Tag Archives: fiction

Beckett’s Last Mixtape – Chapter Five

Posted on

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 Two

Posted on

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

Posted on

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

 

Facebook

Twitter/X

TikTok

Instagram

You Will Play Until I Say You Stop

Posted on

A bit of doll horror to get your heart rate up…

It crept from the dollhouse on spiderlegs, too many joints, too many limbs.

Alexandra watched it first in fascination then with a growing dread that made her kidneys shrivel.

She’d named the doll Admordeo, a name which had merely slipped into her mind the moment the porcelain-cotton thing had been placed into her hands by her odd Aunt Chelsea. Aunt Chelsea, who favored the macabre in her dress, her entertainment, and her thought.

But Admordeo was a mouthful, just like Alexendra, so Alex started calling her Addie.

That had been yesterday. No — today. Earlier today.

Alex wanted to look at her green digital clock, but was afraid that if she took her eyes off the slowly crawling thing from the dollhouse, Addie would disappear, just like spiders always disappeared the very instant you went to get a swatter or shoe.

So Alex didn’t look away, though she intuited it was quite late. Too late to shout for Mom or Dad — they’d be so angry if she woke them again.

Addie, on her delicate hands and feet, crept closer still, her head up and bright black eyes staring at Alex. Some starlight filtered through Alex’s window, softened by sheer curtains, but she could see. Yes, she could see the doll’s eyes as black as sharks’ and the way Addie’s small mouth slowly began to grin.

“Stop,” Alex whispered.

The doll shot across the floor. It skittered, and Alex heard its little feet tittering across the floorboards like tiny wooden giggles.

Then the toy was up the quilt and racing toward Alex’s face. Addie’s grin grew wider, splitting her white face at the cheeks.

Alex inhaled for a scream — she’d risk waking up her parents — but the doll was faster. Alex felt its slight weight on her legs, her hips, her chest, and now her throat.

An inhuman hiss issued from the doll’s gaping maw, smelling briefly of garlic and old urine. It gagged the little girl, and then it was too late.

Addie the doll, her slender hands as sharp as tacks, tore into Alex’s open mouth. Alex instinctively bit down, and felt the wriggling and writhing of the doll’s arms like earthworms between her lips.

The toy hissed again, its features twisting into a mask of rage and hate. Alex coughed as blood ran down her throat and into her belly. This freed Admordeo to resume her attack with more ferocity. She tore the child’s tongue, bit her cheeks, scratched her face.

In mortal terror, Alex fought to push the wicked thing off her. Addie’s strength, she discovered, came from some other place, some magic from beyond this world that only a child could ever understand.

When Addie plunged her sharp hands into Alex’s eyes, the child was mercifully already gone.

THE END

Wow, what the hell was THAT? I dunno, but it creeped me out, and I guess that’s all that matters. If you dig haunted dolls and such, be sure to read my short novel Those We Bury Back. Excellent killer doll sequences! (That is an affiliate link, BTW.)

Happy Halloween… 🙂

It’s the Not-Knowing

Posted on

by Tom Leveen

© 2022

 

A hooded figure sat at Jack’s computer when he came down that morning. Jack, quite naturally, gasped, cursed, and stepped backward at the site of the hood, bathed in the blue light of the computer monitor on the desk before it.

 

“The hell?” Jack demanded, feeling his shoulders tense up and hands clench into fists. He licked his lips, wishing for a weapon. None were at hand. Jack worked at home and was a CPA who barely watched action movies, never mind owning anything that might defend life and limb.

 

“Get out of here!”

 

His voice was weak and cracked at the end, making Jack wince. Dammit.

 

“Go on!” he tried again. “Get!”

 

Like the ominous figure was a misbehaving puppy. Predictably, the words had no effect.

 

Jack glanced behind him at the open door. Obviously, the smart move here was to run, to go back to the kitchen where he’d left his iPhone charging, and call the police. They’d deal with the intruder just fine, by God they would!

 

Only . . .

 

They wouldn’t. Jack felt this truth like knives piercing his palms and feet, pinning him to this time and this place.

 

The room was dark except for the monitor, and it cast its light against the robe and hood in a way that made a black hole where a face should have been. The tip of a nose, the glint of an eye . . . something should have shown the figure to be human, but the blank space in the hood offered no such consolation.

