Library Reading Challenge and “Unbroken”

Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand

Olympic Athlete. World class speed.

Twenty-seven days at sea.

Adrift inside enemy territory.

Sixty-four million square miles of open ocean.

What do you do?

Thin, barely alive. Thirst overwhelming.

An aircraft. Two flares.

Machine gun fire.

You’ve alerted the enemy.

And then the sharks.

I rarely give books a maximum rating. But I’m giving this book the highest rating. Recommended without reservations.

Library Reading Challenge and “The Colorado Kid”

It’s been a long time since I’ve graced the pages of this blog. Sadly, it’s been even longer since I’ve done a reading challenge and finished. Hell, it’s been two and a half, maybe three years since I’ve even read more than a handful of books. Well, both of these deficiencies are about to be remedied.

The local library has a fifty book in fifty-two weeks reading challenge and I decided it was far past due I returned to reading. So, I joined up. These fifty books must be from fifty different topics or genres, and must include a twenty word blurb about the book. And that’s what I’m going to do. Look for fifty short posts about the book I just finished. It won’t be a review or report. Just something about the book.

Here goes for book one of fifty:

The Colorado Kid by Stephen King

Ask yourself what it would be like to learn your chosen profession—a reporter—(as a twenty-two-year-old like Stephanie does) from a couple of elderly men who’ve been in the business for longer than you’ve been alive. And then ask yourself what it would be like to have the introduction to your new job involving a mysterious man, a mysterious death, and a mysterious pack of cigarettes.

Zombies Part 1

ZOMBIES PART 1

I started discussing zombies during my August game giveaway when I showcased zombie/horror survival game Dying Light (a game I’m still playing and am finding to be completely fun and offering a great story). The information about zombies is so interesting I figured a series of blog posts about them and their history would be fun and hopefully interesting for my readers. I’m sure there are a few of you out there.

Humans have had a long fear of the dead. Our knowledge of life has always been shadowed with our question of where we go when we are dead. But one thing is certain, we don’t want the dead to come back to life. So what happens when the dead does return to the living? We don’t know but we can imagine.

Prior to Night of the Living Dead, a low-budget zombie movie by George Romero, humans had a different vision of zombies. Instead of the brain-eating, foot-dragging, mindless nomad, they had more in common with other undead beings such as vampires. In fact, when doing the research, I found zombies were often interchangeable with vampires. But as popular culture does, our views of the two has changed over the years.

So let’s do a little time travel and see what zombies were like before the ghoul (another zombie iteration) of Romero’s Night of the Living Dead changed how we think of zombies.

When compared to vampires, zombies share many similarities. They are both undead, they both seek out the living, and they are both difficult to destroy. And when it comes to destroying zombies, they also share destruction by fire with the vampire. In fact William of Newburgh (1136?-1198?) writes about one zombie (revenant, which we will get to in a later post) being such an annoyance that men dug up the body, dismembered it, and burned it to ash.

But the concept of the zombie goes back even further in history, and a zombie reference is made in the Epic of Gilgamesh (circa 2100 BC) by Ishtar. When Ishtar’s request for the gate to be opened goes unanswered she threatens: “…I will smash the door-posts, I will force the doors; I will bring up the dead to eat the living; And the dead will outnumber the living…” When we read this passage, we find our modern version of the zombie to be similar to the text—eat the living and outnumber the living. Your run-of-the-mill zombie horde stuff.

In the next post I'll explore zombies and voodoo.

Subs for Subs

When I initially considered this rant I contemplated placing it on my gameplay blog, but remembered the practice I’m about to discuss existed while I was writing a fiction blog as well. Although, I think the prevalence of such a practice is more rampant in gaming than in writing. This is due to the demographic differences between fiction writing and YouTube gaming channels. And I suppose the following practice is plague-like when it comes to social media, too.

A few years back when I started my fiction blog, a practice I learned to be a terrible idea for anyone wanting to become a successful fiction writer much too late to rebound from the mistakes, I also joined the social media world. This all came on the heels on my short story “Mirrors” (a story I feel is some of my most accomplished writing even though it isn’t well written) being accepted in a short story anthology, which is now defunct. Well, defunct is too strong a word. More accurately the creator of the short story anthology shifted focus to follow her own career path. One I hope has been successful.

