Stephen King’s Danse Macabre: A Deep Dive into Horror Literature – Retro Reads, episode 1

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You can watch or listen to this episode on YouTube or Spotify.

Danse Macabre is Stephen King’s deep dive into horror, almost a history of the genre, and his personal take on the genre as a whole.

As we go from literally page one through each section, I’ll comment on:

~ the writing process, the monsters, the horror, the other topics King brings up;

~ how those topics have impacted my career;

~ how they might impact your writing career;

~ or how they might impact you as a viewer or reader of this particular genre we all know and love so much.

We’re going to see where it goes because it’s fun.

Epigraph

Stephen King’s Danse Macabre, copyright 1981. On the first page, the very literal first page, no page numbers or anything, is just a couple of paragraphs pulled from the book, also called an epigraph.

King opens with…

Actually, let’s clarify that right now, because it’s something apprentice authors and most readers may not realize about the publishing industry:

This is not King opening the book. It is King’s publisher opening the book.

This is a decision the design team made for the book. These are choices the editor and/or design team will make. It is unlikely that King decided, “Oh, hey, use these quotes from the book for the very first page.”

Never forget that publishers are in business, and they make design choices for specific business reasons — usually whether you like them or not.

Here’s the epigraph: “I recognize terror as the finest emotion. And so I will try to terrorize the reader. But if I find that I cannot terrify, I will try to horrify. And if I find that I cannot horrify, I’ll go for the gross-out. I’m not proud. Here’s the final truth of horror movies: They do not love death, as some have suggested. They love life. They do not celebrate deformity, but by dwelling on deformity, they sing of health and energy. They are the barbers, leeches of the psyche, drawing not bad blood, but anxiety.”

Does this set the stage for you? Is this a “successful” epigraph?

I have been toying with adding epigraphs or prefaces in my novels moving forward for the sole purpose of priming my reader, getting them in the mood for what’s to come, because I write across so many different genres.

What do you think? Good idea or bad idea?

Reviews, and Where To Start

Next come two pages full of reviews from various publications:

“Danse Macabre succeeds on any number of levels — as pure horror memorabilia for longtime ghouly groupies, as a bibliography for younger addicts weaned on King and as an insightful noncredit course for would-be writers of the genre.” That’s from the Baltimore Sun.

As a horror author, especially as an older horror author, it’s hard to keep up with so much content, particularly with so many independent creators. Never mind just trying to keep up with what comes out of the major Hollywood studios, which is not that much. But now you throw something like Tubi.TV in there, and you are deluged with horror options. Never mind Kindle, never mind your local bookstore, never mind any number of different fan fiction sites or independent publishing sites like Wattpad.

The options for the horror fan, for any fan of any genre, are endless. As endless as King’s white space in the Jaunt. Longer than you think, Dad…!

So where do apprentice writers or readers start?

Go back to the beginning. Read the old classics. Watch the old classics. Understand where you come from.

“An insightful noncredit course for would-be writers.” Yeah, if you’re going to write horror, you need to know the stuff King is talking about in this book, which is why I have chosen to share it, because I’m confident that the material in this book, plus my more recent insights into traditional publishing, independent publishing, and the horror genre as a whole will be beneficial.

Here’s another: “A search for the place where we live at our most primitive level.” The Chelsea, Michigan Standard.

A search for the place where we live at our most primitive level? Yeah, I’ll buy that.

This is something a lot of people may not know about King: he started off as an educator. He was an English teacher for a couple of years. He also was a scholar. He went to college and got his bachelor’s degree in English. Carrie was his first novel, published in 1974. That means he’s going to school in the late sixties, early seventies, right? And he was reading what we would consider classic literature. As I’ve watched him speak at events online and write books like Danse Macabre and On Writing, I’ve started to appreciate how deep his bench of knowledge of words and literature as a whole really goes.

In On Writing he’s referencing stuff I’ve either never heard of or certainly never read, and I’m like, “But you’re Stephen King, you’re not supposed to read this classic stuff. You write horror stuff. It’s scary, bloody pulp fiction!”

And maybe it is, or at least some of it, but he’s calling upon resources that go way back. I think that’s another important aspect for writers to be aware of, is to go back to those things and be educated in the literature.

Be Frictionless

“Danse Macabre is a conversation with Stephen King. It’s comfortable and easygoing. At the same time, it’s perceptive and knowledgeable, a visit with a craftsman who has honed his skills to an edge that cuts clean and sparkles with brilliance.” That’s the Milwaukee Journal.

It is a conversational book. It’s easy to read. It’s frictionless, one of my favorite words. This is a term all writers should embrace, whether they are writing hardcore literary fiction all the way down to your bottom-of-the-barrel “I crapped this out in a week and put it on Kindle” type of thing.

Regardless of the genre, regardless of your style, your writing should be frictionless for the reader, at least within the context of the genre. There is such a thing as a “elevated horror.” And there’s such a thing as “elevated literature.” I’ve read some, I’ve liked some — not all of it. Same is true of horror. As the creator, you shouldn’t have any speed bumps for your reader or for the viewer. So “frictionless” is the take-home word of the day. And I think that’s kind of what the Milwaukee Journal is saying here, as “a conversation with Stephen King.”

