbia‒at least where he had lived‒blocks there were blocks.  Streets crossed each other generally at right angles, and they split neighborhoods into rectangular agglomerations of dwellings, with backyards abutting other backyards, usually with fences in between.  That was obviously the way God had intended things to be.

In Florida, however, things rarely followed any deity’s design.  The roads along which people lived tended to meander and twist like living things, huge, sightless worms wandering through the soil of a neighborhood, with no clear, geometric path.  Occasionally, they would close into a single, huge loop, but there was almost never anything that could honestly be called a block.  Also, there were all those frequent little protrusions of soon-terminating street, such as the one on which the Sawyers lived‒strange, tumorous polyps of roadway.  They were called “cul-de-sacs,” and the residents often just referred to them as “sacks.”  Gary supposed the French term sounded fancier than “Dead End,” but where he grew up that’s what they would have been called, and that’s what they were:  Dead Ends.  But no one even had the decency t put up street signs notifying motorists of the fact.

Gary had the occasional sardonic thought that the housing developments in Florida were designed as not-too-subtle traps.  They were almost all gated, their single entrances either controlled electronically or tended by uniformed guards, which did more to deter friendly visits than to provide any actual security.  These facts, combined with the Dead End cul-de-sacs, made Florida subdivisions feel‒to Gary at least‒like ideal places into which would could corral an enemy military force, perhaps to keep them in place and call in an air strike.

There were almost never any rear exits from such communities, and when there were, they too were always gated.  Gary often wondered what disaster planners thought about such street layouts.  What would happen if there arose the sudden need for rapid evacuation?  There would surely be horrible bottlenecks at the exits, and there were no emergency escape routes.

The idea of an emergency escape route from his subdivision would occur to Gary again before long, but in a much less idle fashion.

Now, however, he recognized his thoughts‒meandering like the bemoaned Florida residential streets‒as the typical, rather dreary ruminations he tended to have when his wife was away on business.  He didn’t mind staying home on the weekends with Kyle‒he could, in fact, think of nothing he would rather do‒but he always felt that at least a small piece of himself was missing whenever Deborah was away for more than a week.  God help him if anything should ever happen to her, or‒even worse‒if she should ever divorce him.  He was not sure he would survive.

The screams and yells were getting steadily closer, and Gary gradually recognized that they were not the sounds of anyone having fun, nor even the vocalizations of a heated argument.  They were noises of pain, fear, and desperation.

As soon as he realized that fact, Gary‒who had been standing in his living room, idly sipping on the day’s second cup of coffee‒all but dropped his mug on the living room end-table, sloshing some of the brown liquid onto the polished surface, and rushed for the door.  It was unlocked, so he was quickly able to swing it wide and head toward the front walk.

He looked down toward the rear of the cul-de-sac and saw Kyle and Sean coming up the street.  There was no actual sidewalk‒another bizarre omission found in many of these Florida developments‒so children and adults were often forced to walk in the road if they didn’t want to walk on the strange, spongy lawns of St. Augustine grass.  That fact wasn’t such a big deal when on the cul-de-sacs, since no one tended to drive very quickly on a bit of street that came to an end after a hundred feet or so.  Still, it always seemed an absurd oversight, Gary had always thought…though it probably wasn’t an oversight at all.  It probably allowed developers to claim larger property areas for each plot, thus raising their asking prices.

That habitual thought was pushed out of Gary’s mind as he realized how Sean and Kyle were walking:  Kyle was supporting Sean, almost pulling him along.  Sean leaned heavily on Kyle, barely seeming to want to support his own weight, or to put one foot in front of the other.  Even from where he had stopped briefly on his front stoop, a good fifty or sixty feet from the boys, Gary could see that Sean’s normally-tanned face looked deathly pale.  Kyle, too, was fairly pallid, but Sean…Sean looked as though he hadn’t seen the sun in years, or perhaps ever.

It was Sean who had been making the shrieking noises, and he continued to do so as he stumbled along.  Though his body appeared feeble, his voice had a horrible, banshee-like power.  Beside him, Kyle could hardly be heard, yelling, “Dad!  Dad!  Something got Sean!”

As if in agreement with Kyle’s statement, Sean’s shriek very briefly took on the words, “It got me!  It got me!” before reverting to unarticulated words.  

Gary saw that Sean’s right hand was tucked into his left armpit, his right shoulder pressed against Kyle.

Then he saw that part of the left side of Sean’s yellow shirt, beneath his arm, was wet and stuck to his side by a dark-colored fluid, which looked almost black on the yellow of the shirt.

Waitaminnit.  Was that…that couldn’t be…blood, could it?

