Tempest (a poem)

pilgrims, nomads, sentinels against the fury of the coast:
backs bent sidelong,
straining, still,
they sway with loving ease under the eye of that relentless ghost.
the ocean draws its breath.

that salt-stained silhouette of shore under a frosted glow:
a mirror pool,
watchful gaze.
thunderclaps of memory accost the tidal mouths below.
she smiles in her sleep.

in dreams aquatic, giants, titans cry their hopes and fears alike:
the air collapses,
crystalline.
the column pauses, dreading, waiting in anticipation for the strike.
and yet, the dawn arrives.

The Last to Leave (a poem)

I will be gone from this place before sunrise.
bone weary and moving fast,
burning memory with light.

those miles, hours, will pass
in a haze of disinterest.
forgotten.

but this?

eternal.
I stay, long after the rest have gone,
departed in the dying light.

lingering, pausing before that sky.
I will never watch the day end
from these shores again.

and now the night has fallen,
that void horizon navy cold.
and I turn.

The Water’s Edge (a short story)

My grandfather showed me a trick, when I was a youngster, that he used to become the most successful fisherman in the world (so he claims). We were sitting on the end of the dock one hot morning while he sipped at his black tea and I asked him how it was that he caught so many big fish (and only big fish) when all the other fisherman used to bring home a wide variety of sea critters of many varying sizes. My grandfather only ever brought in cod, and no less than a half-fathom from nose to tail. They were always plump, strong-looking fish as well – the sort that were prone to untying jiggers and biting off lines and breaking the hearts of many young and boastful fishers.

The problem with fishing (he told me) is you can never get a clear enough view from the boat to tell where the big fish lie. To make things trickier, codfish like to lie near the bottom when they get lazy (as big, fat codfish are prone to do) and smaller, jumpier fish tend to get to the hooks before they have a chance to reach the big fish down below. What he would do first is go looking for a sharp stick. It had to be quite tough but also flexible, and needed to have a very particular wedge-shaped point. He would then walk down to the water’s edge and (very carefully, I might add) pry it up with the pointy end of the stick.

You had to be very patient, because the water’s edge is very slippery (an effect of it being so wet) and this made it very tricky to hook the stick under it, but if you drive it in at just the right angle with just the right amount of force, you could get some leverage and flip it up, creating a gap between the ocean and the ocean floor. The next step (and this part is key) is to work the stick in bit by bit (being careful not to break the surface tension) until you have an opening bug enough to slide into, and then drive the pointy end of the stick into the ocean floor to hold up the water’s edge like the flap of a canvas tent. Once you’d finished that step you were laughing, and the rest was child’s play.

My grandfather would get down on his back and wriggle his way under the water’s edge, sliding himself out under the ocean in search of deeper waters and bigger fish. Now, it was hard work crawling out under the water with all if that ocean pressing down from above because (as I’m sure you can imagine) it was very heavy, and also because the ocean floor could be very scratchy at times (I recall my grandfather often coming home at the end of a long day of fishing with friction burns on his forearms). You had to be careful not to get caught up on little pointy rocks or pieces of coral, because one could easily get one’s clothing torn or pulled loose while crawling and not be able to fix it while working in this awkward (but mostly manageable) environment. I recall my grandfather wriggling his way out from under the water one day with his pants across his ankles (much to the delight of his fellow fishermen, who laughed heartily at him and never let him live it down) after getting them snagged across a particularly jagged sunken log.

The view from the ocean floor was much clearer than from above, because there was no wind or waves to stir up the view, and everything was backlit by the brilliant sun from above, making the entire viewing experience quite pleasant indeed. Finding the schools of fish was easy, and once you had wriggled your way underneath them, it was as simple as pulling out your pocketknife, slicing a little cut in the oceans surface, and sticking in your arm to pull out whatever fish you desired. This little technique made picking out the biggest and fattest fish a walk in the park (a peice of fishcake, as they say), and once you had pulled the fish out (being careful not to get too wet in the process) you would simply lick the edges and stick the cut back together. One didn’t have to waste too much time licking the edges first because water (as a general rule) is already rather damp.

