Smokey Mountain Breakdown

Winter Fucking Wonderland Already! Jesus Marimba, I am weary of walking around with tampons up my nose.

Gee Rosie, is that a tampon in your nose?

Yes, actually, it is. See, my bleeding thing means that nosebleeds last for one to three hours. Much blood is lost. I have to hold my nose for 30 to 45 minutes before even checking to to see if it's stopped--and going into the ER is no longer an option since September. And ever since I looked up on the internet what the ER idiots did for nosebleeds and found out they stuck tampons up your nose...

So yeah. I stick tampons up my nose. What of it? You want to start somethin' about it? Fuck you! Yes, I'm sure it is a mental picture you'd rather be without. And yes, it is pretty much as amusing as all that.

So. This weather means my nose bleeds more often. And tampons leave my hands free. So there.

But Friend Scott called last night and we had a good long talk. Scott's just TMI all the time and I so miss that about him. Did I ever tell you guys the ball sack itch story? Anyway. Suffice it to say he gets way more sex with straight people that most straight people do. A regular Frank-N-Furter.

Anyway, there is a story for you to read. I'm a bit peeved with them because they screwed up the formatting. Pretty much everyone who asked for .txt screws up the formatting. I asked them to fix it and they still haven't. So I'll probably ask them to withdraw it and remove the journal from my sub rotation. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to remove obviously extraneous hard returns and if they don't care how their journal looks I'm not interested in having my work appear there. It's HERE if you want to read it before I demand it be removed.

You guys have been really sweet about my lack of acceptances. But I'm actually sort of SMBD about my rejections--enjoy them really. It means I'm doing my job. And they are always very nice to me and very definitely ask me to submit again. They even send me the "nice" version of their form rejections. The one they send to writers who aren't psychopaths with editor parts wrapped in butcher paper in their basement freezer. So that's good? Don't worry--I'm cool--totally down with the rejections. They come in waves, you know.

Please sir! May I have another?

...and letting the words bleed out.

I'm doing another one of those story a day things. Not here--over on Zoetrope. The Flashathon.

Anyway. Yesterday I wrote a story that hit me so hard, upset me so badly--essentially dredged up stuff I needed to look at, but hadn't for one reason or another. It's a fabulous story. I outdid myself. It's reviewing really well. But the emotional toll was pretty steep. I pretty much had to take to my bed. I felt teary and out of sorts all day.

I know there are writers who say all of their stories are like that. I can't do that. I hurt myself when I write one of those and need to retreat into plot and craft and recover. I need a few days of kitty and puppy stories.

Snake Church News

Don't know if you saw the article in this past weekend's paper--probably not if you don't have a snakehandling church nearby. Anyway, Kentucky is cracking down on the Signs following churches via the wildlife/snake trade route.

Pastor among suspects in illegal snake bust

Religious snakehandlers busted in Kentucky

Snake handling pastor arrested

All the articles have the same info. I'm familiar with Pastor Coot's name. I don't think Jimmy has much to do with the Middleboro church. I haven't had a chance to chat with him about what he thinks about it. Most of the signs followers catch their snakes from the wild, though every once in a while they will get an exotic to handle. I'm not sure if we will see something like this here in Tennessee with Jimmy's church. Hopefully not. I am concerned for him.

There's not a question of animal cruelty in these cases. These guys know snakes--really know them. I've never seen them maltreated and they are actually fond of them. They don't name them or anything, but they always remember certain ones.

I'm going to begin inflicting bad agricultural haikus upon you. People are always asking me about my poetry--or the notable lack thereof.

The truth is I'm a bad bad poet. I have trouble using language for language's sake. Poetry is something I put aside in my twenties when my angst cooled down to a small brick of charcoal needing too much lighter fluid.

This is Agricultural Haiku #1. Geese.