Conclusion

We haven’t even gotten to the book yet! Be sure to follow along for each week’s new insight.

RESOURCES
These are affiliate links. I only recommend and endorse material I have personally read or viewed.

DANSE MACABRE
Danse Macabre on Amazon

101 BOOKS TO READ BEFORE YOU’RE MURDERED
101 Books to Read Before You’re Murdered on Amazon

Also, follow Mother Horror on Instagram:
Mother Horror on Instagram

SKELETON CREW
Skeleton Crew on Amazon

NIGHT SHIFT
Night Shift on Amazon

MONSTERS IN AMERICA
Monsters in America on Amazon

THE MONSTER SHOW
The Monster Show on Amazon

GRIMM’S GRIMMEST
Grimm’s Grimmest on Amazon

And here is one of my own horror novels, a Bram Stoker Award Finalist: HELLWORLD
Hellworld on Amazon

June 30, 1989

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35 years ago today, I was 15 and trying to make a movie.

I did that a lot between 13 and 15. And, as would become typical later in life, it was a reboot of something I’d already done. There was room for improvement!

I had three guys helping me. Two I’d known less than a year, the other only a few months if that. I honestly don’t remember when he and I first crossed paths, but I really think it was that summer.

Most importantly, he had a VHS video camera, and agreed to come help make this film.

And I was pissed.

We were making good progress at first. We even went by everyone’s house to pick up “special effects,” which included a green floodlight, a red flood light, and two different strobe lights.

As I was directing, trying to get effects set up and tested, someone started playing Guns N’ Roses. Paradise City. And then they fucked around, all three of them. Swinging the floods around, lip-synching into a flashlight, spinning the camera.

I have this on tape. You can see and hear how irritated I am. We are Making A Film, goddammit!

I wasn’t gonna win, though. So instead of throwing a fit, which was typical in those days, I gave up and joined in, thinking that maybe if I did that, they’d get their zoomies out and we could get back to work.

We never did get back to work. Instead we spend the next several hours making “videos,” meaning, lip-synching to songs and recording it all on the VHS. I did “Comfortably Numb.”

And then we made plans to do it again.

Other people heard about it and wanted to join in. This kicked off roughly a decade in total of this odd past-time, known as “Videos.” To an outsider, most of it is probably really weird or stupid. I won’t argue that.

But that outsider wasn’t there, being a rock star for a few minutes a couple times a year, expressing all the joy and rage and angst our sixteen to twenty-one year old selves could muster from bands like Metallica, REM, Genesis, Social Distortion, Pink Floyd, and dozens more. One of my best was “Hey You” from The Wall. I fucking rocked that video.

Jesus, it was so much fun. As we got older and got jobs, we started spending real money on this hobby. Which I guess is normal for any hobby.

Most importantly, 35 years ago today, while I may not have known it at the time, something got kicked off that would last all these years later.

Not unilaterally. Not evenly. (Both to my everlasting regret.) But still here.

Elements and ephemera from that day suffuse my writing to this day. In MERCY RULE, I even wrote an entire scene in which some kids are making Videos, and it’s secretly one of my all-time favorite beats in any of my novels.

The passion, the heightened emotion, the drama and angst…the loyalty…

I write young adult, I write horror, I write urban fantasy, sometimes I even write high fantasy or dabble in some genre. In all of it, those guys are there. That love is there. That hope is there.

That hope that those who read my work feel seen and heard, the way I felt seen and heard giving my best David Gilmour impression with a wooden guitar in hand and fake microphone taped to a PCV pipe “mic stand” performing for an audience of thousands in my living room.

35 years ago today, something special began. I know that not everyone had or has what I did and do. Whether or not you were given that gift, I hope my writing and the community around it can extend it now.

Everyone deserves and needs a June 30, 1989.

Epic Fail! The worst thing any of us can do to ourselves.

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FAIL!

Back in 2001, my theatre company was offered a lot of money to produce a certain, specific show for a certain, specific producer. And my gut said, “No. Don’t do it, the money would be great, but this is a bad idea.” I moved ahead anyway and did the deal, and when the producer started talking about moving the location for the venue, I knew we were sunk. I may not ever have been the best artistic director in town, but I knew a bad idea when I saw it, and this was a bad, bad, bad idea.

I let myself get bullied into something I did not believe in.

For money.

You know what happened, right? Absolute catastrophe. Now in fairness, the actors and crew did a great job despite our circumstances, which included a run that was something absurd, like Sunday afternoon to Wednesday night. (No theatre would ever, ever, ever would do that, certainly not at our level. Friday and Saturday nights were our bread and butter.) We performed twenty-plus miles away from our home base. All together, we sold maybe 50 tickets, if that.

It was a failure. Not because of the money – the company didn’t personally lose any cash in the deal – but because I didn’t trust myself and say what needed to be said. Scary old guys came around, talking fame and fortune, and I ignored my instincts and went ahead with it. In 22 years of theatre, it stands as my biggest (personal) artistic failure.