This practise served my grandfather well for most of his career, and he was able to retire at a young age while he still had his mobility and use of his faculties (for the most part), however, he did tell me about one experience he had that gave him a bit of a nasty shock. What you need to understand is that it’s very easy to lose your sense of direction down there under the water once you get away from the shore. Another thing to keep in mind is that codfish are very slippery when they are pulled fresh out of the water, and will even skip along quite well on the tricky and scratchy ocean floor when dropped. My grandfather found both of these points out when he dropped a prize fish in a moment of excitement and it went skidding and sliding away under the water off into a deep undersea ravine.

My grandfather (being the perfectionist that he was) couldnt bear to lose his catch of the day, and started off after it, crawling and scrambling along the ocean floor, occasionally stirring up confused flounders and scaring schools of sardines and generally being a nuisance to the variety of critters that lived in the area. Once at the ravine, he stopped to peer over the edge and could see the big fish down below, sliding at top fish speed over the rocks and bumps, deep, deep down into the darkness below, before promptly throwing himself in after it.

Now it’s one thing lying awkwardly under that big blanket of ocean at a depth of 15 or 20 feet, but it’s quite another thing when one finds oneself at a depth of 1000 feet and the weight of the water makes it impossible to move at all. This was the predicament that my grandfather found himself in, and lying there, staring across at his prize codfish (just out of arms reach), he decided that he might have bitten off a little more than he was capable of chewing at the present time, as they say. Lying down there, stuck in place, many brave fishermen would have given up and resorted to living under the water permanently, but my grandfather was a resourceful man (which is obvious, considering his discovery of the trick with the pointy stick at the water’s edge) and, seeing the jiggers of other fishermen bobbing up and down above him, he thought himself up a plan.

Taking his pocketknife and cutting a little hole in the ocean, he planted his lips firmly on the water surface and began to blow bubbles, sending up a little stream of Morse code to the surface where his fishermen colleagues intercepted the message and got to work in sending down a weighted rope. And so it was, on that memorable day, that my grandfather came to be pulled to the surface, holding the rope with one hand and his prized codfish with the other, and cursing gratuitously at his discomfort of having to get so terribly wet (the irony of the situation being he was much dryer and more comfortable when he was under the water than after he was rescued).

My grandfather carried on fishing the way he did for years and continued to be successful, but upon returning to the shore on that particular day, he couldn’t find the spot where he’d propped up the water’s edge, and that was disappointing to him because it had been an especially good stick (good sticks are hard to come by). Most people agree that the stick must have gotten kicked or blown over in the wind, but my grandfather was confident that he’d made sure it was good and sturdy before he went in.

So, if you find yourself walking the shoreline on a romantic excursion, and you should happen across a spot where the water’s edge has been propped up, it would be best (assuming you are not an experienced underwater fisherman) to avoid going in. And, if you and your date should happen to crawl in, in search of scenery that offers dramatic atmosphere and absolute privacy, always remember to carry with you a quality pocketknife (just in case).

Well, hello there.

Hi, readers. It’s been long time since the blog was last active, so first of all I’d like to say thanks for being patient. I’ve been working on a project that has taken up most of my time but now that I have a little more availability, I’m going to be posting on mmo ore regular basis.

Some things to watch out for in the coming months:

  • More short stories, both horror and otherwise
  • More poetry
  • More book reviews

Also, the thing I’m most excited about, which is…

More chapters of my novel in progress, The Keeping of the Light!

All of this, plus more, coming soon. Thanks all and, remember,

Keep writing.

The Town That Moved (a short story)

Up on the plateau over the Silver Valley, there’s a wooded ridge of hills that runs from the southwest to the north in a wide arc. During the autumn and winter, the sun only shines on the northern side of those hills in the evening, just before sunset, and the trees that live there grow slow and old. There used to be a little stream that ran down from that place long ago, winding its way across the plateau floor before finally diving down into the valley in it’s slow approach to the sea. The stream, they say, was clear as crystal, so clean and unspoiled that looking at the streambed on a calm day, sometimes it was impossible to tell whether there was water flowing through it. It was said that if you scooped up a handful of this water to take a drink, it would appear as though you held nothing in your hands but air, and upon swallowing there was no taste of earth or salt or mineral, only pure refreshment and a general revival of the senses that came with good rest.