Gary sprang from the front stoop in an instant, rapidly covering the ground between him and the two boys.  He had probably not run so fast since his teenage years, but despite his speed, he felt as though he were trying to swim through molasses…or through thick, partly coagulated blood, like what was staining Sean’s clothes.

He was vaguely aware of several of his neighbors looking out their front doors to see what all the caterwauling was about‒some were probably more indignant than concerned‒but then he reached the boys and all other people left his conscious awareness.

Kyle was repeating, “Dad!  Dad!” but Sean did not again slip into words.

Gary stopped and squatted down in front of the boys, his eyes focused on the one who was not his own flesh and blood.

“Kyle, what happened?” he asked, even as he looked at Sean, who, like Kyle, had come to a halt.  Up close, the boy looked even worse than he had from a distance.  Like most Florida boys, Sean tended to have a nice, deep tan almost the whole year ’round, which even obsessive-compulsive application of SPF-45 lotion by a paranoid mother could not prevent.  Now, however, he looked…faded, pale, and distant, like the cover of a book that had been left on the back seat of a car for a year, bleached by the relentless sunlight until it was barely recognizable.  Gary almost wouldn’t have been surprised if he had been able to see through Sean, so pale had the boy become.  Even his hair looked slightly lighter than its usual shade of brown, though that could have been the consequence of much time spent outdoors in the late spring.

“What happened?” Gary asked again.  “Sean, what’s wrong with your hand?”  He put his hands on Sean’s shoulders, helping to support him.

Sean merely continued to shriek, gaping at Gary as if he did not know what he was, let along who he was.

Kyle, however, said, “It got him, Dad!  The…the dark thing in the house got Sean!  It got his fingers!”

Gary had no idea to what dark thing in what house his son was referring, but for the moment he thought it was unimportant.  Kyle’s words, combined with the way Sean was holding his right hand under his opposite arm, focused Gary’s attention on what must have been the source of all the blood on the boy’s shirt.

“Sean,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “show me your hand.”

Sean, making no sign of understanding, and certainly making no move to obey, just looked at Gary and continued to scream.  His eyes were wider than any Gary had ever seen.  They looked almost perfectly round, like the eyes of a startled cartoon character.  Gary half feared that they were in danger of falling out of the boy’s head.

“Come on now, Sean,” he repeated, reaching for Sean’s right wrist, “I need to see your hand.”  More neighbors had come to watch the scene, but none of them made any inquiries or offers of help.

Sean gave token resistance, probably without any thought, when Gary made to pull his hand out from its fleshy hiding place, but he was only nine years old, and his heart obviously wasn’t in fighting.  He even lifted his left arm a little bit to allow his right hand to come free, still shrieking as he did so, not even looking down at his injured extremity.

Gary, however, was looking right at the poor hand as it came into view.  To his regret, he had no choice but to continue to do so.

“Dear God,” he whispered, just staring for a long moment.  His first thought‒sardonic, annoying, and disgusting to himself, as his thoughts often were‒was that Sean and Kyle were not going to be able to play a good game of catch any time soon, if ever.

The four fingers of Sean’s right hand, to varying degrees, had been severed‒the pinky more or less completely, then the ring finger to just below the proximal knuckle, the middle to just beyond the same knuckle, and the index finger only missing past the last joint.  It looked as though Sean had stuck his fingers at an angle into a paper cutter, or some huge die-press machine, and had them cleanly sliced off.  There was, though, no look of compression or tearing in the remaining stumps.  They looked as plump and round as if the rest of the fingers were still present but just somehow invisible.  The flesh, the tendons, the vessels, the bones‒everything from the skin to the center‒looked like a perfect MRI section through the digits.

Well…not quite perfect.  Nowhere near perfect, really.  For one thing, blood was flowing sluggishly but steadily from each severed member, dripping along Sean’s arm to fall from his elbow to the pavement below.  It was less blood than Gary might have expected, but Maybe Sean had already lost so much that the flow was petering out.  How long ago had the injury happened?  How much blood had Sean lost?

In addition, the ends of the remaining bits of fingers‒the surfaces of the cuts‒looked almost crystallized or frozen.  That had to be some kind of optical illusion.  One did not find things frozen outdoors in late spring in south central Florida.

“Dear God,” Gary repeated, more loudly this time.  He yanked his own shirt over his head and wrapped it around Sean’s injured hand, trying to put some pressure on the finger ends without causing the boy too much pain.  Then, keeping the hand between their bodies, he picked Sean up in his arms and rose to his feet.

Sean was a good-sized boy for a nine year old, but he felt absurdly light to Gary.  Could a person lose so much blood that their weight changed noticeably?  How much blood loss would that require?  Could a person still be alive after losing enough blood to reduce their mass significantly, let alone awake, walking…and screaming, as Sean continued to do?