That includes blowing more than $20,000 in less than three years on my second theatre company. Never gonna see that money again! Never did get any of the Super Cool Awards that our town hands out.

But I don’t regret not winning those awards, and I don’t regret spending that money.

I very much regret saying yes to something I didn’t believe in.

That’s a failure.

I don’t know where my writing career is headed. Okay. I’ll control what I can. But whatever ends up happening, I sure as hell won’t let someone else dictate terms to me again like I’ve done before. Because even if that one bad show had been a wild success, it wouldn’t have been fun. Privately, it would have felt like, Man, I don’t know how we dodged that bullet. That’s not the sign of a success, that’s a sign of relief.

Beckett’s Last Mixtape – Chapter Five

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ANTHO

 

Judge Roberts looks like my father. This is not a good thing.

Courtrooms are not what they look like on TV, or at least this one isn’t. It’s mostly off-white, with dark paneling at the judge’s bench and witness stand, and the Seal of the State of Arizona hanging behind him. Despite the fact that the ceiling isn’t two stories tall or that the floor is dark, polished wood does not make the space any less intimidating. My heart squeezes behind my ribs like a hand around a tennis ball.

Judge Roberts has asked me a question and is now waiting for me. So is everyone else.

I better make this good. This ain’t—

This isn’t a speech tournament. Lose there, and you don’t get a plaque. Lose here, and I’ll spend freshman year in the Maricopa County jail.

I clear my throat, wipe my hands on the thighs of my best navy blue dress pants, and stand.

“Yes I do, Your Honor.”

With that, I stride to the podium on my side of the room. I can see my lawyer, Mr. Goldsen, is both nervous and confident. He’s honestly not a lot older than me, by the look of him. My parents have known his parents for a long time. They play golf and tennis together at the club.

Judge Roberts sits back in his chair and appears to rock back and forth, holding a pen between his index fingers. He’s just asked if I have anything to say for myself, as Mr. Goldsen had said he probably would.

I have no note cards, nothing written down. This is extemporaneous speaking at it’s . . . what? Best? Finest? Most important?

Here we go:

“First of all, thank you for the opportunity to speak, Your Honor. I appreciate the consideration being shown me.”

He arches an eyebrow.

“Secondly . . . to be clear, I do accept responsibility for what I’ve done. It was a bad choice, and I do want to extend my apologies to Joe—uh, Mr. Bishop—for the harm I caused. I also want to apologize to my family and friends for putting them through this ordeal.”

The judge either nods, or rocks in his chair.

“I won’t try to excuse what I did, Your Honor, but I do wish to say that when it comes to my family and my friends, I am very protective. I’ve known Ashley Dixon most of my life. She’s like a sister to me. So when it was clear that someone had—by the definition of the law, Your Honor—had sexually assaulted her, I lost my cool and I reacted inappropriately. And while I certainly won’t let that happen again, I need to tell Ashley’s parents right here and now that I will always be there for her, and I will always do my best to protect her. If that protection has consequences, then I accept them.

“But again, Your Honor, if I ever face another situation like this, and I sincerely hope that I will not, then I will behave in a manner commensurate with the situation.”

Judge Roberts drops his pen on the desk and yanks his eyeglasses off. “Did you just say ‘commensurate’?”

“Um . . . yes, Your Honor.”

“And you’re how old again?”

“Almost fifteen, sir.”

He snaps his glasses back into place. “Go on.”

“That’s all I have, sir. Thank you.”

“I have to say, Mr. Lincoln, you are without a doubt the most eloquent and well-spoken fourteen-year-old I’ve ever met in this courthouse. In fact you may be the most eloquent and well-spoken person I’ve ever met in this courthouse.”

There’s a mild chuckle behind me from all the people here. They shut up when the judge shoots them a look.

“I don’t suppose you plan on becoming a lawyer.”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do, Your Honor.”

He picks up some papers and snaps them with his hand to get them to stand straight on their own. “Straight As in junior high. You just started high school at . . . Camelback?”

“In August, yes sir.”

“Mmm-hmm. What are you taking?”

I struggle to remember my schedule. “Um . . . integrated math, honors English, speech one, business keyboarding, French, and earth science.”

“Speech? Are you competing? National Forensics?”

“Yes, sir, two weeks ago there was an AIA practice tournament.”

“How did you do, Mr. Lincoln?”

It is very hard not to smile. “First place in extemp debate, sir.”

“Well done, Mr. Lincoln.”

I force myself to be cool, and nod my thanks. I’ll start bragging if I open my mouth, and that feels like a poor idea right now.

“What about your extra-curriculars?” he asks.

“Speech and drama club, Your Honor. Masque & Gavel.”

“No athletics?”

“No, sir.”

The judge stares at the papers for a long moment before setting them down and pulling his glasses off again. “Mr. Lincoln, for the record, I want you to acknowledge that I have every right to sentence you to a jail term. Do you understand?”

My heart skips. “Yes, sir.”

“I also intend to make sure a young man of your caliber doesn’t step foot in this building again until you’re trying your first case.”