The people that lived in the valley drank of the water every day, and it was said that many of the folk there experienced unnatural long life and good health. It was also said that as the years went by, the townsfolk gradually moved their way upstream and away from the sea. Their houses were torn down and rebuilt over and over throughout the years, until a point where it seemed that the whole community moved as a single, driven organism. They worked and moved with a purpose, drinking of the water from that perfect little stream and building and rebuilding their houses and working their way, slowly but with determination, up through the valley toward the plateau.

A few years after the movement began, travelers would come to the town in the valley but would stand in confusion when they found no people, no houses, no town, at the end of the lonely highway. They found only the little stream as it slid patiently between the stones of the streambed toward its eventual destination at the coast. These travelers would remark and shout upon hearing that, having made their way through the length of the valley and starting the climb into the highlands, the townsfolk had given up building houses altogether and now kept themselves in little huts that lent themselves more readily to the constant tearing down and rebuilding if those people and their habits. There came a time, as well, where the people found it more appropriate to give up their huts for the warmth and comfort of tents, as the stony plains of the plateau did not lend themselves to the building of foundations and wooden frames. They took up spears and arrows and dedicated themselves to the chasing and killing of the noble caribou, and fashioned their hides into coverings for those little tents that had become their homes. They ate of the caribou and became masters of harvesting their milk for the making of many fine cheeses and dishes, and there came a moment where the people thought to follow the caribou away to the south in their great migration. However, the people decided against it, for they could not bear to leave the little stream for long.

They continued upstream, raising their young and teaching them in the ways of building strong tents and hunting the caribou when they were near. Travelers came few and far between along that cracked and dusty road now, and when they did they brought with them great spyglasses and binoculars to glimpse the people from the roadside. They watched as though watching film, passively, never thinking to interact or interject; not knowing that they could ever reach those townsfolk who once lived so near to the sea. The travelers watched and read magazines and talked among themselves about what pretty, colorful houses the people used to live in back when this was a real town, and eventually they would pack up their cars and return home, leaving their names written on the road sign in permanent marker and leaving little bags of garbage along the roadside to be inspected by the birds and rats once they drove away. Eventually the travelers stopped coming to the Silver Valley altogether, writing it off as a waste of time after reading the poor reviews from previous visitors and choosing other, more interesting venues to explore.

It is only natural, then, that nobody was watching when the people stopped building their tents and began to sleep under the stars in the open air. No outsiders witnessed when they stopped eating the flesh of the caribou and started eating among the caribou, grazing slowly on their hands and knees over the ancient plateau, holding their noses high in anticipation when a whisper of wolves came whistling through the crowd. As with all things, the interest in those people returned, and the new generation of travelers found their way to the old sign post at the end of the broken road, signing their own names and leaving their own garbage and watching through high-powered telescopes as the townsfolk loped naked over the plains, chasing and playing and laughing in their learned language. Many of the travelers wrote stories about the townsfolk and their ways, using them as allegory in great, sweeping tales of fiction, but sales were poor and those authors eventually took up more fruitful careers in finance and advertising, but they continued watching with renewed interest because by that time everybody knew of the people that had once lived in the valley.

It is an unlikely turn of events, then, that nobody was watching at the moment the townsfolk reached the ridge of hills and disappeared into the woods, kicking off the last of their shoes and garments and they followed the stream into the perpetual shade of those hills to drink and sleep and play. Outcry came at the loss of the townsfolk, and the travelers slept by the roadside and wept, holding up candles throughout the night and calling their loved ones to say that it was all, finally, over. A few curious outsiders did eventually return to the old, rusted sign at the end of the dirt road, and wandered the valley in search of artifacts and trinkets to be kept in museums. Their efforts did eventually turn up little bags of petrified and ancient garbage, which were carefully tagged and organized and placed in glass cases to be photographed and studied for centuries to come in universities and colleges and internet forums.

Once the excavations were done and the crews returned home over the old path, the obscure few who returned to the valley sometimes searched out the little stream in hopes of drinking that clear, clean water that used to flow down from the hills, but with the passage of time it was hard to tell the streambed from the tracks of animals and excavating machines, and all of the water they could find was stagnant and muddy. The stream could no longer be found among the bushes and stones of the ancient valley, and as the patience of adventurous individuals waned, people stopped looking for it altogether, and instead turned to watch the rolling of waves along the coast with their backs turned to the memory of the little stream. Sometimes, they talk about the stream and the town and the people that lived there, and sometimes they still tell stories inspired by those poorly sold books of ages ago, but for the most part now, everybody is in agreement that it’s unlikely the stream was ever there in the first place.