 

So Jack figured it was Death.

 

It sat still. Motionless. No bony hands rested on the desktop, and no brimstone odor leaked from the folds of its black robe. Still—Jack felt deeply that his guess was right.

 

Death faced forward—well, “faced” being a relative term in this case—while Jack stood just a bit to the side, so that the figure wasn’t looking at him head-on. Instead it faced the screen. From his position by the door, Jack couldn’t see what might be on it, nor could he remember what he might have left up on the screen yesterday when his workday was done.

 

An Excel sheet? Some client’s bank statement? A video game he knew spent too much time on?

 

The light never flickered, so Jack assumed it was a static image. Perhaps just his desktop, with whatever quasi-inspiring image Bill Gates’ people had seen fit to push through that day.

 

“Look,” Jack said, again trying to moisten his lips. “I get it, okay? I know who you are. So, what now, do I get another chance? Is this just a warning? Look, I’ll eat more vegetables, okay? It’s not like I smoke. I don’t even drink a lot. So, come on. Another shot, huh?”

 

Death didn’t move.

 

“Well you don’t have to be a dick about it!” Jack shouted. “If we’re going to do this, then come on, do it! I’m . . . I’m ready!”

 

Lie. Total and utter. He wasn’t ready.

 

Death didn’t make a sound.

 

Jack gripped his short hair in hands. It felt melodramatic, but hell, life didn’t get more melodramatic than this.

 

“I’m talking to you! Answer me, say something! What? What do you want?”

 

While the figure made no movement, Jack heard a stealthy, slithering sound emanating from the dark folds of the robe. Cloth rubbing together, like arms shifting. But he could see no movement.

 

It occurred to Jack then to turn on the damn overhead light, but he hesitated, afraid of what the light might reveal. What if he then could see into the hood? What sort of Lovecraftian horror might be gazing back?

 

Jack released his hair and hugged his own body tightly, pounding his right fist against his chest. “Come on! Just do it, okay? You’re here for a reason, just get it over with!”

 

No response.

 

Jack shrieked. The madness of not knowing his fate grew like a geyser of India ink in his belly and torso, swirling black and heavy. He stamped his feet like a child.

 

“What are you waiting for? I’m here, I’m right here!”

 

Death offered no new sound, no motion.

 

The strain nipped at the edges of Jack’s sanity. In an ecstasy of tension, he gripped the sleeves of his shirt and tore them away. The old fabric whispered apart in his hands.

 

“What do you want from me? Huh? Are you the Ghost of Christmas Wasted or something? Speak!”

 

At that, the hooded figure slowly turned its head.

 

It was a slow, deliberate motion that obeyed all known laws of physics, yet at the same time, the gesture had an ethereal quality to it Jack could not pinpoint. The closest thing his addled mind could compare it to was the movement of a snake, which always disgusted him; they had no legs, how could they move? Here it was the same: the figure did not have a visible structure, no bone, muscle, sinew. How could it move?

 

Despite the movement, the darkness within the hood only appeared to grow thicker, revealing nothing. No pinprick ice-blue lights for eyes, no glimmering ivory fangs. Just darkness.

 

Jack raked his fingernails down his face and screamed. “What, what, what, what?”

 

He pulled thin layers of skin off, leaving burning tracks behind. It felt good, for a moment; felt good to feel, felt good to control, felt good to hurt. Pain meant he was still here.

 

So he did it again, and again. Bellowing rage at the dark figure, Jack fell to his knees and dug his fingers into his mouth. Pulled, hard, until the thin flesh gave way in a flood.

 

“What, what, what?”

 

By the time Jack stuffed his fingers into the soft skin below his eyes, he was well and truly insane. He tore his face to pieces until dead, lying prone against the thick-pile carpet in his office. It sucked eagerly at his blood.

 

The figure observed all this without a sound. When the deed was finally done, it rose gracefully from Jack’s leather chair. The robe fell neatly into place like drapery. It moved silently across the room and stepped easily over Jack’s mutilated body.

 

It was not Death, but Death’s assassin.

 

It was the not knowing that killed them.