Anyway, what has brought to mind my poetic deficiencies is that I'm in the query process for my flash fiction chapbook, The Smoky Mountain Breakdown, A Chapbook of Appalachia. A chapbook is basically a small book. The manuscript is pretty much done, except for the tinkering I can't seem to stop myself from doing. I'm always writing more of these stories so I'll probably add more if the process goes on too long. Half of them are published already. Anyway, this is the little book you guys have been pestering me to put out.

I think it's going to be really great. I might even be able to get my old teacher, William Price Fox, to blurb it if he's still able. He's 82 now and I'm not sure how much longer he'll be around. He always did smoke too much. And--if they let me use Lee for the illustrations--I think it will be visually fun as well. Provided I can sweet talk her into it. All this is just wishful thinking at this point, though. I'm sure it's going to happen, and am working on it.

Which is what brings me back to bad poetry. Most of the chapbook publishers only do poetry. Or you have to pay them a reading fee and enter a contest. Have I mentioned I'm as poor as the people I write about? So, I'm thinking, if I can come up with enough truly bad agricultural haiku to do a chapbook with--I could submit it and when they write me the inevitable scathing rejection letter, I can write back--hey, could I possibly interest you in a chapbook of really wonderful Appalachian shorts? Yes? No?

I know what you really came here for today. You came for some Porn and Donuts, didn't you? Well, okay....

By the way, if you are just joining the blog and wondering what this is--every Saturday I run a segment of a novella I'm writing called Porn and Donuts. If you use the search bar to search "Serial Story Saturday", it should pull up all of the installments. They are difficult to find, tucked into journal posts, for a reason--sploggers and all that. Just look for the trucker girl in the donut.

******************************


“A heist?” It seemed like a big word for her to use.

She flashed the space between her front teeth and the dark gap just on the edge of her smile.

“Yeah, silly--we stage a hold-up! Look, I knows this guy outside of K-town. He keeps a gang of cash in his back room. Last time I was there making a delivery, I watched him punch in his code into the security system. It’ll be real easy. We just go there, break in and we’ll have that eight thousand dollars, and enough to get you a suit and rent a car.”

“Uh, I don’t know, Kellie,” Lucius said. He had been on the wrong side of the law for a long time. A bit of shoplifting here, some check kiting there and the ever-present drug use, but he never thought about robbing anyone.

“Aw, come on!” Kellie said, her eyes shiny. “It’ll be fun!”

“Fun? Robbing somebody? Why’d you want to do this anyway?”

Kellie punched him in the shoulder. “He’s my Papaw, too, dummy! Just think of it as my contribution to the family.”

“So, is this a house or what?”

“It’s a lingerie, adult novelty and check cashing shop.”

“You mean like a porn shop?” Lucius warmed to the idea.

“Well, sort of. They do have some dirty movies and magazines, but their main thing is accessories.”

“Accessories?” Lucius was not sure what she was talking about. He liked porn. He understood porn.

“Yeah, you know--what they call marital aides. Sexy underwear and nighties, costumes, vibrators--edible panties--that sort of thing.”

“Edible panties?” Lucius never gave much thought to such things. If it was on pay-per-view porn, it might have crossed his mind. It did not matter to him what they were wearing. He just liked looking at butts. Sexy underwear was fine, but Lucius was mainly interested in the taking off part.

Lucius knew his mother would not approve of such a place. The more he thought about it, the more this sounded like a place that not only ought to be robbed, but downright deserved it.

“I’m in. When do we leave?”

Kellie giggled. “I knew you’d see what a great idea it was.”

And J.D. Salinger is totally reading your blog, Dude.

I was reading Smoking with John Colvin (his story, Sister Earth, is breathtaking!) on the Smokelong Anniversary issue and loved this question and his response:

You're a reclusive writer whose work I don't often see. Where do you keep yourself?

Well, I'm flattered that you chose the word "reclusive." It makes me feel like I'm hanging with Emily Dickinson and J.D. Salinger.

I started thinking about being a reclusive writer. Because I do consider myself one—in real life anyway. I live on a mountaintop. I avoid contact with people as much as possible. I mean, I’m sure Emily had to get out for milk and eggs now and again. She probably had to say hello to people. I do that too.