Spooky things (in audio form)

Just making a quick announcement that I will soon be linking out to narrations of my stories by various voice actors on YouTube. I particularly enjoy hearing the narrations because everybody has a slightly different take on the flow of these stories that I’ve been hearing in my own head for years. Also, these people do a great job of building atmosphere with the aid of great background music and sound effects at times. It really adds something to the experience.

Stay tuned for that, and more, coming very soon.

Beginnings and Endings

I’m in a bit of a weird mood tonight.

On one hand, I’m excited, because I finally published part 1 of “One Last Round” which I have been very excited to do for a long time. I’m also really excited to complete parts 2 to 5 and get those posted as well.

On the other hand, I’m really feeling the end of this collection of short stories approaching and it’s making me a little sad. The Seal Cove stories have been a lot of fun to write, and I love the concept of a collection of short fiction where the stories are all connected for share a common theme (think Robert W Chambers’ “The King In Yellow” or Michael Shea’s “Copping Squid”), but at the same time I feel like if I carry on this theme for too long I might become stagnant.

So, I’m stuck between being thrilled at finishing this collection of tales and ending the series, but also not wanting to leave the characters, settings and creatures behind. It’s an odd mix of feelings.

Regardless, I am feeling good about the remainder of my work. I plan to reveal things that have been kept in the dark throughout the other stories, and also to explore the point of view of a couple of characters that have been recurring in the background and share some of their perspective on the weird and horrible situations surrounding Seal Cove.

And I guess I should stay positive, because leaving this place behind means I can start exploring somewhere new, right?

Right?

One Last Round – Part One – The Old Guitar

The hanging bell outside McCarrow’s pub rang again, signaling the exit of another lonely visitor who, after the usual weeknight dosage, stumbled homeward to their half-empty bed.

Back inside, four friends sat quietly around a wooden table. The table itself was dark, stained and sticky from the remnants of drink that had been spilled earlier in the night. The friends, three men and one woman, sat with a sort of dazed patience while waiting on Craig, the bartender, to bring out the next in a series of final rounds. While the old stained glass windows near the door pulsed with the suggestion of passing walkers, the pub nearly hummed with a sense of stillness. The lights were low, the radio had momentarily succumbed to static, and Craig had disappeared to the back room a while ago to check on the boilers or some other mundane task. After a long while, the radio flickered back to life and the woman sitting at the table motioned for her male companions to listen.

“Oh my God,” she said, “is that what I think it is?” She looked at the man sitting across from her and grinned.

Her friend looked less happy. “Lily, no,” he said, and looked around the shadowed room.

“Oh, hey it is you!” The man to his right said, patting his arm.

The song on the radio drifted through the pub, echoing with electric guitars and a lone vocal steeped in emotion. The man sitting across from Lily lowered his head into his hands and seemed to want to drown it out.

“Christ, Devin, why are you getting all embarrassed? It’s a great song,” said Chris. “I haven’t heard your stuff in a long time.”

“Yeah,” said Lily. “Why don’t you perform any more?”

“It’s just not my thing,” Devin responded, scratching at the rough tabletop.

Lily raised her eyebrows. “Not your thing? You used to be up all night writing and recording. I remember because you always flaked out from coming to parties saying you had to work on your music.”

“It’s not my thing anymore,” Devin said. “And can’t somebody turn it off?” He turned around in his seat but Craig had still not returned to the bar. “I don’t like to listen to that old stuff.”

Chris leaned back and folded his arms. “Why’d you give it up anyways?”

Devin shrugged.

“Come on, man. You used to get a lot of air time on campus radio. Why didn’t you ever send off a tape to CBC or something?”

“Seriously though,” said Lily, “you really could make it big with those songs. Why not pick it up again?”

Even Leo, who had been quiet the whole evening spoke up. “Yeah, I get not having the time when you dropped out and were job hunting, but why not now?”

Devin stopped picking at the table and shook his head. “I didn’t stop writing music because I dropped out.” He paused for a minute and glanced over toward the front door of the bar. “I dropped out to get away from the music.”

The three friends shared a look of confusion with one another. “What do you mean?” Chris asked.

Devin glanced at each of the others in turn. “The station guys never released the tapes?”