 

THE END

Never Abandon the Blissful Value of Saying What Can’t Be Said

Posted on

MIXTAPE

by Tom Leveen

(c) 2022

 

A mixtape says the things you can’t. Or won’t.

Or sometimes: shouldn’t.

Mikey fretted over this daily as he sorted through song after song, classics and new hits, trying to compose his feelings with someone else’s music.

Some of it depended on his mood. Some days it was all AC/DC, which he knew Glorietta liked from back in the day. But this wasn’t the sort of situation where one could blithely record Highway to Hell onto the mix, even if it was one of her favorites. The title was just too . . . inappropriate.

He leavened today’s tape with some old R.E.M., thinking some of the lyrics of Driver 8 said a lot of what he wished to say: take a break, we’ve been on this trip too long.

He’d never say that to her. Even if he could muster up the courage and, hell, write the words down, they still wouldn’t come out right. He had way too much experience with that. Glorietta deserved his best.

Nirvana next? No, too abrasive. Poison? No, a power ballad didn’t work either, not today.

Checking the time—he did not want to be late, so as to maximize their time together—Mikey hurriedly chose some Midnight Oil, followed by U2. Classic stuff. Despite not the world’s biggest U2 fan, in his opinion, The Joshua Tree was one of the top great albums ever made.

Minutes ticked away as he painstakingly constructed the opus. He didn’t have a title for it yet; previous incarnations included A Fragile Flash of Lightning, riffing off Pink Floyd’s Delicate Sound of Thunder. Glorietta—she preferred “Glory”—had given him a brief laugh for that, which Mikey cherished. Last week he’d gone full metal-head, nothing but Megadeth, Slayer, Anthrax, Metallica, Skid Row, Queensrÿche, Flotsam and Jetsam . . . and called it Wish You Were Hair, bemoaning that he’d lost his own long locks some time ago and still feeling pretty pouty and petty about it.

Petty! Of course.

Wildflowers became the last song on side B. Glory belonged among the wildflowers, most definitely.

Mikey hesitated as he scrawled the song title on the lined white insert. Did Wildflowers imply too much? That he, Mikey, should be her lover?

No, he decided. Most of the lyrics seemed very pointed at wishing the best for the other person. If that happened to come from a place of pure love and affection and . . . okay, fine, lust . . . Glory wouldn’t be any the wiser.

He hoped. God, the last thing she needed right now his sappy confession of love. No way, man.

Mikey snapped the cassette into its case and ran for his bike. If he pedaled hard, he’d get there just in time.

He got to the hospital one minute after Glory’s visiting hours began. A little breathless, he peeked into her room to see if she was awake.

She was. Barely. The TV was on. Family Ties.

“Hey,” Mikey whispered, still peering around the open door, not wanting to come in without Glory’s permission.

“Hey, you,” Glorietta said, and motioned with her fingers.

It was all the strength she had, and it was all the invitation Mikey needed. He slid into the room and went to the side of the wide bed, where he slipped the case into her hand.

“I, uh, I made . . . I made this . . . um . . . it’s, it’s a new—”

Even in her emaciated state, Glory’s smile lit his insides on fire.

“You know, Michael, one of these days . . .” She had to pause to take a breath. “You’re gonna have to bring a Walkman. Remember those?” Another pause. “Or you could just send me a Spotify list.”

He shook his head. “Not the same.”

“No,” Glory said. “It’s really not. You’re right.”

She lifted the tape to her face, squinting. “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For. Christ, Michael, you’re fifty-five years old, you better get on it.”

Glory smiled again as Mikey shuffled his feet. He wanted to say, “I did. I did find what I was looking for. Forty-five years ago when you moved in next door.”

But he couldn’t, and wouldn’t.

And, probably, oughtn’t.

All these years, nothing but friends. Through her various boyfriends, her first husband, her divorce, her second husband, him leaving her. Never having kids, career like a pinball in one of the old machines they used to play back in the neighborhood growing up. Then finally, this illness. He’d been the best friend he could. So he came every day with a new tape, and he’d keep coming until the inevitable end.

It was nearer than he cared to think about.

Glory gently put the cassette on a nearby table with several others Mikey’d brought over the past couple weeks. He almost helped her do it, her gesture was so weak. But he knew her stubbornness well. She would have given him a raft of shit for helping.