No.  That couldn’t be possible, Gary was sure of that.  It must just be the effect of adrenaline, boosting his normal strength, that made Sean seem so light.

Well, he was glad of the fact, in any case, because he didn’t want to waste any more time.  Yelling, “Come on, Kyle!” over his shoulder, he hefted his son’s friend further up against his bare chest, the wrapped hand pressed firmly between them, and then practically sprinted toward his front door.  He vaguely heard Kyle’s feet flopping along behind him up the walk, but even if he had not, he probably wouldn’t have stopped.

Gary had left the front door wide open when he went out, and he rushed back through it gladly now.  Kyle, apparently, did not close it when he followed.

Oh, well.  Bugs be damned and wasted A/C be damned, Gary had more important things to worry about.

He raced upstairs, still vaguely amazed at how light Sean seemed.  He tore into his bedroom and through it to the master bath.  Remarkably, the only blood that marred the floor on the way was a tiny smudge on the wall by the stairs; his shoe, which had been dripped upon when he first looked at Sean’s hand, left it there.  His shirt-cum-bandage had caught all further bleeding.

In the bathroom, Gary quickly slammed down the lid of the toilet with a free hand, and seated Sean upon it.  Now that they were inside, the boy’s screams had begun to peter out, and were being replaced by tears and sobs.  Gary was grateful for that.  Tears were good.  Crying was good.  Crying was normal.

Those screams…there had been more than just pain in those screams.  There had been fear.  There had been horror.

Letting Sean go for a moment, Gary tore open the cupboard under the sink.  He knelt and started pawing through the items it contained:  Lysol spray, tub-and-toilet cleanser, a beard trimmer he never used, an unopened package of pads for Deborah…a set of curlers…where the hell was…

Then he saw the large, brown bottle he was seeking.  He pulled it out, knocking the Lysol onto the floor, and turned back to Sean.  He saw Kyle standing in the bathroom doorway, watching his father and his friend in shock and disbelief.

“Kyle,” Gary said, “I need you to go downstairs and get my cell phone.”

Kyle blinked, looking as though he hadn’t understood his father at all.  He looked rather pale himself, though compared to Sean he looked like a Pacific Islander, even with his sandy blond hair.  Still, he was evidently more self-possessed than he looked, because he asked, “Where is it?” his voice surprisingly firm.

“I don’t know,” Gary replied, turning back to Sean already.  “I think maybe in the kitchen.  But wherever it is, find it and bring it here.”

Kyle didn’t say another word, just nodded and headed off like a well trained soldier on a crucial mission.  Gary felt a brief surge of paternal pride, even as he focused his attention on Sean.

Tears and snot were now streaming copiously down the boy’s face, apparently unnoticed by him.  He was clutching his shirt-covered hand against his chest with his other arm.

“Sean,” Gary said, “we need to clean your hand off, okay?”

Sean looked at him blankly; it was hard to tell if he even recognized the English language.

“Here,” Gary said gently, and once again he took Sean’s wrist and pulled it away from his torso.  He got no resistance this time, and the boy seemed to be more focused than before on what he was doing.  Gary pulled the shirt away from the injured hand, throwing it into the nearby tub.  The bleeding was slower now, and when Sean looked down at his hand, he only sobbed more loudly, he did not speak or revert to screaming.

Now that he had a chance to examine the hand more closely and more sedately,  Gary thought that the severed ends of the fingers looked a bit like meat that had been freezer-burned.  There were even a few apparent ice crystals, almost completely melted now, on the edge of the skin.

That had to be an illusion.  Of course it did.  Maybe it was salt that he was seeing along the edge of the wounds.  Or sand…Florida was practically made of sand.  But, no, sand wouldn’t melt, or thaw, or resolve itself into anything other than sand, not even in the heat of the late Florida spring.  It must be salt‒maybe from sweat‒or maybe from some nearby puddle of brackish water.

Whatever.  It was time to focus.  Gary had intended to take Sean calmly to the sink to clean his fingers, but that idea left his mind as soon as he saw the wounds again.  What could have cut them like that?  Even the bones were severed perfectly, cleanly, without splintering or breaking visible to his admittedly non-expert gaze.

Gary spun the white top off the bottle of hydrogen peroxide that he held in his left hand.  It seemed to be almost full, which was not too surprising.  Kyle was past the stage of having very many scrapes and cuts,  and cleaning those was pretty much the only use for the stuff in the Sawyer household.

Gary looked Sean in the eye and said, “Sean, this may sting a little, but it’s very important to clean the…the cuts, so you don’t get an infection, okay?”

Sean said nothing, just continued to sob, now a little less forcefully.  Was his pallor fading a little, or did it just look that way now that he was indoors?