During that time of excitement about my fiction writing career, a rather short and mostly disappointing one, I was all about finding fans. I wanted people to come to my blog to read my episodic novel “Buried Alive” in its rough draft format. Again, a terrible idea, but I was new to the game and wasn’t aware of all the unwritten rules. During that time I spammed communities on Google Plus, I spammed Facebook, I spammed Twitter, and I spammed LinkedIn, which is a place I don’t recommend for new writers. Those stuff-shirt “professionals” on LinkedIn will do more damage than good. Just steer clear of the dumpster fire that is LinkedIn. I would post once a week about the adventures of my protagonist as he came to grips with his own mortality. And for quite some time doing that was successful. My blog was growing in readers and subscribers. But it all started to tumble down hill when two things happened.

The most critical problem I ran into doing a fiction blog was providing quality content. As my fiction writing began to unravel, I started becoming more and more disenfranchised with the idea of posting my fiction on a blog. I started doing ridiculous posts with other authors in an interview format. I was doing poetry, which continues to make me gag. I was writing book reviews on mainstream authors and self-published authors. Of course writing reviews for self-published authors who have followed your blog and followed your social media outlets is an accident waiting to happen. As soon as you speak disparagingly about a self-published book from someone you know...well, may Zeus strike you down with lightning regardless if your issues with the book are accurate and valid. I had one author say to me, “I thought you were my friend.” And another one say, “I thought you enjoyed the book.” I did enjoy the book but the writing was awful. Going straight to hell for that one, do not pass GO. I was doing all those things because I wasn’t comfortable with my own writing and I was even less comfortable posting that writing on a public blog. And I still feel that way. Sorry for anyone hoping to see an fiction on a blog anytime soon. Unless of course you were able to decipher anything from the photos of my handwritten scene I posted a few days back.

The second problem I ran into was the fake support. I use the term fake because that is exactly what it is, and I’m running into the same kind of situation as I try to build my YouTube gaming channel. And this is really the point of this rant, although it is a rather subdued rant compared to previous rants. As with my fiction blog, I continue to get the “sub for sub” request. Essentially, it goes like this: a person either replies to your post or the video, lathers it with honey about how good it is and blah, blah, blah. Then the other shoe drops and they want you to “please take a look at my channel and subscribe.” I don’t know how many of those I’ve received. Of course I don’t play that game. And for anyone who read my post about the game giveaway in August you would know how hard it is to be a winner, and the reasons for the hoop-jumping. It isn’t because I don’t want to give away the game, it’s because I want honest people watching my channel and enjoying the content. I mean that’s the point of doing something for the public eye. But back to the point. I tend to get off topic easily. As I mentioned people want you to subscribe or follow their blog or vlog or channel, which is the only purpose they subscribed to your creative media. The problems arise when I don’t subscribe to whatever they're peddling. They get their panties in a bunch and suddenly unsubscribe to you because you wouldn’t subscribe to them. These hissy fits are a major annoyance. I’m not going to subscribe or follow your content based solely on you subscribing or following mine. If you’ve only subscribed or followed my content because you want me to return the favor, I prefer you don’t trouble me. Besides, if your blog is terrible or littered with mistakes why would I bother? If your channel doesn’t showcase the games I’m interested in or your voice makes me cringe, why would I want to watch your videos?

Do everyone a favor and only subscribe or follow things that interest you or that you can stomach. Don’t do it because you think it’ll curry favor for you because it won’t. I’m selective in what I want to waste my time on.

An Apple Pencil written short story

I've been using an Apple Pencil with my iPad Pro a lot recently. It offers freehand writing with pencil and paper feel (sort of) without any of the clutter of pencil and paper. Some apps for the Apple Pencil work better than others. For example some export pdf or word.doc files and others don't. This app being a fine example of one that doesn't. Or I'm not smart enough to make figure it out. 

Anyway this is some of the rough draft of a short story I'm working on. If you can read my writing, that is. 

As you can see I have ruled paper, and much like I do with real paper, I start out with lots of space and progressively cram it all closer. 