They all shook their heads. “What tapes?” asked Leo.

Devin rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re gonna call me crazy.”

“We won’t,” Chris said, and leaned in to listen.

As the song ended, Devin started to talk.

It was when I moved into that apartment off campus that it happened – a few months before that big fire broke out on campus.

Old duplex, house divided down the center, right? I got the left side – the whole half of the place – for three hundred a month. Normally, I would have thought the low rent meant there was something wrong with it, but when the landlord showed me the location I found something that made me ignore any doubts I was having. Under the bed poked the neck of an old electric guitar. I was shocked when I pulled it out and saw that it was actually a vintage Gibson Les Paul – a ’58 or ’59 model – and a beauty at that. It was immaculate, and only the finest hairline cracks ran along the finish, arranged in a way that made it look even more impressive. I held it against me and tested the strings and looked at the landlord. They seemed surprised I was interested in it, and told me to keep the “old thing” as the previous tenant left it behind and they had no use for it. I couldn’t believe my luck.

I never could stand living on campus. With all that noise and constant partying I could never concentrate on my studies or my music. Back then I thought the music was more important. Stupid. At that apartment, though, I had all the peace and solitude I needed. I even had a separate entrance, so there was never a need to interact with the neighbor on the other side. That being said, I wouldn’t have known that there even was another person living in the house if the landlord hadn’t mentioned them briefly. Apparently they had lived there for a long time, but he was quiet and had always paid the rent on time, no questions asked. I never did see my neighbour, only heard faint mumblings at night time when I assumed he was talking on the telephone.

The thing that was really odd about it was I never heard a telephone ring, he would just start talking. After a while I started to wonder whether he was talking to anybody at all, or if he was just talking to himself. Try as I might to eavesdrop, the walls were so thick I could never tell what they were talking about. I figured it wasn’t worth my time to dwell on it, so I just went on with my business. I finally had a quiet place where I could get some work done. I could finally start writing some music.

The old guitar did half the work: with that thing in my hands it was impossible not to feel inspired. I would sit there for hours into the night with my computer recording and my headphones on, meditating to the sound of that instrument. It sounds like a douchy thing to say, but sometimes I was blown away by the things I came up with. It was the best music I’d ever written and recorded.

The problem was, I couldn’t think of a single damned lyric.

I would write a few lines or half a chorus, but it was all garbage. Music without words works well enough for jazz, but this wasn’t jazz, and I wasn’t going to get on the radio with nothing but instrumental tracks.

It was painstaking, having come up with these perfect, beautiful guitar parts but not having any decent words to accompany them. I felt like I might as well give it up. Nights of recording turned into nights of self-loathing, and then after a while I stopped recording anything at all. I would sit by the computer with my headphones on, holding the old guitar in my hands and staring at the strings. I’d sit there for hours into the early morning, my ears filled with the sound my own blood pumping and the ambient static from the pickups humming in my ears. That went on for weeks. I felt like I was going a bit crazy, and then I started hearing things.

At nearly three in the morning one night as I was sitting there listening to the steady hum from the guitar in my headphones, I heard a voice in the house.

It freaked me out, because I never heard people walking by on the street, and I could never hear my neighbor’s voice that clearly. I threw down my headphones and jumped up – the guitar still hanging from its strap – and shouted out “hello!?” Nobody answered. I made my way through the apartment, pacing through each of the dark rooms, but there was nobody there. The door was locked. I was alone.

I shook it off and went to sit down again. I put my headphones back on and went back to listening to the static drone of the old Les Paul. That’s when I realized where I heard the voice – it was coming from the guitar.

The wiring must have been picking up the signal from a nearby telephone or radio, and it was being fed back to me through my headphones. Knowing now what I’d heard, I chuckled to myself, feeling foolish at thinking there was an intruder in the house.

It was really low, so I turned the volume up louder than normal, and that’s when I realized what it was exactly that I was hearing. It was my neighbor from the other side of the wall. He must have been talking into a telephone, because I can’t think of another way his voice was being picked up like that, but as I listened i never heard the other end of the conversation. Perhaps his correspondent wasn’t very talkative, or perhaps he really was talking to himself. Either way, I was fascinated.