Glad of the boy’s relative calm, and wishing that he felt anywhere near as even-keeled himself, Gary poured peroxide haphazardly all over the ends of Sean’s fingers…the new ends, anyway.  God only knew where the original ends were at the moment.  The clear liquid spilled all over the boy’s shorts and legs and onto the floor, but Gary paid no mind.  Peroxide he could clean up easily enough.

Both Gary and Sean watched with grim fascination as the liquid on the ends of Sean’s severed fingers bloomed into a pinkish foam so thick that it looked almost solid.  It too dribbled slowly onto Sean’s legs and then slid slowly onto the toilet seat and then to the floor.

“Wow,” Gary said, “you’re being so brave, Sean.  I’m very proud of you.”  Sean hadn’t flinched or jerked or cried harder when the peroxide had landed on its targets.  Gary knew that peroxide didn’t sting like rubbing alcohol, but still, he thought that on wounds like these…

But Sean was actually looking less distressed than before.  He now looked vague, dim…he must have been going into some kind of shock.  That was probably why he looked so pale, so transparent.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Sean muttered listlessly, hoarsely, barely articulating the words.  He was all but done crying.  Coming inside seemed to have made a difference for him.

Surprised, Gary asked, “The peroxide doesn’t hurt?”

“My hand doesn’t hurt,” Sean corrected him, looking at his savaged hand with dull, disconnected, barely conscious attention.  “My fingers don’t hurt.  They’re just…gone.”  Now he shuddered and looked slightly distressed again, adding, “It got them.”  His tears had almost stopped flowing.

Gary would have liked to have inquired about just what had gotten Sean’s fingers, but first he wanted to get some kind of bandage on the boy’s injuries.  He didn’t want to use his shirt again‒it was already a mess, and anyway, he hadn’t put peroxide on the wounds just to wrap them in a dirty, makeshift covering again afterwards.

He stood up and stepped to the medicine cabinet, keeping an eye on Sean, who sat, still and stable, on the toilet seat, idly and vaguely watching the blood that now only oozed slowly out of his fingertips.  Gary could hardly believe the change in the boy’s affect after only a few moments.  Since coming inside, he had rapidly calmed down, though he looked practically as pale as before.  Gary hoped his placidity was a good sign and not an indication of some terrible crisis.

Dear God, what had done that to his fingers?  No animal could have bitten them off so cleanly, could it?

Gary opened the medicine cabinet just as Kyle trotted back into the room.  “Dad, I’ve got your cell phone,” he said.  Now Kyle sounded appropriate, which meant that he sounded anxious, terrified, urgent…desperate for his father, the grownup, to make everything all right.  Gary saw him look at his friend’s injured hand, and then look away quickly.  He held out the phone he had been sent to fetch.

“Thank you, Kyle,” Gary said, and he pulled briefly away from the open medicine cabinet to take his cell phone from his son.  He turned it on, set it for speaker function, dialed 911, and pressed send.  Then he placed the phone beside the sink and went back to the medicine cabinet.

He quickly found what he sought:  a box of mix-sized Band-Aids.  He wished that he had gauze pads and medicinal tape, but…well, whatever he put on was no doubt going to be removed and replaced soon, anyway.  For that reason, he also decided to forego the Neosporin tube which had sat near the Band-Aids on the shelf of the medicine cabinet for over a year.  Oddly, he found that difficult to do.  It was practically a religious point with him to put triple-antibiotic ointment on any cut.  First peroxide, then Neosporin, then Band-Aids, the Holy Trinity of home injury treatment.

But this was not going to be simple home injury treatment; his ministrations were to be utterly transitory, just stopgaps for whatever dressing was to be professionally applied by EMT’s…and then by ER doctors and nurses.

As if cued by that thought, the cell phone stopped ringing and a voice came from it saying, “911 Operator, what’s your emergency?”

“Yes,” Gary replied, rather incongruously, he knew.  He turned toward Sean, the Band-Aid box in his hands, his own son standing silently by the bathroom doorway.  “My name is Gary Sawyer, and I’m at 59 Pondcrest Drive, in the Laguna Lakes development in Torquemada.  I need an ambulance sent out right away.”

“Are you injured, sir?” the voice asked.

“No,” Gary replied, a bit impatiently.  Surely she could tell by the way his voice sounded that he wasn’t injured?  “It’s my son’s friend‒his name is Sean Corcoran‒he…I don’t know how it happened, but something…something bit, or…or cut off the fingers of his right hand.”  He almost hated to have to say the words, as if to do so would make the fact, previously unbelievable, now irrevocable.

While speaking, Gary had squatted again in front of Sean and pulled out a fistfull of Band-Aids.  Sean continued to look at his own hand vaguely.

God, he was pale!