The one thing reclusive people have in common is fear. Some of us are born that way, our eyes blinded by the light of the world at first breath. I’m that way. Dickinson was obviously that way. I remember the scratch of Pendleton wool against my face—breathing the scent of the Chanel #5 my mother wore. I hid when introduced to new people, using her as my shield. Feeling betrayed when she pushed me forward.

“Say hello, Rosie.”

People are terrifying. They really are. They still are.

Theater taught me how to project outside of myself. It taught me of masks and how to become my own choros. So, I was able to participate in the world using those skills. We all do this to some extent, but for introverts it’s a survival technique. You either master it or become something weird people cross the street to get away from.

I’m done with that now and can sit on my mountain and be still.

The Internet allows me to connect with the world in a safe way. I can be an extrovert here because there are no sweaty palms to press, strange cheeks to kiss or—you know—actual physical closeness with people. I can let you get to know me here, because—you know—you aren’t actually looking me in the eyes, making me uncomfortable. Making me wonder if my fatness is grossing you out. Or if you noticed I’m missing some teeth.

All you see here is my mind, which is my best feature.

I wonder what Dickinson’s specific fears were. Oh, sure, we know about the death thing—who isn’t endlessly fascinated with death? What was her “glass of water”? That small human want every character needs to be believable beyond whatever epic task or conflict set before them.

Anyway, I’m thinking old Emily would probably do just fine in the Internet age. I’m pretty sure she would have been as disappointed by her EHarmony matches as I was. But I’m pretty sure she would give it a try, just for hoots as I did. Mine were hilarious. I’m pretty sure she would have been a blogger. And I think she would have let the world get to know her. She’d never have to leave her room—except for milk and eggs and a loaf of white bread.

Oh—check your stats—‘cause J. D. Salinger is totally reading your blog, Dude.

I almost forgot today's installment!

I got caught up writing a story I've had percolating in the back of my mind for some time. I did it for The Flash Factory over on Zoetrope. It's a good place to work out first drafts and they give me a weekly prompt that sometimes pulls these stories I keep tucked away in hidden folds of gray matter forward. Anyway, one reviewer already picked up that the story was begging to be longer and I'll probably expand it. Maybe even beyond flash format, but the limit was 750 words.

Anyway, the story I got caught up in today was tailor-made for Anne Johnson. It's about an Appalachian kid who comes home from Tibet to die and has his best friend take him to the summit of Clingman's Dome for a sky burial. Yes, Anne--it's a thinly veiled buzzard worship story. Anne has like a buzzard costume she dresses up in. Crazy about them she is.

Lest you think it unbelievable that a Cocke county native might be in Tibet--we do have world class mountain climbers from here who've been there. Read about them in the paper--Appalachian folk get around. We got opera singers too. So there.

I almost subbed a story to a London group that does readings but the thought of London actors trying to wrap their mouths around this dialect gave me the shudders. The only person there I know who could handle it would be Buffy Holt, and damn--she should be reading her own work. I'm actually quite pleased I've gotten the jump on subbing to journals before Buffy--umm--cause--she's going to wipe the floor with me when she starts subbing. She's my favorite Appalachian writer out in the blogosphere.

Well, let's check in with Lucius and Kelly, shall we?



They stayed at the Happy Mount Hotel, a seedy strip motel, where Lucius kept a room. The neon sign had burnt out in spots so at night it flashed, “Happy Mo--Ho--”.

The cache of sixty hydrocodones did not last long. Kellie held the bottle of hydros to the light and gave it a shake. It was time to get back to “work”. She made a few calls and prepared to take off for the hills in the beat up Fiesta to pay a few visits to some old folks. Lucius kissed her before she left, pulling her to him.

“Baby, you knows I love you!”

“You be good, while mamma’s gone.” She grabbed his crotch and left him standing there, twitching.