My heart resumes. Maybe—maybe—I pulled this off.

“I understand, Your Honor.”

“It is the order of this court,” he says, “that you serve one hundred hours of community service and attend not less than twenty hours of anger management classes and counselling. I’m also recommending without enforcement that you find a good sport or two to work out whatever aggression you’ve got to work out. Is that understood?”

Someone behind me lets out a breath like they’ve been holding it. I think it’s Mom. Or Dad. Or maybe Mr. Goldsen.

“Yes, Your Honor!”

“And finally, Mr. Lincoln, make no mistake. If you ever appear before me again for a charge of this nature, I will make it my business to ensure you won’t hurt anyone else for a very long time. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Very well. I’ll see you in about ten years, defending or prosecuting your first case. Court adjourned.”

He banges his gavel, and that’s that.

I’m not going to jail.

This time.

Beckett’s Last Mixtape – Chapter Four

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ASHLEY

 

I’m so scared I want to cry.

Or at least sniffle a bit.

Coach Bradley walks back and forth in front of all of us like he should be chewing a cigar and wearing one of those drill sergeant hats like in Full Metal Jacket, which is my dad’s favorite rental for some reason. There’s twenty-two of us “trying out” for cross country. I counted. We’re all sitting on the browning grass beside the school race track, facing the sun and squinting in unison. I promise I put on deodorant this morning before school, but you’d never know it to smell me. Ugh. We haven’t even started running yet, and already the elastic waistband of my horrible blue gym shorts we are forced to wear is damp. Gross.

“We have three rules on this team,” the coach says, taking these slow steps back and forth “Everyone runs. No one quits.”

He pauses.

And smiles.

“No Skittles for breakfast.”

Some of us, me included, laugh a little, and the tension breaks.

Coach slaps his belly, which looks as solid and smooth as our antique oak dining room table under his white Camelback High School T-shirt. “You’ll be putting in thirty to fifty miles a week. When you’re running fifty miles a week, you can eat pretty much whatever you want. Just eat a lot of it. You’ll need it.”

He blows his whistle—chweet!—and shouts, “Feet!”

We all get up. Someone groans.

“Four laps. Take your time. Just warm up. It’s really dang hot out here, so stay hydrated.”

Chweet!

“Go!”

We all take off for the track around the field.

“Did he say fifty miles a week?” I ask this tall boy beside me.

He only grins and shoots off down the lane. Must be Varsity.

Dad insisted I take a sport, he didn’t care what it was. I think secretly he was hoping for tennis, since he and Mom play almost every weekend during the season. But the tennis season in Phoenix is winter. Outdoor tennis is not a great idea in July.

I put Dad off for almost a month, but he finally wore me down. When I heard that it’s basically impossible to get cut from cross country, and that some people on JV even walk during the races, at least a little bit, I thought, “That’s the sport for me!” and signed right up.

So far, the rumors have been true. Coach B is a nice guy, and doesn’t seem to put a lot of pressure on the JV team unless you clearly want to make Varsity. Then he digs in and coaches. I don’t need to be on the receiving end of that, thanks.

But I do run. I take it slow, since that’s what Coach B said: to take our time. After the first lap, a couple people are walking, which puts me in the middle of the group. I guess it’s a decent jog, because I catch up to another boy who is almost wheezing. Sweat runs from his short brown hair and stains his white T-shirt.

“You okay?” I ask, which is all I can manage.

He nods and stumbles into a walk. “Didn’t. Train. Summer.”

His cheeks are splotchy. He puts his hands on his hips, huffing and puffing.

I hear the dreaded whistle followed by Coach B’s voice. “Anderson! Okay to walk, no hands on your hips!”

Followed by another chweet!

The boy beside me drops his hands to let them dangle and keeps walking.

I figure helping him is a good excuse to slow down, so I downshift to a walk, too. “Sure you can breathe?”

He nods but doesn’t answer. He brings his hands to his hips again as if on instinct, then quickly drops them, shooting a look coach’s direction.

We walk side by side for about hundred yards or so before he has his breath back enough to speak. “Should have run over the summer. That was dumb. Just played video games.”

“Yeah, not a big workout playing Super Mario.”

“It is if you’re doing it right.” He glances at me with a little half-grin. “I’m Tommy.”

“Ashley. Nice to meet you. Freshman?”

“Afraid so. You?”

“Yeppers.”

“Sucks, huh.”

I shrug. “The first week was bad. But I had friends from junior high, you know? Where’d you come from? You didn’t go to Mohave.”

“No. Private school. I’m one of those kids.”

“Ooo. Fancy.”

“Not that fancy, trust me.”

“Anybody come with you? Here, I mean?”

“Nope. All my friends are up north at a private high school.”

“Well, if you need someplace to hang out at lunch Monday, we’ll be in the cafeteria.” Might as well ask. Right now it’s just me and Beckett, most of the time, if she doesn’t walk home. Antho’s almost always in the speech and drama department these days.

Tommy looks—well, not surprised, but kind of confused maybe. But then he says, “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“I mean, you don’t have to. I’m just saying.”

“No, no, it’s cool. Thanks.”