Gary tore open the plastic bandage, peeled off its backing, then gently applied it to Sean’s index finger.  He expected the boy to flinch, or perhaps to scream again, but Sean simply watched the process as if it were happening to someone else.  Interestingly, Gary heard Kyle suck in a breath when the little pad in the bandage touched the oozing wound, as though he were feeling his friend’s pain for him to take the burden of the discomfort away.

The voice on the other end of the cell phone asked, “How old is the child?”

“He’s nine years old,” Gary told her, smoothing the adhesive onto Sean’s hand, then opening another Band-Aid to wrap around the first to hold it in place.

“Does he have any other injuries?”

Gary, surprised a bit by the question, looked Sean over intently.  There was plenty of blood on the boy’s side, but that seemed to have come only from his hand.  “I don’t think so,” he said.  “I don’t see anything.  But…but he seems to be in shock or something.  He’s very pale.”  He opened another bandage and went about applying it to Sean’s now-much-shorter middle finger before adding, “I’ve cleaned the…the wounds, and I’m putting some Band-Aids on them…just to stop the bleeding.”

He half expected the woman on the other end to berate him, to tell him he was a fool, that his ridiculous actions had doomed the poor boy, that now he was surely going to die.  But of course the woman said no such thing.  Instead, she asked, “Do you have the fingers in your possession, sir?”

That question seemed so bizarre to Gary that he froze in the middle of opening the next Band-Aid.  Why would he have Sean’s fingers?  Did she think the he had cut them off, perhaps to arrange them into some macabre homemade objet d’art?  What kind of monster did she think he was?

A split second later, of course, his mind caught up with events, and he realized why she was asking:  In the modern era, with all the amazing surgical techniques that existed, it might be possible to reattach Sean’s fingers, if it was done quickly enough.  The wounds were certainly neat, there was no denying that.  Some surgeon would probably have wet himself with joy to be able to work on such beautiful injuries…though perhaps such young, small fingers would be more difficult to work on than a large man’s would be.

Putting the next Band-Aid on Sean’s hand, Gary said to the 911 operator, “I…no, I don’t have them.  I don’t…Kyle, Sean..do you know where the…where Sean’s fingers are…now?”

Behind him, Kyle said, “I don’t know,” his voice quiet and almost guilty-sounding, as if he had been entrusted with collecting his friend’s severed phalanges and had failed at the job.

Sean, his voice somewhat stronger than Kyles, but horribly dead and empty, said, “They’re gone.  They’re gone.”

Apparently the operator heard the boys, because she didn’t ask anything else about the lost fingers.  Instead, she asked, “How’s the bleeding, sir?”

Gary felt the bizarre, perverse desire to reply, “It’s just fine.  It wanted to know how you’re doing.”  He struck that urge violently from his mind and instead answered, “It’s…very slow, now, though I think was worse at first.”  He had double-wrapped the second finger while speaking, and now he moved on the the third.

“All right,” the woman on the other end of the phone commented.  “An emergency vehicle is on its way to you.  It should arrive in just a few minutes.”

“You got the address down?” Gary asked, applying the next Band-Aid, Sean still not making any movement in response, and Kyle no longer making sympathetic noises because Gary had shifted a little, blocking his son’s view of the process.

“Yes, sir,” the operator replied.  “We have your cell phone’s GPS signal.”

That was pretty useful, Gary thought, opening the next Band-Aid to wrap around the very short base of Sean’s ring finger.  He hadn’t realized that the local 911 system was set up for that.  He sometimes felt that all of Florida’s official government services were about a hundred years behind the times, but of course that couldn’t be true, could it?

“Okay,” Gary said.  “It’s…we’re in a gated community, but there’s a guard.  He’ll let the ambulance in…or she will.  I don’t know who’s on today.”  He realized that the 911 operator probably had no interest in his attempt to be gender-neutral, or equal opportunity, or whatever it was, in his description of the rent-a-cop at the entrance to Laguna Lakes, but white male guilt was a powerful reflex…even in situations like this one, apparently.

“That’s fine, sir,” the woman at the other end of the line said, and Gary wondered if she had even noticed his ridiculous comment.  He kind of hoped she hadn’t.

Gary now opened a moderate sized plastic bandage to put on Sean’s poor, barely-there and barely-oozing pinky finger, saying to the 911 operator, “If there’s nothing else you need, I really want to call the boy’s parents.  They don’t know anything that’s happened yet.”  He placed the bandage on Sean’s last stub of a finger, now almost as calm as Sean seemed to be.  It was better now that he could no longer see the impossibly neat, new ends of Sean’s digits.  Now the whole thing seemed more distant, more unreal…more manageable.

“That’s fine, sir,” the operator said.  “Just be on the lookout for the ambulance.”