The things he spoke about – love, loneliness, dreams, pain – drew me in and wouldn’t let me go. The cadence and tone of his voice – filtered through the static hum of the guitar – were hypnotic. Before I even realized what I was doing, I was grabbing a pen and writing down what I heard. I scribbled as fast as i could to keep up, and when my hand started cramping I hit record and let the computer do the work – I could just transcribe it later.

I had found my lyrics.

One thing was certain to me: my neighbor was completely mad. For him to talk the way he did, for hours at a time, he must have been in a world of his own. In a week I had five fully composed and recorded songs. I had more material than I knew what to do with.

I took the demos in to the student radio station and was told that I’d get a call later in the month once they’d had a chance to listen to them and decided which songs would get air time. After that I went on to class and did my usual thing, although I admit I couldn’t really concentrate on anything the professor was saying. My mind was on my music – if you could call it my music at all.

I got a call from the station before the end of the week. “Were taking it all,” they said, “and I hope it’s okay, Devin, but we actually started broadcasting it this afternoon.”

Obviously it was okay – I was thrilled! For the first time since I’d set out on my own, I felt like I’d really accomplished something. I felt like a champion, like I’d finally proved myself. That was an incredible emotion. I wasn’t prepared for the next question.

“Do you have more?”

In that moment I was still feeling the rush of accomplishment, and more than a little full of myself. “Yes,” I said, hardly even thinking before saying it.

Before I knew it I’d agreed to bring in another four songs by the next Monday. I only had five days to get everything together, but with the amount of material I had pre-recorded, I was confident I could do it. I’d mostly be transcribing more of the phone static, and that was easy work. My neighbour’s words would do the heavy lifting for me.

I left classes for the rest of the day, too excited to listen to a word of my lectures, and headed back to my apartment to start working. I pulled up the recordings of my neighbour and started listening, pen in hand, ready to transcribe. Within a minute, I had to pause and scribble to keep up. Again, I was astounded by the raw emotion in those words. It was a perfect line, the perfect way to open a song. However…

It was already the perfect opening to a song – one of the songs I’d recorded the previous week. I rewound and listened again, just to make sure. It was the same as what I’d already transcribed.

I skipped ahead through the recording, looking for new material. When I hit play again, I found myself listening to the static-filled voice lamenting with the pain of a lonely heart. It was beautiful, but I had heard it before. This was what I’d used as the second verse on song number two.

I spent the rest of the afternoon skipping through the recordings, but time and time again I would land on phrases, lines that I had already used. the same ideas and suggestions kept coming up, looping over and over. I stopped skipping through and let the recording play through all the way. Every twenty minutes, my neighbour would loop back and start repeating himself, recounting the same stories, dreams, ideas that he’d already spoken of. The whole recording, the whole three and a half hours, was of the man talking over the same twenty minutes of dialogue on an endless loop.

But it wasn’t prerecorded. I could tell, because even though he was saying the same things, his words would change ever so slightly each turn. There were little variations in his tone, his inflections that showed he really was talking over these things, constantly repeating himself. His words would vary ever so slightly as well, but that detail could have easily been missed if I wasn’t as obsessed with searching for it.

There were gaps in his repetition, though – every ten minutes or so he would pause and utter a few words that were out of place. It was bizarre, almost like he would go into a trance – or, break out of his trance – and speak something completely unrelated to whatever it was he was talking about at the time. Sometimes they were full sentences, sometimes just a few seemingly random words, and other times the static got so loud I couldn’t pick out any thing at all.

I started listening more carefully, collecting those fragments that didn’t belong and writing them out. They seemed connected, and when I compiled them together I thought I had found my new source of lyrics. I would have to create my new songs by combining those little fragments into something that made sense. With what I’d already recorded, though, I could only find enough for a verse or two. If I was going to write four more songs, I would need to listen in on more of my neighbour’s talking.

It was tedious work. Before I knew it the sun was coming up and I still only had enough lines for half of a song, maybe more if I mixed things around and used more repetition. It wasn’t perfect, though. The words and phrases he was throwing out there were related, but nothing really fit together that well. I would have to dedicate all of my time to the task if I hoped to make any progress at all. So, I cancelled all other plans, skipped class and continued with my work, stopping only to grab a sandwich and a tray of coffee, not pausing to say hello to my classmates and professors who recognized me.

