The Early Years: Rabbit, Goldie, and Twister

A couple of weeks ago, I posted something I wrote as a kid, Rabbit’s Journal, something that I later learned is called a “typecast” (probably from a combination of “typewriter” and “podcast”). That seemed to be pretty popular, and so, I now present the continuing adventures of Rabbit Rawlings (yes, he had a last name … all my stuffed animals did).  For this one, I evidently had an assist from my brother John, although I couldn’t tell you who wrote what.

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Random Rejection: The Missouri Review

In keeping with the I can’t believe I ever submitted to them theme of my last random rejection, this morning I reached into my vast file of “go away scum” letters and pulled out a rejection from The Missouri Review:

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Random Rejection: The New Yorker

Before I came to realize that my style and subject matter were both completely unsuited for The New Yorker, I actually tried getting published there once or twice.  No surprise:  Rejected.

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A Portrait of the Artist as a (Very) Young Man

So my parents like to find old examples of things I wrote when I was a kid and send them to me, just to remind me that I, too, was once a child.  I thought it might be interesting to post one or two of them.  With that in mind, I present my classic tale of horror and suspense, “The Great Beast Invasion”.  If we assume that the date in the story is about when the story was written (which it probably is, given that kids are pretty much creatures of the “now” — just like dogs!), then I would’ve been six when I scribbled down this masterpiece.

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Random Acceptance: “Suicide Corners”

It had to happen eventually … I reached into my nine-inch-thick folder of responses and pulled out an acceptance letter.  But this one has a twist.

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Free Software for Writers: Audacity

It’s been a while since I did a “free software for writers” entry, mainly because I’m kind of running out of free software that I can label as specifically for writers; I may just switch over to doing “free software for anybody” posts.  However, I do have at least one more program to write about, and that’s Audacity.  Audacity is an audio recording, editing, and mixing program.  I’ve mainly used it to fix glitches in audio files (such as MP3s with a skip in them) or to change sound levels; the local Arthur Murray uses it to change the tempo of songs without introducing distortion so that, for instance, a ridiculously fast samba like “Jazz Machine” can be slowed down so that mere mortals can dance to it.  (My wife insists on the full-speed version.)

So now you’re probably thinking, “Well that’s just fascinating, Jim, but what makes Audacity free software for writers?”  To which I reply with one word:  Podcasting.

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Random Rejection: “Leech Field”

So I’ve alluded to the fact that I have a file with a LOT of rejection letters in it. I thought it might be interesting to pull one at random from time to time and post it, so everyone can experience the fun of reading what I like to call “you suck” letters (even though they don’t generally actually say “you suck”). So here’s one from 2000, for a short story called “Leech Field”.

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Underground with the Mouthless Girl

Back when I wrote mostly horror, I accumulated quite a collection of reference books of ghosts, spirits, and various and sundry monsters. (This was before we could just hop on the Internets and pull information out of the worldwide series of tubes.) One of my favorite reference books was The Encyclopedia of Ghosts and Spirits, which listed literally hundreds of ghouls and beasties from around the world. “Underground with the Mouthless Girl” is about a rather nasty ghost from India called a churel, which is the restless spirit of a woman who died in childbirth. “Underground with the Mouthless Girl” appeared in “The Earwig Flesh Factory” from Eraserhead Press in the summer of 2000.

This story is not particularly gory, but I’ve always considered it one of the most creepy and unsettling things I ever wrote. You have been warned.

The girl catches Michael Osborne’s eye as he comes out of the men’s room. She’s sitting on a tall stool at the end of the bar, with one long, impossibly shapely leg extended toward the floor, like a dancer doing a pirouette. Silky black hair flows over her shapely neck and shoulders with the grace of a waterfall, concealing what her scanty red summer dress would otherwise reveal.

Osborne slides onto the stool next to her; it is inexplicably unoccupied on this noisy, crowded night. She looks at him and smiles. Her skin has a lustrous walnut sheen that goes perfectly with her jet hair. Her eyes are wide and dark and shaped like some exotic nut. For a moment Osborne finds himself speechless.

“Hello,” she says.

Osborne finds his voice before he begins to stutter or babble. “Hi. I’m Michael. You can call me Mike.”

“I’m Madhur.” She has a slight Indian accent. Aren’t they the ones who do all that kinky Kama Sutra stuff? “You can call me …” She looks him up and down. “… anytime.”

Just who is picking up who, anyway?

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New Story Available at Amazon.com

Hey, look, I’m using the blog for its original purpose!  Don’t worry, though, this is just a temporary digression before we return to the regularly scheduled adventures of Dennis the Menace.

I have a new fantasy story available at Amazon.com.  This one is called “Comfort” and it’s about the winter siege of a castle high in the mountains.  It’s not horror, but don’t worry, plenty of people still die.

You

The idea for “You” came from a coworker’s desk calendar of practical jokes, one of which was to leave notes for people that just said — wait for it — you. And what better time to leave prank notes than Halloween? “You” was accepted (and paid for) by Brutarian Quarterly for the Halloween 2001 issue, but it’s not clear that this issue ever appeared. It still counts as a sale though! They’re my rules, I make ’em up …

There wasn’t anybody at the front door, just a big jack-o’-lantern with a kitchen knife stuck through the side. Hank could see the blade through the thing’s gaping mouth, the metal blackened by the flame of the stubby candle that guttered within. He stepped out onto the porch, the old boards creaking and groaning beneath his feet. Whoever had left the jack-o’-lantern had rung the bell and then vanished into the night like a coward.

He noticed a piece of paper pinned to the creamy orange rind. With one hand steadying the pumpkin, he yanked out the knife and dropped it off to the side, then picked up the note. It said, in big black letters, YOU.

Was that supposed to be a threat?

He blew out the candle, picked up the jack-o’-lantern, and took it inside. He put it on the kitchen counter, then went back for the knife; but it was gone. Whoever had left the pumpkin must have taken it while he was in the house.

Hank returned to the kitchen and spent a moment looking at the jack-o’-lantern. Probably just some kids picking on him; maybe they figured he was some kind of weird hermit or an axe murderer or something. He remembered his own childhood, when he and his friends had harassed old lady McGill simply because she never came out. They would ring her bell and run away, leave flaming bags of dog shit on her porch, unscrew the bulbs of her outside lights … whatever they could think of. Never anything as overtly threatening as this jack-o’-lantern trick, though; they were just having fun. But times had changed.

He had become old lady McGill.

And the kids had become psychopaths.

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