Prism

In the prism I look

But do not see

Who I am

Who is me

Where will I go

Who will I be

I grab the rifle

And head for the tree

I climb the hill

And look to the blue sea

Pulling the trigger

Now I'm free

Megan Karver

I pulled the car up near the base of Old Granny, our ancient cottonwood tree. Stopping a few feet short of the trunk, I switched off the car. The radio continued to play, a song from the sixties I didn't know but liked the beat. I stared out the windshield as the sun's warm rays focused their warming heat on the center of my chest. Sixty yards away the old swing made of hemp rope knotted through holes on the oak seat, which was made from two planks six inches wide and eighteen inches long. It was the same swing I had as a kid. And burned on the bottom of the swing were the initials MK.  

Megan Karver. My kid sister.

A tapping on the passenger window made my heart skip. I looked over. A long branch sagged from the tree and a small twig bounced against the window. A few yellowed leaves twisted in the breeze, waving me forth and shooing me away. "Yeah, I feel that way too."

A line of sweat ran down my temple, tickling my ear as it passed. I wiped it off and dried my finger on my pants. It didn't feel hot in the car but I cracked the window anyway. The fresh autumn air slipped in like a ghost, quiet and invisible, cooling my skin. The sensation reminded me of the humidifier my mom would use during the winter to keep us from catching a cold. 

Bracing my arms against the steering wheel, I slammed my head back onto the rest. It had been years, but driving out here today had brought everything back. I took me all morning to jump in the car and finally leave for the farm, and I fought hard to not come but the memory won out and now I sit. 

I woke with a start. I looked at the radio to check the time but it wasn't on. The car radio automatically turned off after ten minutes so I had to have slept for at least that long. A line of drool had dried on my chin and my mouth was dry as fire kindling. I licked my lips a few times, exploring the cracks and bumps with my tongue.

Come on, Clark, let's take a walk. 

I snapped toward the voice coming from outside my driver's window. Nothing. I looked in the door mirror—nothing. I checked the rear view mirror: only the deck lid of my car with a few burnt-orange leaves had settled but nothing else. Leaning forward, I looked out the window but was again disappointed. Had I imagined the voice? It was possible. But...

Clark, come on. 

Again, light and sweet. A voice I remember but it couldn’t be that voice, her voice...

“Come on, Clark. Let’s go swing.”

“Megan, I don’t want to. You do know it’s cold outside. Right?”

“It’s not cold outside, brat.” Brat. Megan’s favorite word.

“It isn’t warm outside, Megan.” I looked at her with my eyebrows lifted and head slightly tilted.

“Yeah, but it isn’t cold, either. Quit being such a whiner.” Obviously my attempt at mind control through facial expression wasn’t working. 

“All right but not for long.” I sat up and closed my book–The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I knew it would be a long time, though. It always was. We would come back inside once Megan was cold or tired or both and not a second before.

She zipped out of my room and I heard her taking the stairs by two. I would need to hurry to catch her. I slipped on my boots and snagged a jacket from the closet. Before leaving, I picked up my book; I never missed an opportunity to read. 

I met Megan on her way out the door, the brisk breeze cool on the skin. 

Clark, are you coming or not?

"All right, Megan," I said, the words coming out before I could clamp them off. Megan died years ago but here I was talking to her. She died out on that swing. The wooden slat that wasn’t a swing in my mind anymore, but a plank to walk. To step off into the deep dark sea of death where the surviving family were left to drown in a current of despair. Why did I let her talk me into swinging that day? Why didn’t I stand my ground? 

Questions without answers. 

I stepped out from the car and let the door swing shut behind me. Discarded leaves colored the path in yellows, browns, and reds. I stepped up to the wooden fence and climbed over. I looked down before stepping off the crossbeam and stopped; the path wasn’t colored with leaves anymore but brackish water. I froze, my heart beating painfully against my ribs. A chill crawled over my skin like a...No, best not to think about those. 

I squeezed my eyes shut to clear my vision. When I opened them the water had been replaced with the leaf-covered path again. I climbed off the fence. The leaves crunched under my feet.

Come on, Clark.