Lucius watched some TV in the room. Damn, he loved AFHV. He liked to watch the bits where guys got hit in the nads. Damn, he thought, they just never saw it coming.

With his mood restored and the promise of his girl coming back with some drugs and money, he wandered over to the manager’s office. He had not checked his mail in a few days.

Rupert Mims reclined behind the shabby counter topped with cracked green linoleum. He had dozed off to the buzzing whine of the NASCAR race on his small television set. NASCAR memorabilia decorated the walls with a special place of pride given to a large portrait of Dale Earnhardt with Jesus. Jesus towered in the background with his arms out, embracing the grandstand and track of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Dale stood in his racing regalia in front of Number 3. The caption read, “God’s Own Driver, The Father, The Son and The Intimidator”.

Lucius banged on the counter. Rupert gave a snore like a chainsaw failing to start and blinked up at Lucius through eyes buried in the fat of his cheeks. He tugged his shirt down to cover his wide expanse of furry belly and rocked his chair up from a reclining position.

“What’chu want, Lucius? You got some money for me I hope?”

“Not yet, but I’ll have it in a few hours. It’s on the way!”

Rupert gave a snort. “Well, it better be. I can’t keep giving you extra time; it’s not fair to the other tenants who do pay on time. I got a few working girls who’d be glad to have that room of yours.”

“Don’t worry, Rup! Look, have I got any mail?”

Rupert shuffled under the counter for a moment and came up with a bunch of junk mail and one letter.

“Here you go. L. Mantooth Productions…is that you?”

Lucius frowned and accepted the letter. “Yeah, that’s me.”

He looked at the return address. “Yep, it’s from my Momma.”

“Well, good,” Rupert said, “It’s nice to see your old momma writes you now and again. Just make sure you have that rent money in here by tonight.”

Lucius nodded and left the office. He felt a bit of dread as he always did when his mother contacted him.

Sorry I've skipped a few days. I'm okay. I went to Morristown yesterday--splurging on some gasoline. I thought to go to the First Monday Market but got there as everyone was packing up, so it was a bit of a wasted trip. Maybe it will be overcast next first Monday and I can get some good photos. I spent too much money and am afraid to look at my bank account. I never go shopping.

I spent Sunday killing mice. I found where they were camping out and it looks like they slipped in the back door. I'd put Havoc in places where the dogs couldn't get to it and the mother mouse evidently carried it into the closet. I found and entire mouse family--mostly dead. Grisly, really. I found them because one came out in the hallway. I don't see as well as I used to and thought it a dust bunny--or perhaps some dog hair that escaped the vacuum. It was a bitty mouse. Just sitting there. I grabbed my boot.

So--I am now triumphantly mouse free and happy I found them before they trashed the oriental rug they had decided to shack up in. So--all day Sunday was spent in a killing spree and cleaning up the evidence from said killing spree.

I've been very busy with the writing thing. Idgie at the Dew published Frog Giggers. I think I always had her in mind for that piece. I've got Smokelong coming up on the 15th and Keyhole coming up this month. So you can add both of those pubs to your reading list. I'm excited about both, but Keyhole is so cool because people will have to pay money to read me. That's almost as good as getting paid to write.

I've got 31 pending responses out. People seem to really like my work. But you guys already knew that. Though every once in a while I'll get a weird rejection letter. I think the accessibility of what I write and that I do think about entertainment may be confusing to some literary editors. But you know what--it don't gots to be painful to read to be well-written. The deep stuff is there if folks care to look for it--otherwise--it's just a good read. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

Yang is getting much more active and annoying. I swear last night it was like having the Ballet Trocadera on the back porch. He does seem to enjoy running at full tilt then launching himself on or off the porch.

Guineas are evidently feeling at home enough to make a great deal of noise now and again. Each time they sound off, Max takes a turn around the yard.