“I will,” he told her.  “I think the front door’s still open, they can come right in.  Thank you very much…Goodbye.”  He reached out to disconnect the call with his left hand while getting a last Band-Aid to secure the one he had just placed on the end of Sean’s last finger.  He wasn’t sure it would hold very well; there wasn’t much of that finger left to which to secure it.  He considered applying the end of the bandage to Sean’s palm, but he didn’t think it would hold there very well.

Of course, it was all an exercise in futility.  The EMT’s would be there any minute, and they would rip all the Band-Aids off and put better coverings on instead.  Yet Gary could not choose to leave the injuries uncovered, or to leave the sole Band-Aid on Sean’s pinky unsecured.  It seemed just too callous, too heartless, to do such a thing.

Shrugging to himself, he wrapped the last Band-Aid loosely around the base of the truncated finger and then asked, “How’s that?”

Sean shrugged, still looking vague.  He didn’t speak.  His tears had tapered off with his bleeding, and even the mucus flow from his nose was slowing and drying.  Gary grabbed a quick few sheets of toilet paper and wiped the boy’s face.

Gary got to his feet.  He did need to call Sean’s parents‒their number was in his Contact’s list‒but he wasn’t quite ready to do so yet.  He said, “Excuse me, Kyle,” and edged past his son, who was still standing near the door of the bathroom.  He walked into his bedroom and directly over to his dresser, which was in direct line of sight to Sean, sitting listlessly but stably on the toilet seat.  Pulling open the second drawer down, Gary took out whatever shirt was on top‒a blue polo shirt‒and pulled it on, not bothering to straighten the collar.  Then he went back into the bathroom.  He sat on the edge of the tub, from which perch he could see both Kyle and Sean easily.

Trying to be calm‒trying to sound parental‒he asked, “Now, before the ambulance gets here, and before I call Sean’s dad and mom, I want to know what…what happened, boys?”  He focused his question mainly toward Kyle, since Sean seemed pretty much out of it.  Gary, in fact, was ready to reach out and grab the boy at any instant if he looked like he was fainting, but he appeared to be steady for the moment.  

Dear Lord, how pale Sean was!  But it was an odd kind of pallor.  He didn’t look bloodless.  He looked…he looked partially absent…like a figure in an old-fashioned, double-exposed or overexposed photograph.

He looked almost like a ghost.

Sean said nothing in response to Gary’s question.  Kyle, on the other hand, having completed his cell-phone retrieval duties after getting his friend to an adult who could help him, now seemed to become a young boy again, and he started to cry.

“I’m…sorry, Dad,” he said, his face drawn in anguish.  “I know we weren’t supposed to do it, but we were out playing and we…we went into that house.”

Gary was at a loss.  “What house is that, what do you mean?” he asked.

 

On Human Loyalty

Human beings pay lip service to a general admiration of and respect for loyalty and dedication, to unflinching devotion, to commitment to other people, or to ideals, especially in the face of great personal expense.  Unfortunately, they have never lived up to these or to any related notions.  They have not, by and large, exemplified any of these admirable traits, and even worse, they have neither rewarded nor admired those who actually do live by their nominal virtues.

Oh, they will reliably claim to provide such support and reward.  They will vociferously espouse their respect for those who at great cost commit themselves—to a marriage, to a job, to a family, to an ideal—but this so-called respect is worth less than the halitotic air with which it is voiced.

What humans really do to those who embody loyalty is to use them…and, more particularly, to use them up, like conveniently exploited, cheap natural resources.  The loyal spouse, the loyal worker…these individuals are taken advantage of and given a pat on the back and encouraged to continue giving their all until they finally keel over and succumb to inevitable exhaustion.  Then the user sheds a crocodile tear—or does not even bother to do this much—and moves on to the next disposable fool.

It has always been thus, throughout the history of humanity, and it’s probably true among many other animals as well (though an ethologist could probably shed more light on that supposition than I can).  Those who bemoan the laughable notion of some long-lost “good old days” are simply deluded.  This—the modern world in which we all find ourselves—is as good as it’s ever been for the human race, and it’s actually better than average, pathetic though that fact may seem.

Humans do not naturally treat each other with justice.  They do not treat each other with respect.  Instead, their nominal notions of fair play, their desires to, for instance, punish supposed malefactors, are generally born of wounded vanity…and of other such unremarkable, predictable primate behavioral drives.

Humans claim to respect loyalty, yet they lionize serial philanderers, they forget the misdeeds of those who have risen to the top through dishonest means, simply because they have made it to the top.  They reward and respect ruthlessness and disloyalty and then they have the temerity to bemoan the fact that those in power are despicable.  