I walked slowly, as if dragging a plow behind me, toward the swing. The breeze calm, hardly causing the leaves to wiggle on their weakened stems. But, the swing moved in full pendulum. "Megan, is that you?" 

The swing abruptly stopped. I stepped back, creating space. Neck hairs stood out on edge, the breeze tingling the skin beneath. My mouth dried up from deep, heaving breaths. Lines of sweat trickled from under my arms. 

I watched, my heart racing, as leaves beneath the swing rustled and separated as phantom steps displaced them. The steps were coming in my direction, and with each advance, I retreaded equally. 

I backed up until my back pressed up against the fence. The bodiless steps continued toward me. I shrank back, willing myself through the fence. I tried to bolt, but my feet were anchored fast. Not happening, not happening. I'm not seeing this; it's only a dream. I'll wake at any moment. The steps drew closer, and I was pinned, unable to breathe; unable to move. 

Don't be frightened, Clark. Ha, too late. 

When the icy fingers touched my skin, my paralysis broke. I yelped a strangled sound that was as unnatural as the hand touching me. I broke for the car not daring a look back. I clambered over the fence and fell face first onto the ground the other side, my neck wrenched painfully at an awkward angle. I ignored the bolts of pain electrifying my nerves, and scrambled to my feet with adrenalin racing through my veins. I reached the door, yanked it ope–

Clark, please don't go. Her voice as sweet as ever. My heart heaved in my chest. Brush off the request and drive away or give in to this madness and honor it? Again, questions without answers or answers I didn't want to know. Go, my mind screamed. I slid behind the door and into the seat. 

It isn't your fault. I stopped, my hand on the key. You did everything you could, Clark. 

I broke down. She was wrong. I didn't do anything. I let her goad me outside, I let the bees swarm over her, I let he die. I hammered my fists against the steering wheel. 

It wasn't your fault, Clark. 

"YES IT WAS."  

No, Clark, it wasn't. Don't you remember?

"Yes, I remember. I let you go outside. I stood and watched as they swarmed you. You were allergic to bees and I let them take you. It's my fault." My hands dropped from the steering wheel, followed by my head. Tears dropped from my cheeks. 

No, Clark. That's not what happened. I tried not to listen but couldn't. Her voice was beyond my ears, my senses. You covered me, Clark. The bees never swarmed me, Clark. They swarmed you. You protected me. Clark, I'm the one to blame. It's my fault you're gone. I've tried telling you many times but you're so stubborn. Don't you see? You can never go if you don't understand the truth. Clark, I want you to go. 

She paused, and I looked up at her. She was tall, nearly six foot. Her blonde hair flowing in wavy locks over her shoulders. Her elegant black dress stopped above her knees.

What do you mean? I said. 

"Clark, you died. Here. Twenty years ago. And you're restless. But you shouldn't be because you saved me. I'm alive because of you. I'm here so you can go. We–mom, dad, and I–moved the year you passed. We just couldn't look out and see the swing anymore. I'm sorry, Clark."

This...this isn't real.  

"Clark, yes it is." She burst into heaving sobs. I reached out for her but passed through her. Megan jerked back as if bit by electricity. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's just..."

I raised my hand in front of my face. Megan shimmered through it as if she was a mirage. It was true. I no longer lived. I wasn't part of this world anymore. Stuck; a victim of some purgatory, restricted to the place between life and death. 

"Please, Clark. I'm sorry. It's just. It's just. You're so cold. I didn't mean to flinch." Megan squatted on her haunches and looked right at me. For a moment I wondered if she couldn't see me at all, if she looked clean through me. 

Megan offered her hand. "Come on, I know what to do." 

I reached out. Hesitated. I couldn't do it. I couldn't take her hand. I drew my hand be–

She grabbed me by the wrist, her warmth flooding through me. "Let's go swing," she said and pulled on my arm. 

We climbed the fence together but I couldn't help but wonder if I needed to climb over. Could I walk through? We stopped at the swing. 

"Sit down, Clark. I want to swing like we used to. I want to swing like you did as my older brother." I sat down on the seat, the cold wood chilling my skin. A ten-year-old Megan climbed into my lap and put her head on my shoulder. I pumped my legs and we started to swing.