We keep walking for about another minute before I say, “Okay, I gotta run. Hey, haha! Get it? Gotta run? Anyway. Want to get into Varsity someday, right?”

Not at all true, but I don’t want to make it sound like I’m a slacker.

“Cool,” Tommy says. “Good luck. I’m going out for Varsity Walking Squad, so.”

That makes me laugh, and I pick up my pace.

Something about Tommy sticks with me, though, as my feet slap the track. It takes a couple minutes to hone in on what it was.

Most guys scan my body. A lot of them stare at my chest. Which is gross.

Not Tommy. He looked in my eyes.

The Only New Year’s Resolution You’ll Ever Need: 2024 and Beyond

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THE ONLY NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION YOU’LL EVER NEED

 

 

Do one pushup, with a straight back, chest to ground, perfect form.

 

Can’t do that? Do one pushup from your knees.

 

Can’t do that? Do one push-off from the wall.

 

(Can’t do that? Call your doctor and make an appointment now, you are in a bad, bad way.)

 

Then tomorrow, do it again. Do it every day until you get comfortable. Then do two. When two becomes comfortable, do three.

 

Can you already bust out 50 pushups? Cool. Bust out 51.

 

Can you walk comfortably 10 minutes? Walk 11.

 

Can you jog for 60 minutes straight? Jog 61.

 

Do you need to reduce your added sugar intake? (Spoiler alert: Yes.) Total up all your added grams of sugar on January 1, and on January 2, eat 1 gram less. When that’s comfortable, eat 2 grams less.

 

You do not need to join a gym. Save your money. You do not need expensive running shoes. Save your money. All you really need is your body, and a clear space on the floor about the size of a prison cell.

 

The only resolution you ever need to make is to get 1% better every day. For the rest of your life.

 

Do that, and I swear to you you’ll be stunned at how many goals you’ve crushed this time next year. Physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, financial, creative. Whatever.

 

That is how I went from weighing 120 pounds and in the worst depression of my life to weighing more than 150 pounds (lean muscle!) and completing 13.5 hours of a physical crucible coached by retired Navy SEALs.

 

When a 60+ year-old retired combat veteran Master Chief who just an hour previous was screaming in your ear to GET OFF YOUR KNEES, LEVEN! shakes your hand, looks you in the eye, and says, “You did it! I’m proud of you!” you feel that shit in your soul, and it lasts forever.

 

The first time you bust out a Murph (1 mile run, 100 pull ups, 200 pushups, 300 squats, and another 1 mile run) in 75 minutes, you realize your old way of thinking about limitations is over.

 

The first time you bang out 50 pushups in 2 minutes, you start to re-evaluate your creative, artistic, and business goals.

 

The first time you knock out 5,000 words of a novel in one day, you realize the old paradigms don’t apply anymore.

 

Do not compare yourself to anyone else. You are only competing against your own baseline to get 1% better today than yesterday at your goal.

 

That’s it. You got this. 1% better than yesterday.

 

Happy New Year 2024!

 

 

Beckett’s Last Mixtape – Chapter Three

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I lose track of what Mr. Morrison is teaching because of the girl I share a table with.

English Literature is an elective, but taking it now means I don’t have to take the second semester of English senior year. I’ll be ready to get out of high school by then, I’m sure.  I can feel it. High school pretty much bites, and it’s only September.

We share small tables in Lit instead of individual desks. Mr. Morrison’s classroom is the best-smelling of any I’ve been in, and there’s a rumor he lights specialty fragrance candles when no one’s here even though there is no way open flame is allowed. Today it smells like pine.

His classroom is wallpapered with musical theatre posters like Les Misérables and Phantom of the Opera, and every Spring he takes groups of kids to London. I really don’t care about musicals, but I like Mr. Morrison and it would be cool to go to London to see all the castles. I don’t think my parents can afford to send me, but I plan on asking anyway just in case.

But this girl . . .

She and I say Hi to each other in the morning when we get here, and usually See ya! when class is over. Sometimes one of us will ask the other to borrow a pencil or sheet of paper. But that’s it.

I can tell she’s pretty; meaning, I recognize she is attractive. I can discern—by any conventional standard—most people would agree her body is structured in such a way as to elicit arousal, envy, or some mixture of the two; and that her facial features, her hair, and all her “vital stats” fall within the parameters of modern American beauty.

I’m talking here about a girl who, if she closed her text book, turned to me and said, “Listen, if you’re not busy at lunch, I would totally have sex with you in the library study room,” I would most likely reply, “Well, I mean, sure, okay.”

That is what I am supposed to say in such an unlikely event. And, who knows, maybe she’s got a winning personality, or works in a soup kitchen, or is secretly solving the cure for cancer. I’m not trying to objectify her. I don’t think. Am I? I probably am.

Which is another thing I’m supposed to do if you look at the magazines and Playboy channel when it pops on for second between changing channels.

I should be attracted to her.

I’m not.

Goddammit, I’m just not, and I don’t think I ever will be, and someone’s going to figure it out sooner or later.