After the tape clattered mildly against the table top, Glory then stretched out her hand toward him.

“Michael.”

Perplexed, he took her hand. She was so cold.

“You don’t have to keep doing this.”

“Yeah, but, I . . . I mean, I do, I want to, I like to . . . unless you want me to stop.”

Glory shook her head weakly against the pillow. “No. Don’t do that. I’m just saying.” A pause. “You have a life. You don’t have to come if you don’t want.”

Mikey licked his lips, eyes darting. The words were right there, he could taste them in his mouth.

They wouldn’t come.

In a burst, Mikey snatched the new mixtape off the table and popped open the tiny radio-cassette player he’d brought on his first visit. He jammed the tape inside, slapped the tray shut, and pressed the play button.

Freddie Mercury said what he couldn’t. Mikey glanced at Glory, to see if she understood.

Glorietta pressed her lips together.

“Yeah,” she said quietly as the song played. “You’re mine, too.”

Mikey smiled, pulled a plastic molded chair to her bed, and sat down. Glory offered her hand again, and he took it.

She fell asleep an hour later in the middle of Tom Petty’s Wildflowers. Mikey stayed by her side until visiting hours were over.

He’d come back tomorrow. Maybe with some Beastie Boys.

 

THE END

Book Review: ARARAT, by Christopher Golden

Posted on

tl;dr? watch here instead

Christopher Golden has constructed a place you never want to go but that you cannot stop reading about.

The novel Ararat takes place on the mountain of the same name, where Noah’s Ark is reputed to have come to rest. That’s exactly what the novel seems to be about, when an earthquake unearths what appears to be remnants of a giant ship. But when scientists ascend the mountain to study the discovery, they quickly find that there’s something in there that should not be. Whether it’s Noah’s ark at all becomes secondary to survival as the team squares off with a chilling and brutal entity that will feed off the reader’s worst fears!

As a horror writer, I have many different tools available to scare you. One of those tools is dread, which is not the same as horror, terror, or the gross-out. Dread is a tough one to do, because it requires patience and precise words and pacing. Golden has done that here. He doesn’t hide his monster, it’s in plain sight the entire story, yet the dread just builds and builds until you are forced to stay up long after dark, reading to see when things will finally burst.

The author and I were both nominated for the Bram Stoker Award the same year in different categories, and Ararat won that year. I have not met Christopher Golden, but I have met Joe Hill and other horror authors who speak highly of him and there’s no question he’s at the top of his game when it comes to dread. So whether you are a reader who loves horror novels or a writer who’s looking to sharpen that particular tool in your toolbox, I highly recommend reading this Bram Stoker Award winner.

Book Review: BUTTER, by Erin Jade Lange

Posted on

tl;dr? watch instead here

 

“Butter” is the name of a high school boy who once, allegedly, ate an entire stick of butter. That’s not the entire story, of course, but we may not even learn Butter’s actual name until after he eats himself to death live on the internet in a bid to not only take his own life but achieve total internet fame.

Author Erin Jade Lange has crafted an all too realistic portrait of “influencer” culture and the impact it can have on lives on both sides of a computer screen. Butter himself, the main character, is dangerously overweight, so much so that his literal life may be in jeopardy even before he decides to commit suicide and broadcast his death to his local high school. The problem is, once his intentions get out, Butter becomes the opposite of everything he’s ever been: cool, desired, and talked about. But his popularity is predicated on the idea that he’s going to kill himself, so the book dives deep into asking its readers, just as its main character does: what price is too high to pay to be quote-unquote “popular”?

Now, be warned – Butter is not an entirely likable character when we first meet him, and in fact he makes a dozen choices over the course of the novel that may not endear him to readers. But that’s exactly the thing about great contemporary young adult literature – a willingness to show protagonists with all their flaws. These characters last so much longer in the imagination and compel much greater discussion.

Butter is a great read for schools and families needing to open some doors about popularity and using the internet, although it definitely not for most readers under the age of about 12. But it is fantastically written with a very realistic protagonist who inhabits a space all of us do when we’re sixteen: how the hell did I get into this mess and how the hell am I going to get out of it?

