IT’S ALIVE. And it has a couple more stories under its belt.
Scary reading to cap off the night’s festivities? “Three Strikes” appears in the newest Shock Totem. Get your copy here. The final issue of Dark Recesses, featuring my story “Borderland Fancy,” is available as a free PDF through Cutting Block Press.
NaNoWriMo kicks off today, so I’ll just slink back into the shadows for a while. I’ll tweet my progress and share inspiration for my novel on Tumblr, if you’re interested in following along. And because I’m still in the holiday spirit, I leave you with this. Cheers.
Dreadfully late to be posting this; I’ve been sleeping off the cold from hell. I’ll try to keep this short and sweet so I can get back to work, which I’ve fallen embarrassingly far behind with.
2011 was a wicked good year for me, even with all the road blocks. I designed three sites and two book covers; I managed to pick up new clients and new friends; I began the process of moving into a new room, a bigger deal for me than it probably should be; I spent a weekend in New Orleans; I was able to paint my nails for the first time after years of torturous biting and peeling; I finished NaNoWriMo at 50,265 words, my first win in three years; I saw my estranged family over the holidays and didn’t have the urge to kill myself; I had two stories accepted and one rewrite request. There was really only one low point that I can recall – the loss of my closest friend.
Some resolutions for the new year: Switch hosts and revamp the site; self-publish my first novella; write everyday; finish at least 50 books; get my shit organized; write about my brief trip to NOLA, which I promised to do last summer; update more often; travel – somewhere, anywhere; inspired by The Nerdist Way – I’ll blog more about this later – complete my Character Tome and charactercizes; work more; eat better; and change up my hair with some cockamamy color.
I hope you’re all well and happy and extracting some joy out of this frigid winter weather. Brrrr. Don’t forget about me!
It’s that time of year again. I’m not talking about Halloween (which I love, by the way), but NaNoWriMo. This will be my third attempt. The first was in . . . 2005? I can’t remember. It was a total failure. I didn’t write so much as the title, though I recall its origin in great detail and have since applied it to another story that has absolutely zilch to do with the former. Last year, I set out to do this right. I sat down and started outlining, I wrote character sketches and downloaded a couple of fancy new programs – Write or Die and Q10, both of which I continue to use and highly recommend, especially if you’re a procrastinating wretch like me. And when the clock struck midnight on November 1st, I started writing. There was a kink in my technique, however, as I never wrote more than 800 words in a day. After about 9,000, I shelved it. There was too much else to deal with at the time, and I’d already begun losing interest. Just like with books, if I can’t stay connected with what’s happening on the page, I move on to the next or cease all activity until inspiration returns. Often times, months will go by before I return to a story. Blame this on on-again, off-again depression and the fact that I juggle eight jobs (all from the comfort of my own home! no boss, no schedule! why, what a marvelous life, et cetera, et cetera).
So why am I doing this to myself again? If I’m going to succeed as a writer, I’m going to have to treat it as seriously as any other job. I have to set deadlines. I have to set word counts. I have to start doing all the things real writers say you must do in order to reach the end. I have to imagine I’m 13 again, when I wrote poetry in the margins of my homework and I concocted complex plots and back stories not out of boredom but because it was fun. And NaNo is fun. I’m not that competitive a person but I’m drawn to challenges like these like moths to a bug zapper. Only the zap is shorting out and the moths are starting to plot their retaliation. NaNoWriMo, along with my first professional sale earlier this year, is the push in the right direction I’ve needed after all these years of taking notes but forgetting where I’ve put them, of starting a chapter then getting distracted by something in the background. Enough excuses. It’s time to write.
Here’s a breakdown of what I’m bringing with me into the void:
• my aging PC, Hal, and an external drive
• Q10 for drafting scenes, Write or Die for slower days, and OpenOffice to sew it all together
• assorted notebooks and pens
• fingerless gloves
• scented candles, oils, and incense, depending on my mood
• tea, lemonade
• animal crackers, discounted Halloween candy
• photo of Hubba Bubba, who continues to be my muse
• scene-specific playlists
• a ragged copy of Grimm’s fairy tales
I will update along the way to keep myself on task. Wish me luck, and to those of you taking the plunge this year as well, be it the first time or the fifth, I wish you luck as well. Forward march!
Expect more of these as I rummage through old notebooks. Lots of dreams, notes, quotes, and drafts. You can make out excerpts from one of my stories hastily scribbled on the sheet underneath.
You get two versions this week! This story was accepted by Twisted Dreams Magazine after a quick revision at the editor’s request. Though I only expanded the ending by a whole 116 words, I’ve always preferred the original so I’m including them both here. Which, if either, do you think works best? Do the additional details really add anything more to the story?