Maybe if I put some effort into it? She has long curly hair that’s practically the color of a new penny. I think she’s older than me, too, like maybe a junior or even a senior. Also he’s very . . . developed.

There’s just nothing outstanding about her to me. She’s a paper doll, just one more in a long line of attractive lookalikes I’ve seen at this school.

But . . .

I don’t think that’s why I don’t like her the way I’m supposed to.

So every day, I keep her in the corner of my eye while Mr. Morrison goes on these rambling diatribes about Elizabeth Bennet and Helmholtz Watson and Daisy Buchanan.

I pretend to glance out the window when I’m really looking at her chest. But I do it really quick, so she doesn’t notice. I don’t want to be rude or crude. Sometimes she sits cross-legged on her orange molded plastic chair, and her legs, which always seem very tan, sneak into the folded edges of her Guess jean shorts. So I clandestinely look at her skin there and if she’s really not paying attention, I follow the line of her thigh into the denim and stare—for only a second or two—at the middle spot where the four seams of her shorts join.

And I think: C’mon, come on, man . . .

Nothing happens. No jolt of excitement, no . . . you know. Turn on.

Nothing until today, when she turns to me so quickly that I get startled and almost fall backward out of my chair.

“What?” she whispers as Mr. Morrison sallies forth, as he likes to say, about some Shakespearean character named Antonio.

“What?” I whisper back, while very, very quickly lifting my eyes to hers.

I can smell cinnamon on her breath as she whispers. “What did you say?”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Just now?”

“Yes.”

“I have no idea.”

She frowns. “It sounded like you said ‘come on.’”

I make myself frown right back, like she’s crazy. “Uh, no! No. Why would I say that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to go out?”

“Mr. Anderson and Ms. Haight!” Mr. Morrison calls. “Perhaps you would like to enlighten us on the subject of metatheatre in Shakespeare’s immortal comedy, Twelfth Night?”

“No thanks,” I say.

“Nah, I’m good,” she says.

“Then zip it,” Mr. Morrison says, with a smile, because he is a pretty nice guy. “Now! Let us sally forth . . .”

We both nod. Mr. Morrison goes back to his lecture.

I write on the corner of one sheet in my notebook: Your name is Hate?

Smirking, she spells beneath my writing in block letters: Haight.

I give her a nod and thumbs up when Mr. Morrison’s back is to us.

She writes: Did you ask me out?

Crap. I did say that, I heard myself say it, I just don’t know why I said it. And she totally heard it.

Now I have to answer.

But she keeps writing before I can: Are you a freshman?

Yes, I write. You?

She writes two letters: J R

Then that’s it, she doesn’t write anything else. I have no idea what to say, but I am pretty sure she didn’t just suddenly forget that I blurted out asking her on a date.

Which . . . why did I even do that? Maybe as a distraction? She did catch me totally checking her out, even though that’s not technically what I was doing, not in any traditional way.

She taps the end of her eraser on the table while Mr. Morrison acts out a scene from Twelfth Night, complete with different voices and postures for each character. He’s terrible, and he knows it, so it’s actually kind of fun. Everybody laughs.

There are four minutes left of class when she suddenly scribbles on the paper. Just two more letters.

O K.

I’m honestly not sure what that means, so I spend the last four minutes squinting at the letters, then at her. This appears to amuse her.

The bell chimes, and everyone jumps up except us.

“Okay, what?” I say over the sound of thirty people slamming notebooks closed, zipping backpacks shut, and shuffling toward the door.

Smirking again, she says, “Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up. Where do you live?”

It feels like my head slowly twists around like the little girl in The Exorcist.

“. . . What?”

Laughing, she—I am not making this up—pinches my cheek, like a grandma.

“You’re so cute! That’s why I’m doing it. Here. Write down your fucking address, freshman.”

Hands numb, I somehow manage to scrawl it out. She tears the paper from my notebook.

“Seven o’clock tomorrow. Dress nice. See ya!”

“Wait!” I call out as the classroom empties and she’s dashing toward the door. “Um . . .  what’s your name?”

“Jenn! Bye, Tommy!”

Then she’s gone, her laughter trailing behind her, and the next bunch of students wanders inside while I’m still standing here like an idiot at our table.

She knew my name? But I didn’t know hers?

Well, regardless. I guess I’ve got a date.

With a very attractive junior girl, no less.

Who apparently drives. So that’s cool.

. . . I just don’t care.

Is that a problem? Because it feels like a problem.

Hello, my friend! I hope you’re enjoying the story. Take a look at other stories and more at my linktree here:

linktr.ee/tomleveen

See you soon!
~ Tom

Beckett’s Last Mixtape – Chapter Two

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RYAN

 

I saw this girl today and holy shit dude! No kidding.

Like it’s been a few weeks since school started so I don’t know why I never noticed her before, I guess because of our schedules or something but anyway she is nice!

So of course I didn’t talk to her, I mean how could I?

Like I dated this girl Laura last year in junior high for a few weeks but it was honestly kind of lame and neither of us really knew what to do with each other so we mostly listened to her sister’s Def Leppard and Twisted Sister tapes and talked about The Cosby Show and that we both thought Denise Huxtable was fucking hot.