They have only themselves to blame.  Their politicians, their businessmen, their entertainers…these are simply the people who have most successfully applied the ideals to which most humans actually ascribe, however much they may claim to admire those who have integrity, who have commitment.  Loyalty simply makes a person very convenient for others to harness, and the ethos of the loyal person usually keeps minor or nonexistent the cost of the eventual, inevitable betrayal.  Loyal, dedicated people do not, by and large, seek revenge.  Instead they sigh, they square their shoulders, and they move on, giving their loyalty to yet another undeserving person, purpose, business, or ideal, until the day they finally succumb to exhaustion and receive their only true reward: Oblivion.

Given these facts, it is very probable that the human race—as it is, at least—is doomed.  It seems unlikely that the species can endure into actual geological or cosmological time with it current innate ethos intact.  It must either change into something so different from its present incarnation that the term “human” would be the most unwarranted of insults, or it will continue to prance about in circles, its horde members screaming their baboon screams, pretending to admire integrity while stabbing each other in the back, until some eventual, inevitable natural catastrophe delivers its inescapable recompense.

In the meantime, the poor, deluded, misguided—but honestly admirable—humans who actually live with integrity will drag the rest of the odious species along, with the damnation of faint praise as their only, occasional reward, until inevitably they fall, one by one, their blood greasing the wheels of the driver-less vehicle which humans have misnamed civilization.

Welcome to Paradox City is now for sale on Kindle

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Hello all!  I’m sorry there’s been such a delay since my last posting.  In addition to working on writing my new novel, preparing the editing for Son of Man, and working six days a week on my “day job,” I’ve been preparing for that which I am now announcing:  Welcome to Paradox City is now available on Amazon Kindle!  This is a brief collection of three dark tales, at least one of which is verging on being a novella, while the other two are just rather long short stories.  Though they are all “dark tales,” dealing with subject matter a bit too grim for daytime TV, one is a actually somewhat lighthearted, while the other two are…fully dark.

So, preparing that publication has been one of the things that’s slowed down the posting of the monthly chapters of Mark Red and The Chasm and the Collision.  I’m also continuing to work on new material, and getting the editing of Son of Man done, and looking for a good cover design.  It’s very busy, and I’m probably going to have to scale back to releasing only alternating chapters of Mark Red and CatC per month, instead of one each.

Welcome to Paradox City is available for only $2.99 on Kindle, and of course, 50% of the royalties will go to literacy charities such as RIF, as is always the case with works by Chronic Publications.  The more readers there are in the world—and the more reading those readers do—the better off we all are.  I’m convinced that this is an absolutely true correlation.

Hopefully Son of Man will be ready for publication within the next few months.  Certainly it won’t be very long before the last chapter of Mark Red is published, though The Chasm and the Collision has quite a bit more to go.  Give me your feedback, positive and negative.  I can take it!

Above all, thank you all for reading and following my blog, be well, and keep reading.

TTFN!

The Chasm and the Collision: Chapter 5 is Available Now on Amazon!

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Konnichiwa, friends and neighbors!  As the headline above states, and as I am pleased to announce, The Chasm and the Collision:  Chapter 5 is now available on Amazon for Kindle and other readers (just click on the chapter for the link).

In this chapter, Alex has a discussion with the intruder in his house (whose name is Peetry) on the other side of the dining room wall, and learns a bit more about what’s happening to him and to his friends.  He also becomes aware once again of a danger he’s encountered before.  More questions are surely raised for him than are answered, but at least he’s making headway.

For those of you following the story, I hope you’re enjoying it.  I apologize that there has been such a long hiatus in the publication of the chapters of Mark Red and The Chasm and the Collision.  While I was away, I sent the handwritten works to my sister, and she published the chapters serially for me as she completed the truly heroic work of typing them into the computer.  It often took her a great deal of time to do this.  To try to give you an idea of why it took a great deal of time, I’ll say this:  Many brave and intelligent individuals prefer to decipher ancient Mayan and Aztec writings, without a primer on the languages, rather than attempt to read my handwriting.

Actually, most would people prefer to be hit on the head with a ball-peen hammer rather than be forced to read my handwriting.

I don’t even really enjoy doing it myself, if it comes down to it, but since I am the one who wrote the books (almost 600 pages of Mark Red and almost 700 pages of The Chasm and the Collision) I have no one else to blame.  At least I can always read my own writing, which is more than can be said for anyone else.

That actually raises an important point:  If anyone notices anything peculiar–perhaps an odd choice of words or something along those lines–in the first 11 chapters of Mark Red or the first 4 chapters of The Chasm and the Collision, there’s one of two explanations:  Either I simply wrote it badly (in the penmanship sense) and my poor sister had to guess at what I was trying to say, or I simply wrote it badly (in the authorial sense) and she was stuck reproducing bad writing.  In any case, all thanks belong to her for bringing you those chapters, and all errors and confusion have their origins in me.