As the hours dragged on I started behaving strange. I knew it, I knew I was being weird and that I should have given it up and gone to bed, but I couldn’t stop. My arms ached unless I was holding the guitar and my ears would itch and burn if I took the headphones off and stopped listening to my neighbour’s voice. After… hell I don’t know how long it was… I must have decided that I had enough material because I realized I was singing. I was playing and singing and recording. That was unusual for me, because I normally recorded all of the tracks separately to get the cleanest results. I usually took my time, but now I was absolutely frantic.

It was like the words couldn’t come out fast enough, and I couldn’t even be sure that I understood the words coming out of my mouth. Had I even written them down? How long had it been since I ate something? I wasn’t even sure what day it was. It must have been near morning, because there was a dim glow in the sky outside, and it was cold, so cold in the room. My throat was raw from singing and my breath tasted like copper. When I looked down at my hands, I was both terrified and revolted to see that my calluses had torn away, blistered, and ruptured. My fingertips were a ragged mess of blood and the guitar itself was a display of sweat and gore. My singing convulsed into a scream as I stared down at my bloodied hands, almost vomiting in fear but unable to stop playing. The static was thunder in my ears.

Finally, I managed to throw myself out of the chair, and as I did, the headphones were pulled off and I lay there on the cold, hard floor, holding my hands close to my chest and wriggling like an animal to get the guitar strap off of my shoulders and neck. Once I got to my feet, I made my way to the bathroom and ran the cold tap, holding my injured fingers in the stream to clot the bleeding. I bandaged them in gauze and changed into some clean clothes, threw myself down into bed, and feel into the deepest and soundest sleep. When I woke up, it was to the sound of my phone ringing, and when I picked it up it was the manager at the station on the other end.

“Devin!” he said, “Jesus, man, what are you doing? You said you’d have the demos to us by today. What’s the hold up?”

Embarrassed, confused, I told them I would be there soon and rushed to my computer. After getting a few hours of sleep, I felt ashamed at the way I had acted. I couldn’t believe that I would push myself so hard, to the point of exhaustion, for the sake of my music. Looking at my computer, I was astonished to find nine recorded demos – all of them newly saved from the last few days. I couldn’t bring myself to listen to them, and quickly transferred them to my USB drive for submission. I grabbed my coat and, trying my best not to look at the bloodied guitar lying still on the floor, headed out the door to campus.

Apologizing like a child, I handed over the demos and ran to catch my class, hoping that my professor wouldn’t question my sudden and prolonged absence. Once I sat down and started sipping at my coffee, I immediately started to feel better. That sense of accomplishment and pride that I had felt the week before came rushing back. I had written over a dozen songs in two weeks, and was getting airplay at a major university and online. Sure, they weren’t my words, but who would ever know? No one.

That night, I cleaned up the guitar and my desk, and sat down to take it all in. I put on my headphones, leaned back in my computer chair, and pulled up the website for the student radio station to listen in. Every hour I heard one of my songs, and smiled with satisfaction. Only one thing bothered me – I didn’t hear any of the new demos, only the originals from the week before. Needless to say, it pissed me off. Why in the hell would they put so much pressure on me if they weren’t even going to play the damned tracks? I waited another hour but there was nothing – none of my new songs.

I sent a text to the manager, abrupt and wanting an explanation. I wasnt expecting a response back, as it was after 11pm. They responded almost immediately.

“Is this a joke?”

I stared at the message, infuriated. I replied back, “No, and stop wasting my time. What’s your problem?”

In seconds, I got another reply. “Listen, don’t bother the djs again. We’ll keep playing the demos, but leave us alone.”

I couldn’t beleive what I was reading, and was still trying to figure it out when they messaged me again. “If you send us any more shit like that, we’re taking you off the air. Goodbye.”

I was crushed. I couldn’t imagine how things could have gone so wrong. I closed the site down and pulled up my copy of the new demos. I put the nine tracks in a playlist and hit play.

Immediately, I felt my heart throbbing in my neck. There was no intro, no fade in. It was as though I had already been playing and singing when the record button was pressed. I was wailing, rambling incoherently like a madman, my voice straining in and out of tune with whatever the hell it was I was playing on that guitar. And I recognized what it was that I was singing. Those exact phrases, that endless loop that my neighbour had been reciting to himself over and over but in my own, distorted voice. The guitar was a cacophony of noise, distortion and screeching, and behind it all, layered under everything was the voice of the man next door. His ragged voice and my own recited that cycle of words in perfect unison, parting only for brief moments where he would stop, draw a sharp breath, and laugh. That horrible, howling, shrieking laughter.