I finished Murakami's Kafka on the Shore this morning. I'm so in love with this writer's work. I think it's the first time in a very long time I've actually wanted to own all a writer's books. For now, I'm getting them through interlibrary loan, but I'm thinking of making space on my bookshelf for him. Dashed it into the library and asked for The Wind-up Bird Chronicles.

I'm busy today. I'm now getting ready to write the conclusion of the changeling short story I've been writing. Dreamed up a way to end it. Finally got the title. It's Sugar Baby. This is the story prompted by the story fragment of the woman who gated her baby up in a cave and fed it a piece of candy a day till it died. But, I'm sort of putting a magical realism spin on it. It's an evil baby story. The mom's no great prize, but I loves me some evil babies.

Anyway, I gots nothin'. Bunch of stuff getting ready to come out in print soon.

It has been a busy week this week. I’m facing a weekend of tired.

Yesterday I had three stories accepted by Keyhole Magazine for their issue # 3. They requested I also send a handwritten story in for their handwritten issue. Not sure if they will like that—despite my parochial school education, my handwriting is somewhere between Victorian cursive and doctor scrawl. I am a good doodler. Anyway, I’m very pleased to be accepted by a Tennessee publication. Go over and have a look at them—I think you will like what you see. There are some awesome writers in Issue # 2.

Earlier this week, one of my Southern spec fiction pieces went live on Static Movement. You might remember Carolina Special from last October's scary story cycle. It's a trip with a character based on my grandfather from Spartanburg, SC to Knoxville, TN in 1919. Along the way we encounter some of the ghostly denizens that populate the Southern Appalachians. If you haven't read it recently, the version up on Static is the final, polished version. I find myself in quite good company there, as well.

Scott came by yesterday and I printed off all of the comments from the blog. He asked me to hold the donations for him in my paypal account until he got into his new place. He has a lead on a farmhouse near his job. He’s just overwhelmed by the support, not only from all you guys, but many people here in the community have rallied behind him. This has done much to restore my faith in this community. There ARE angels here fighting the Three-Toe.

I’m hoping for him to do a guest post here on the blog. He wants to also do a letter to the editor at the Newport Plain Talk thanking all of those who have come forward to help him.

Yes, it is still a very dangerous place to live—it’s legendary for that—but the people who really count are good kindhearted folk. I worry a bit that my loyalty towards my friend might once again see me assuming the mantle of the Salman Rushdie of Grassy Fork(not for my elegant, complicated, sometimes enigmatic prose, mind you—but for the hillbilly fatwas laid on my head over the past year). But not speaking out against this terrible injustice and crime would not only be cowardly, but completely unlike me.

The investigation is in the hands of the FBI’s Federal Hate Crime Unit by my understanding. The local authorities do not seem to wish to be involved. That’s all I really know. I’m more interested in getting Scott the support he needs following this atrocity.

Bebe Goatie is doing fine. He’s starting to try out his jumping shoes.

Okay, so I'm sort of being slack and just doing a post every other day. Honestly, though--I've got stuff I'm doing offline right now with the writing thing that's going to have me occupied for a bit. But hang on, because the spring story cycle will begin on Thursday, May 1st and will continue through the 31st. It will be another story a day event, and barring unforeseen catastrophe--that's what I'm planning. I haven't completely decided how I'm going to do this, but I'm thinking the majority will be flashes and drabbles with one or two serialized short stories.

Let me know what you think of this and if you have any "requests". You know...some story idea you don't feel comfortable writing but would like to see written in 1000 words or less. I'm also thinking about keeping one day a week for a guest blogger/writer to do a story. So, If you'd like to sign on to do some guest fiction--drop me an email. I think it would be sort of neat to have a bit of participation. So far, the theme I'm thinking about is "Love Stories about Nothin'". Absolutely no death elements allowed--unless there's some R & J or eternal lurve angle I'd like to explore. But a minimum of death elements.