Now that I’m back from being away, I’m going to try to publish these Chapters at least once a month for each book, in order to keep the rhythm going, and (hopefully) to keep everyone interested.

For those of you who don’t know, I’ll give you a very brief rundown of the plots of the two novels (both of which are complete, at least in draft, just so you know).

Mark Red:  The protagonist, Mark Reed, is a teenager who works in an ice cream parlor three evenings a week to earn a bit of extra money for himself and his family.  He’s an earnest and well-meaning young man, and one evening, as he leaves work, he sees a woman who appears to be in the process of being attacked by a large man in a dark alley.  He rushes to her aid, but is no match for her attacker, and he’s stabbed by the man from whom he was trying to defend her.  As he falls to the ground, bleeding and about to die, it becomes clear that the woman he meant to protect was not human.  She makes short work of her attacker, and then saves Mark in the only way she can.  This process fundamentally changes Mark’s life, and brings him and the object of his intended good deed together in a strange relationship.  She desperately wants to find out how to cure Mark from what she has done to him.  At the same time, she also dedicates herself to protecting Mark from the consequences of her actions…and to protecting everyone else from Mark.

The Chasm and the Collision:  This story centers around three pre-teens, Alex Hinton, Simon Belmont, and Meghan Tewes.  One day, coming home from school with Simon, Alex thinks he sees movement in his house before they go in.  However, he finds no one home, and though Simon is nervous (which is his nature), the two nevertheless enter the dwelling.  The only atypia they find inside is a triple-branch of berries in the fruit bowl in Alex’s dining room.  The berries smell wonderful and taste even better.  Alex and Simon eat this fruit, sharing it with Meghan, on whom Alex has a crush, and whom he sees walking by as he and Simon are about to indulge themselves.  The rest of that day passes uneventfully, but that night, the three begin to have strange dreams–as well as other frightening experiences that seem to be all too real–and gradually they become aware that the fruit was only the beginning of their involvement in events that are uncanny, wondrous, and dangerous on a scale they could not have imagined.

Well, that’s the quick run-down on those two books.  I hope you’ll read and enjoy them.

FYI:  I’m almost done now with my third book, Son of Man, which is more purely science fiction than either of the previous two.  It’s an idea I’ve been sitting on for almost twenty years; hopefully it’s matured in that time, rather than decayed.  I can’t tell.  It’s all wonderful and enjoyable to me, but I’m the author.  You can’t take my word for it.  In any case, I’m not going to start publishing chapters of Son of Man until I’m at least most of the way done publishing Mark Red and/or CatC.

I also intend, somewhen along the line here, to publish a “short” story that I wrote while away.  I’m using scare quotes because it’s about 76 pages long (handwritten) and something along the lines of 25,000 words.  So it’s not a very short story, but it’s too short to be a novella.  Anyway, it’s called Paradox City, and it’s about a man who enters the titular nightclub to find some rather peculiar happenings.  At first they’re just puzzling, and then they’re quite pleasant…but things take a more troubling turn eventually.  (Bwa ha haaa!)

So, that’s a quick rundown of my writing that’s available, as well as that which is still in progress.  I’d love to receive any feedback you might wish to give.  You can write in the comments below, or contact me through my Facebook page, or my Twitter account (@RobElessar).  I’m also on G+ and LinkedIn.

You can’t get away from me.  Don’t even bother trying.

As if I hadn’t just given you links enough (a phrase which sounds like it really ought to be a Victorian exclamation of frustration), here are links to each of the hitherto published chapters of Mark Red and The Chasm and the Collision.  Please enjoy.

Mark Red: Chapter 1

Mark Red: Chapter 2

Mark Red: Chapter 3

Mark Red: Chapter 4

Mark Red: Chapter 5

Mark Red: Chapter 6

Mark Red: Chapter 7

Mark Red: Chapter 8

Mark Red: Chapter 9

Mark Red: Chapter 10

Mark Red: Chapter 11

The Chasm and the Collision:  Chapter 1

The Chasm and the Collision:  Chapter 2

The Chasm and the Collision:  Chapter 3

The Chasm and the Collision:  Chapter 4

The Chasm and the Collision:  Chapter 5

I do hope you’ll read them, and if you like them, tell your friends.  Also, remember, 50% of the royalties from all of my writing goes to literacy charities such as RIF, so we can all help share the joy of reading with those who have not yet been able to experience it.


Oh, by the way:  Today is my daughter’s 14th birthday.  Happy Birthday, Kyra!!  It’s no mere coincidence that I’ve timed my first new publication since my return to occur on your birthday weekend.  ^_^