Dinner For Two
by Mekenzie Larsen
Back for another go? You’ve been in this position before. Same place, same time. You’re even wearing the same mustard-stained shirt. You don’t feel the same, though, at least not yet. But you will. It will hit you full force, and when it does you will wish you had stayed at work, wish you hadn’t taken that phone call from the wife. You will be in pain for days, just like before, and even though it will pass it will still leave a vicious taste in your mouth.
Why did you take that call? You could have come up with any number of excuses. It wasn’t as if you weren’t busy enough. But you took it, and as soon as you heard her voice on the other end you knew what was coming. You tried to talk your way out of it, tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t have any of it. You even rambled off a list of alternatives. She wasn’t listening. You had to do it.
“But I can’t do it,” you groaned. “Remember what happened last time?”
She remembered. “But it doesn’t matter. You’ll do fine. I trust you.”
She trusts you. Those words run through your head in a never-ending cycle. She’s trusting you to get the job done, and done right. You don’t want to let her down, do you? Of course not. Not again.
You get started. No sense in wasting time. She could come home at any minute. You make it through the first half of the routine easily, stopping once for a quick drink. Vodka. Just a swallow. The little woman prefers wine. You make a mental note to grab a bottle from the cellar before she arrives. Nothing pleases her more than having a glass of wine with dinner.
Now the difficult part. This is where you stumbled last time. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. You reach for the knife at your side. You grasp it, pause, then hold it before you. The blade is dull from years of use but it will do. (“You’ll do fine.”) It’s served you well in the past. After tonight, though, maybe you will go out and purchase a new one. It’s always nice to have something new laying around.
You lower the blade, piercing through the first layer of skin. Clear, thin liquid seeps out from the shallow wound. You push on through until you hit the counter top beneath.
Gulp.
You make a few more slices, wincing after each stroke of the knife. It’s almost over. Your eyes begin to water and you angrily wipe away the tears. No one should be subjected to this kind of torture.
Sigh.
That’s it. Glancing at the clock, you see that it’s a quarter past. You silently pat yourself on the back. You managed to hold it down this time. She’ll be so pleased.
You place the onion slices on the platter next to the fresh liver and small bowl of bony, bloody fingers. You’d left the nails; the wife likes to tear them off herself. As you wash your hands, letting them linger under the cool water, you remember the wine. You have just enough time to retrieve the bottle before she comes in. You tidy things up, then head down the back stairs to the cellar, reminding yourself there will be much cleaning to do in the morning.
* * *
That’s it. Glancing at the clock, you see that it’s a quarter past. You silently pat yourself on the back. You managed to hold it down this time. She’ll be so pleased.
You place the onion slices on the platter next to the fresh liver and small bowl of bony, bloody fingers. You’d left the nails; the wife likes to tear them off herself. After wiping up the mess, you return to the fridge to put away the remains of your victim. Your hands reek of onion, but the stench is quickly replaced with something stronger as you open the refrigerator door.
Tupperware boxes fill every shelf, each with a distinct label: tongues, brains, fingers and toes, hearts, etc. A smile creeps to your lips as you remember the carcass of the little boy you dissected earlier that day. He’d been easy enough to catch. They had all been easy. The hard part was the damn onions. The thought makes you gag, and you quickly deposit what’s left in the designated box.
You make your way back to the sink. As you wash your hands, letting them linger under the cool water, you remember the wine. You have just enough time to retrieve the bottle before she comes in. You tidy things up, then head down the back stairs to the cellar, reminding yourself there will be much cleaning to do in the morning.
– as published in Twisted Dreams Magazine, April 2006
This is my attempt at posting a short-short story at least two Fridays out of each month. Not all of them will be mine, not all of them will be new (and on that note, not all of them will be good), but I’m hoping this will be a good exercise to trick me into writing more of my own material and sharing it with you, on the spot.
This actually is one of my stories, written in 2001 for an 8th grade English assignment. As far as I know, it is still being shown as a “good example” on the overhead projector during class.
A Light in the Night
The night sky was suddenly alit with brilliant colors, from rich purples to neon greens. They fanned out like rays of the sun from a single object, pulsing against a vast wall of blue. The base, a silver, elliptically shaped disk, seemed to hover overhead, miles and miles away. The brightly lit shape inched through the night, a sound never escaping its walls. If one were to examine it closely, they would notice the set of piercing orange orbs at the front of the disk, glowing like two large cat’s eyes.
It slid along, coming to a halt over a large crop of woods. With a sudden jerk, it sped away in the opposite direction, as if frightened. Then it flew silently once again, its rainbow of lights growing steadily dimmer. Every few moments it would rotate in a complete circle, until finally it continued spinning round. It stopped one last time at the base of a towering mountain, merely a shadow against the nighttime backdrop. Its wash of colors seemed to be sucked back into its base, never to be seen again. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it abruptly flew up and vanished behind the mountain and into the darkness.