Sheep came home yesterday. Chops, who basically lives to follow Mutton around and do as he's told, was very upset that he was required to figure out what to do. It took him 24 hours. All I can figure is that it must have been the sheep equivalent of losing your keys or your glasses for an entire day. He lowered his head at me, snorted and stomped his foot. Extremely petulant sheep.

Oh, and Popcorn Sutton was released from jail pending whatever they are going to do to him next. He's under house arrest.

Under the direction of Andrea Lewis' Cocker Rescue in southeast Ohio, a placement was found for this guy in Chattanooga. As soon as the plans were in place to get him transported and dozens of people were involved in the pulling, transport and eventual placement of this guy--some angel walked into the shelter and adopted him. Everyone was very happy to call off the plans and we hope he and his new family enjoy a long and happy life together.

If you are that angel, drop me an email privately and let me know how he's doing. We all fell more than a little in love with him during this.

Anyway, I've been busy trying to catch up on my submissions all week. I've got about 25 out right now. If I can keep it at 30 cycling between the long responders and the short responders that should be sufficient. At least, that's the plan.

I'm thinking of doing another story cycle in May. I need to concentrate on neutral or upbeat stories for a bit. The majority of the stories I see printed in the literary journals are of this type. They don't engage the reader on an emotional level. They strive to engage the reader mentally and to be memorable--just not too memorable. They are fairly formulaic in that they start with a mundane circumstance, add an extraordinary or unusual event, then bring the narrator or protagonist back to a steady state. Half the time they don't bring the character to a steady state and just leave the story hanging--like the writer just stopped writing. The protagonist is changed very slightly--or not at all. What is to be interesting in this type of story is the protagonist's psychological contortions to the unusual event.

Yes, I find all this boring too. But I've read hundreds of published stories with this formula in the past few months. I'm not sure my voice is even capable of writing this type of story--and my everyday life is not terribly full of mundane circumstances using urban standards. I would need to time travel back to my life in the cities to get the sort of things I would need to write like this.

At any rate, I have a few months to think about this. I should make an effort I suppose.

I’ve been really busy this week with the writing thing. I’ve had one story accepted and it will go live on The Dead Mule on Thursday. Plus, I’ve been offered a possible opportunity with a quarterly to feature a selection of my shorter works. That’s not for a while and I don’t want to talk too much about it lest I jinx it. We Southerners are funny that way.

I’ve collected a handful of rejections this week. It’s such a new experience, and at times, I do want to crawl back into the comforting womb of this blog where everyone loves my work. But, I did make the decision to finally “get out there” and “out there” I am. I’ve been workshopping some pieces over on Zoetrope and have hooked up with some fine writers over there. Their work intimidates me at times. It’s hard not to compare my style of writing to others and wonder if I should change my voice to sound more like someone else. And it is scary knowing that I’m such a good mimic that I could.

Self-doubt is, evidently, as much a part of writing as anything else.

I'm just so glad it's over for another year. Yes, the two month ordeal that is the Christmas season. Yes, I know there are lots of people who enjoy it and I'm so glad that you do. It just makes me want to curl up in the fetal position and watch foreign films.

The above picture is of Newport's main Christmas display. It's a plywood sleigh drawn by some plywood reindeer. The big above-the-fold headline a week or so back was when somebody took their 12 gauge and bagged themselves one of the plywood reindeer. It looked to be a heart shot, 'cause it knocked the big faux beastie right over on its side. All was well by the time I drove by and snapped this photo. So, I guess I'm not the only one who gets disgusted this time of year. I do have an alibi, so don't ask.

To make matters worse, one of my main forms of entertainment, reading the police and sheriff report headlines, got fairly tame and boring for about two weeks. I was almost as upset as I was by Jon Stewart being sidelined by the writer's strike. But I think my favorite writer must have just been on vacation. Today I was rewarded with:

Hairdryer thief unable to make dry getaway
Another tragic hairdryer theft related incident.


Why cant we all just get along neck?
Another tragic beer theft related incident.

For a good time, always remember to check the Plain Talk's Police and Sheriff report blotter.