She did take her shirt off once which was cool. Laura, not Denise Huxtable. We were at her house after school but then her mom came home and we were like Oh crap! and that’s as far as we got.

But this girl I saw today in the breezeway she made Laura look like a . . . shit, I dunno, but whatever she’s beautiful.

Our school doesn’t have indoor hallways, which is weird. I guess because it can’t ever snow. It’s only ever hot or not too hot, that’s basically it. I kind of like it, you don’t get that stuffy smell like you do in indoor hallways.

I was walking toward the arts department after AP Bio because the last few days the route I usually took was all jocks walking to the gym and they always bumped into me and shit on purpose so I was on the hunt for a new way to get to my Drama Level 1 class and this girl was walking the opposite way with this other chick who was also kinda cute and stuff but not as cute as this girl in the blue skirt and white shirt. She has short sort of sandy colored hair and was wearing these round sunglasses that reminded me of John Lennon.

The two of them were talking and talking and talking and when we passed. I spun on one toe of my white Nikes and started following thinking maybe I’d say something to her.

But then like I couldn’t. The harder I tried to say something the harder it got to say anything. I was so close I could overhear them talking about their grades. The really cute one was like failing everything or something, even her music class and I thought how the hell do you fail music?

Then they turned right down the sidewalk and went into the first classroom there and I just kept walking past because I mean, what the hell else was I supposed to do?

So what I’m gonna do is Monday I’m gonna make sure I’m in that same place the same time right after AP Bio and I’m gonna say hi.

Or something.

 

Hello, my friend! I hope you’re enjoying the story. Take a look at other stories and more at my linktree here:

linktr.ee/tomleveen

See you soon!
~ Tom

Beckett’s Last Mixtape – Chapter One

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Friday, October 5, 1990

 

BECKETT

 

 

While it’s still only the first quarter of my first year at Camelback High School, so far my grades are a steady chord progression of Cs and Ds with an occasional F. When I walk home for lunch and Dad shows me this mid-term report, I call it the sheet music for “House of the Rising Sun.”

Dad gets the joke, but doesn’t think it’s funny. He looks pretty pissed, and it’s making me nervous.

I’d thought I would have time to bring my grades up before first-quarter report cards were sent home, but it turns out the school keeps track of things like this. And lets parents know.

Dad frowns at me as he re-strings his turquoise Rickenbacker bass. Mom hides in their bedroom, but that’s not unusual. She’d been apathetic about most things lately, including my grades.

Lately meaning like a year or more.

Actually . . . that might just be since I noticed.

After third period today, Anthony Lincoln invited me to his family cookout tomorrow afternoon at their house. I’ve known him since we were little, and our families have hung out many times. His family plans to talk on the phone to his brother Mike who’s halfway around the world. I didn’t think going to the cookout would be a big deal, but the mail’s arrived and Dad’s not too keen on letting me go.

“The cookout’s for all of us,” I tell Dad as he balances the bass on one knee. “We’re all invited.”

Dad and Mom have a gig tonight. At the shows, Dad’s hair reflects a rainbow of stage lights: orange, yellow, blue. Right now, the Phoenix sun shining through the living room window in our apartment reveals that his long, light brown hair has strings of gray in it that match the steel strings he guides through the bridge and bridge saddles.

I keep talking, hoping to distract him. “Antho said specifically that his parents want you and Mom to come, too. Ashley’ll be there, and her mom and dad—”

“But those grades, kid,” Dad says, spinning a machine head to wind the E string tight. “You need to spend every extra hour you got on getting those things up.”

Mom walks by right then, from their bedroom to the kitchenette. No—not walks. Shuffles. With bare feet. Her shoulder-length hair is clumpy and spaced as far apart as strings on a harp. She’s got a cup of coffee in her hand but I don’t see any steam. But there’s a new pot bubbling away on the counter, filling our shared space with the aroma of store-brand coffee. The coffee at Antho’s house smells a lot better.

“Of course she can go,” Mom says through half-closed eyes. She’s probably taken one of her pills. “It’s the Lincolns, Rob. It’s fine.”

“This isn’t about the Lincolns, Jennifer, it’s about Beckett’s grades, did you see this note?”

He points to the TV tray beside his chair. Gray fluffy stuffing sticks out the back of the seat. The little pink card with my current grades is from one of the Vice Principals, or at least his office, saying that I’m basically in danger of failing almost everything from Art to English. Even my music class is a C.

I haven’t been going lately.

Mom stops. Stares at nothing. She’s wearing a frayed yellow bathrobe open over loose jeans and a puckered black bra that may be older than me.

To Dad’s question, she has only this response:

“No.”

Then she goes on into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Mazzy Star starts up a second later. Red, oh red, the taste of blood . . .

Dad looks at the closed door for longer than a second before blinking and turning back to his instrument. His frown is deeper.

“We don’t know when we can talk to Mike again,” I tell Dad, and sit on our sun-faded brown couch against the wall. I punch the middle of my long blue linen skirt between my knees. “Antho said stuff’s really heating up over there.”