Don’t Lose It

Posted on

5 a.m.

Kid Noisestm wake me up. I can’t quite fall back to sleep. Start obsessing over this novel I really want to write. Something new and different for me. But the more I study it, the farther away it gets. The character’s all wrong, the plot won’t work, the structure is wonky.

And in this half-asleep mode, this near-darkness . . . I see my protagonist. I see her dad, then her mom.

I see the weapons.

Now I’m at a critical juncture: burrow deeper into the covers and let sleep take over, or get up and at least take some notes?

I get up.

Two single-spaced pages later, I have the intro to my new novel. Everything I need is now in place, and I can begin writing in earnest. I’ll probably have a draft by the end of February.

When that Thing comes to you early in the morning or in the middle of the night . . . don’t lose it. An idea for an improved golf club, the next great Widget, the opening to your novel. Whatever it is, get up and don’t lose it.

Because we both know if you say, “I’ll remember,” you won’t. Get up or stop whatever it is you’re doing and get that thing down.

Stephen King talks about The Muse in On Writing. The Muse is not something you wait around for; you just do the work. But when you just do the work, sometimes The Muse does show up and gives you a little gift. Like two single-spaced pages.

Don’t lose it.

Thanks for being here! Take care, and may you be happy.

~ Tom

 

Book Review: Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee by Mary G. Thompson

Posted on

Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee may appear at first glance to be a YA thriller along the lines of my own novel, Shackled. That’s certainly what I thought I was getting into when I picked the book up in preparation for the World Fantasy Convention where I was going to meet the author, Mary G. Thompson. Mary is a brilliant woman who holds about eighteen different degrees including a J.D. and an MFA. While I’m sure some of that education played a role in the crafting of Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee, there are some aspects of storytelling that are harder to learn than others, some things that just sort of have to come naturally. One of those things is Voice, and that’s an aspect of fiction writing I’m constantly trying to hone in my own novels and in the work of the students I have in various writing classes or critique groups.

Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee is about one girl once named Amy, then named Chelsea, and now trying to reclaim her identity as Amy again after escaping from the kidnapper who took her and her beloved cousin Dee. The kidnapper, a disturbing man with a doll fetish, re-named both girls during their six-year-long incarceration with him in the forests of Oregon. How Amy came to escape is not something I can share without spoilers, but it drives the central plot of the book and explains why, after returning to her old life as a teenager, Amy is now plotting to go back to that scary cabin in the woods.

Overall this is an emotional journey through severe trauma, and I think it has great value for those who are sort of bystander-survivors: those family and friends who did not experience the victim’s trauma personally and therefore may have trouble fully understanding what the victim suffered. There’s great value in the story for that reason alone.

But again, one thing Mary has here in abundance is Voice, and for me that’s really the defining line between great contemporary YA and cheap knock-offs who got into the market when it was hot. Not to name any names, but, you’d recognize them. There is not a lot of external, physical action in the story, although what action Mary does write is handled very well. It’s the internal action that gets the lion’s share of the pages, and that’s good. It works. I start and do not finish a ton of books these days, as my friends at my book club can attest, but I came back to Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee again and again to find out what would happen next. Mary does an outstanding job of capturing inner turmoil and symptoms of what is most likely PTSD, though a diagnosis is never actually given. As someone who still struggles with some of those symptoms, I felt that Mary did an excellent and considerate job of handling Amy’s trauma and recovery.

As it pertains to writers, I recommend this book for the same reason I recommended The Girl With All The Gifts by M.R. Carey — there is no predicting what is going to happen. Even after one of the biggest reveals in the book, the story’s not over, and there is just no guessing how things will turn out from page one until the very end. Like The Girl With All The Gifts, it is not fast paced, but it is deliberately paced, and our attachment to the characters is such that we have to find out how all this tragedy is going to resolve. So for you writers, I recommend studying how Mary constructs this novel in such a way that readers can only keep reading to find out the resolution. This is well worth looking into.

So, grab a copy of Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee, and then let me know what you thought of it. Did the author keep you guessing? Did you feel for the protagonist? Am I way off base on this one? Let me know on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Bookbub, Goodreads…wherever! And be sure to follow Mary G. Thompson for more of her work as well.