I've had my head down this week editing. Not surprisingly, when you write 9000 words of humorous narrative while watching the cartoon network....about 2500 of those words end up being cut. Lots of nasty "be" verbs to deal with. But, P & D now opens like this:

The traffic zinged by like skeeters on crack. Lucius felt pavement, all grit and tar, under him and rubbed his cheek against his pillow. The remaining teeth in his mouth felt like they wore little sweaters. He smacked his tongue on the roof of his mouth where it stuck to the dryness. Sunlight burned through Lucius’ eyelashes and he blinked to clear the sand sticking them together. He sat up on the verge of the interstate at an exit ramp.

Lying on the ground beside him was his pillow, The Lola Delight Inflatable Pleasure Doll with five convenient orifices. He still did not understand why there were five. Three seemed plenty to him.

And that is surely better than whatever passive nonsense I channeled while watching Adult Swim, though it never seems to flow as nicely as the passive nonsense. The passive nonsense sounds just like I speak but no one is interested in buying that. If you are one of my readers, don't get all excited...none of this is up yet and won't be until I whip it into shape. I need to do this before tackling the conclusion.

Max is in a big pout because I spent all day yesterday developing a new Chocolate Cake recipe and he didn't get none! None at all!

Sorry I haven't posted in a few days and that I blew off my FPF article on Friday. I'm in my post X-mas stress down period. I'll make it up to you next Friday when I take you through this Mocha Fudge with saffron orange filling experience. It tastes like a Terry's dark chocolate orange on the inside. I think the only thing that possibly could improve it is Grande Marnier.

I'm going to upload a new piece to editred tonight if it ever lets me sign in. It's a short piece, but I have plans for it so I won't publish it here. It's called "Dog Fishing" and it's about my brother and his dog, Zeke. It starts like this:

"With a fly rod, he becomes Nureyev. This man I watched grow from a gangling teen with little grace, inexplicably becomes all that is elegance in form and movement. I was not sure exactly when it happened, but there he was and we were decades older. He stands on the platform of the flats boat and becomes poetry."

It will be up eventually...I'm just not sure when since the site won't load.

Oh Yeah....Happy Sunday.

I didn't wake up until 1:00 p.m. today. I had some help...namely in the form of 3 elavils that I took. My sleep cycles have reversed recently. I have a history of that during highly creative periods. When I was in college, I had the reputation of the person most likely to be up in the very wee hours of the morning. Not because I was partying, but because I'd just be up. It's not really insomnia, though I sometimes call it that. But I did need to sleep. I felt pretty crappy yesterday.

So, I'm up to part six of Porn and Donuts. I've finally gotten to the "donut" part. I'd like to remind everyone that I've had this story plotted out for months and that the donut thing was in no way inspired by this story. Indeed, it was inspired by an entirely different high speed chase involving a Krispy Kreme donut truck. It was just very serendipitous that a guy with the name of Whitelightning got drunk and stole a donut truck and led police on an 80 mph chase through the streets of Madison, Wisconsin while I was writing my story.

I will completely vouch for the fact that Krispy Kremes are delicious when you are wasted and they make great coffee so it's the perfect place to go to try to sober up. Stealing the van is a bit over the top though. Dude! 80 mph? Not even Lucius and Kellie would push a step van to those speeds. If I had written it like that it would have been completely unbelievable.

So, there is a new installment of "Porn and Donuts" up on Editred if you are interested. Though, it's a bit anticlimactic now that this idiot actually did go steal a donut van.

The van lurched forward into the street and the jolt threw him into the back of the van. Lucius landed heavily on his rear and sat there confused in the back of the violently lurching step van. A palette of chocolate-iced crème filled fell on him. One of the boxes spilled open smearing Lola’s front with icing and crème.

He picked up a blob of crème from Lola’s nipple and sucked it off his finger. Kellie looked back briefly and snorted at him.

“Lucius! Now might be a good time to…uh…disengage yourself from your…friend... there while I’m getting us out of here.”