“Bush ran the CIA, he knows not to start a war with Iraq,” Dad says, winding another string. “Mike’ll be fine.”

“Still . . . come on, Dad, please?”

He sighs. “Why the bad grades, kid? What’s going on, huh? You on something? Is there some boy? What?”

I sit back and tap the fingers of my left hand rhythmically against my thumb. The callouses feel like the heel of my foot. Of all people, Mom and Dad should understand why I’m not spending a ton of time on homework. I just want what they have. To be out there, doing it. Making the music. Performing.

Dad isn’t so hip on the idea. Looking around the room, I guess I sort of understand why. Antho’s parents are both lawyers—and he probably will be too—and they have a beautiful house in Scottsdale, with polished hardwood floors and a red brick patio and barbeque. We live in a two-bedroom upstairs apartment with second- and third-hand furniture. The carpet springs curled pigtails of green thread every few feet. I haven’t gotten new clothes since Mom’s mother died a few years ago. Grandma Sue used to come into town once a year and take me shopping as both Christmas and birthday gifts while clucking about Mom and Dad’s “chosen profession.” The three of us shop at Goodwill when we need something.

All of which is fine with me.

And that’s my point. I’m used to it, but this is not what Dad “wants for me.”

Which is kind of hypocritical. He never graduated high school. He’s been gigging since he was like fifteen. Far as I’m concerned, that means I’m ready.

Dad plucks the unplugged bass, tuning it by ear. The E string rings out, tickling the soles of my bare feet.

“It’s just, it’s this one song,” I say. “I’ve been working on it since summer. It’s for Ashley and Antho.”

This gets Dad’s attention. He stops tuning. “A song, huh? What do you got so far? Let’s hear it.”

“I can’t, it’s not ready. It’s barely even chords yet.”

“Got lyrics?”

“They’re like . . . absent words, in my soul, sing to you alone . . . I don’t know.”

Dad resumes tuning the A to the E, “Damn. That voice of yours, kid. Gets me every time, you got that from your mom. Jesus. Okay, sorry, focus: this stuff with your grades. It’s gotta stop, Beck. You gotta bring those things up. Okay?”

Sensing a break, I say, “Yes. I’ll take care of it.”

“All right.” He tunes the A to the D.

I lean forward. “So I can go tomorrow?”

“All right. This time. But I will remember this conversation when your report card comes in.”

I get up and hug him. “Thank you! Are you guys coming?”

“It’s tomorrow night? No, we have a show at the Jar.”

“I’ll them you wanted to.”

Dad tunes the G to the D. “Yeah, do. Haven’t seen the Lincolns in a while.”

That’s true. I see Antho at school every day, but we haven’t gotten all the families together since maybe seventh grade.

I get a glass of water from the tap and go into my room, determined to get a head start on my math homework.

. . . Except instead, I pick up my Gibson Epiphone from its stand beside my window and play along with She Hangs Brightly bleeding through the thin wall from their bedroom. I’ve already figured out most of the chords.

Neither Mom nor Dad says anything about me playing instead of doing homework. I play through lunch.

And fifth period.

Hello and welcome to Beckett’s Last Mixtape!

Beckett was originally going to be a thesis for my MFA. Things happened, as things often do, and now I’m bringing it to life here on this platform as a serial novel instead.

Because I want you to have it.

When I was a kid, I told and wrote stories endlessly. Handwritten…typed on a manual typewriter…acted out in my backyard…recorded as improvised audiobooks.

And then, sometimes, I shared them. With Jennifer at the back of the school bus. With Jene during lunch. With teachers. With Brendan around the corner in my neighboorhood.

With anyone who’d take the time to read or listen.

It was me at my best, and so I want to do it again.

I hope you enjoyed Chapter One. I hope to post twice a month. Let me know what you think at any of the usual socials – pick your fave, leave me a message!

Thanks for being here.

~ Tom

 

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Fear Street: The Wrong Number

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The Wrong Number (1990) is not a horror novel so much as it is a thriller. It’s definitely a product of its time with the central conceit being about making crank phone calls on landlines.

One refreshing thing about this Fear Street book in particular is that there is no big twist. For the most part, what you see is what you get. That seems a far cry from the author who made his bones writing quick snappy middle-grade horror stories with a twist at the end.

Fear Street is definitely still for older kids, although to be frank, they are so dated at this point that younger kids might well enjoy them. (This is now officially “historical fiction.”) Then again, I don’t know if the stories are engaging enough for younger readers. As always it depends on the reader.

The Wrong Number is no more or less fun than any of the other Fear Street novels, which earns it three stars. It’s serviceable as a good YA thriller, and my biggest complaint is that while the main characters do show agency, which is nice to see, ultimately, they are not saved by any action that they take. I think if we were to see a rewrite set in modern times, the main characters would definitely save themselves.

Or, given the cynicism of our time, maybe they would just fail outright. That fear is what makes reading these old paperbacks so great, though: they take us back to a time when being scared was fun instead of a low-grade factor of everyday life. The Fear Street series still serves to give us an escape, and for that, I salute it.

 

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The Wrong Number