Lucius considered the problem of Lola’s attachment to him and decided the best way to deal with it was to remove her garment. That seemed to be the root cause of the issue in that the transparent synthetic material seemed to catch on everything. He squeezed Lola out of the teddy with some difficulty. The task required that he bend her in startling and unexpected contortions. He could see why some men might find her irresistible.

It's one of the most beautiful crops to see this time of year. And it will get even better than this. It reminds me so of the rape seed fields of France. They turned this amazing yellow color that stretched in patches for miles over rolling hills. If not for the crashing sinus headaches they caused....you could swear they were the prettiest sight you'd ever seen. Tobacco turns a color like that.

I went to church today. I hadn't seen Jimmy and Pam since the viewing for Mizz Kay-reen. I actually need to start getting up early enough to go to my church and then be at Jimmy's for his 1:00 service. It's not that I'm hyper religious or anything. Really, I could use more in the belief and faith department. Indeed, I'd have to say that I'm a very poor practitioner of any faith. I believe in science more than anything else. But I really miss listening to my Episcopal pastor's thought provoking sermons. They are as different as chalk and cheese from what Pastor Jimmy does. But I do come away from both experiences feeling really good.

Pastor Jimmy handled a northern copperhead today. I hadn't seen one of those before.

But 9:00 a.m. is really early for someone like me who stays up until 3:00 a.m. writing. I like the stillness of that time of day. I've been doing something really weird too. I've been writing and watching TV at the same time. I guess because I plot things out ahead of time, it's already sort of floating around in my head and I can just dump it into the laptop without thinking about it. Weird, huh?

Anyway...I'm sort of out of my depth with the train story. It's more the logistics of what it's like to be a fireman on a steam engine. I really don't have any idea what that feels like. So...I'll prolly do the story then go back and fix the technical bits later. I do like the feel of things to be right...so I guess I'll need to get someone to help me with that part.

Happy Sunday

...that the clarity of the light from my balcony this morning was simply stunning.

Beginning on Monday, I will begin the SMB horror-grotesque-spooky-ghost story-a-thon. One entire month of me working out four full length, original short stories here on the blog. This is a challenge I have put up for myself...you can follow along if you wish.

I will be posting segments of the stories on Monday through Wednesday and on Saturdays for the entire month of October. Thursday will be optional. Fridays will be FPF as usual and Sunday's will be Happy Sunday as usual.

Here are the stories. They are plotted out, but unwritten so I'll be writing from the seat of my pants as usual. And I sort of like the idea of writing all these at the same time.

1. Carolina Special

An old man finally relives a terrifying night that he worked on the Carolina Special traveling from Spartanburg, S.C. to Knoxville, TN on October 31, 1923. As if scaling Saluda Mountain, one of the most treacherous stretches of rail in the US at the time, were not enough...the veil between the worlds grew dangerously thin...and he sees things from the engine of the Carolina Special that no man is meant to see.

Yep, folks...looks like we got us here a ghost train!

(note...I'm hoping and pretty sure I'll get lots of research tips from rail enthusiasts on this one!)

Rated for: Supernatural, Fantasy, Ghost Stories, trains

2. Sugar and Brimstone

A young mountain girl harbors a crush on a very, very bad man. Luckily, for her, it is entirely unrequited. She witnesses his crimes, his death and has as disturbing vision of his damnation.

Rated for: Violence, Gothic, Horror, Supernatural

3. Stir with a Knife

You've already met my evil quilter. But how did she become an Appalachian version of one of the Fates? How did she get that way?

Rated for: Horror, Supernatural, Grotesque

4. The Dark Hole

The most difficult story I've attempted. Dark, racially charged and dealing with many of the stereotypes of Appalachia that I've wanted to avoid. It's been festering like an open sore since I put it down last. It is the most O'Connor-esque story I've ever attempted. I'm determined to finish it this month.

Rated for: Grotesque, Horror, Violence

Are you excited? I am.