I ripped the headphones off and threw them down, tripping over the cord as I scrambled from my chair and realized now that the mans voice and his terrible, mocking laughter was coming from behind the wall of my apartment. He was laughing, screaming, singing to me!

I ran. I ran to the only other place I felt safe – the university – and wandered the halls until morning. I talked to the head of residence and begged for a room on campus but that was useless since they had filled up months ago. I ended up crashing on a classmate’s floor for a few days until I could talk them into heading to the apartment with me. I grabbed my few belongings and got the hell out, leaving the key in the mailbox for the landlord to grab. I left the guitar behind. It was shortly after that when I dropped out.

It’s one thing to have experienced that, but it’s a whole other thing to be constantly reminded. Those first five songs keep creeping up on me everywhere I go, no matter how hard I try to avoid it. I eventually had them pulled from the air, but by that time they’d been uploaded to the internet, and had filtered their way into almost everything I hear. It’s like their everywhere I go. It’s like they… It’s like he’s following me.

Silence fell around their little table as Devin stopped talking. Nobody said anything for a long time, and Leo picked nervously at a loose thread on his jacket sleeve. Finally, the hanging bell outside the door rang again, knocking the circle of friends out of their trance.

“So there,” Devin muttered. “Now you know why.” He stared at the others, then at the empty bar to which Craig still hadn’t returned. The radio hummed with static. “Happy now?”

“No,” said Chris, shaking his head. “But…” he paused, glancing at the door. “But I think I’ve seen him.

Even deeper… and even sleepier.

It has been almost a full year since I had “Deep Sleep” published on Creepypasta.com and what an interesting year it has been.

If you haven’t already, please check out “Chilling Tales for Dark Nights“, which is a fantastic website featuring narrations of weird and horror fiction spanning centuries. Craig Groshek and his team over at the site took the liberty of reaching out to me and having four of my stories featured on their podcast, “Scary Stories Told in the Dark“, hosted by fantastic story teller, Otis Jiry. I was so pleased with the treatment they gave the stories and I’m honored that they chose my work to be featured. Please check out their podcast network and subscribe for endless hours of horrific entertainment. One thing that I really respect about CTFDN is they respect classic weird fiction, and aren’t afraid to feature stories by HP Lovecraft and other historic writers in an era when the deep web and spooky Nintendo games seem to occupy the majority of modern online fiction.

Obviously, I haven’t released many new pieces of work since then, seeing as the blog has been very quiet, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been working on new things. I’m still chugging away at completing my short story anthology, and I’ve been focusing a huge part of my writing energy at completing the 5-part series entitled “One Last Round” that will act as a sort of climax to the Seal Cove stories. That being said, I am one hell of a slow writer.

In a way, I’m glad I haven’t achieved any significant level of success, because I can’t imagine the amount of pressure that puts on a person. It’s bad enough as it is, and I don’t have any “fans” to let down by being slow – I’m just letting myself down. I think of authors like George RR Martin and Patrick Rothfuss and how much abuse they take in the digital world on a daily basis for not having completed their series yet and I think to myself: “I would probably just give up.”

I probably wouldn’t, of course – I’m too damned stubborn to give up. But I would feel like I’m letting the fans down; like I’m disappointing them. I have so much respect for those authors, because they take it all in stride and don’t allow themselves to compromise their art for the sake of quick delivery. They don’t let the pressure force them ahead. They keep working as they have for years, honing their art and crafting their stories so that when they are completed, we will appreciate them even more.

That being said, it’s still tough.

It’s tough, not having the time to dedicate to my writing, when every year I feel more and more that writing is the thing I want to do the most.

I started this blog a few years ago by stating that I did not intend to become a full-time writer, but now I’m starting to think that has changed. It is one of the things that brings me complete and utter joy. I love crafting my stories. I love my characters. I love the worlds I have created.

But, in the end, life takes precedent. I have a job. I have a family. I have a life outside of my weird little worlds that I need to attend to. And so, the stories will have to wait. They will have to carry on in my mind until I find the time to write them down. Until I find the time to share them. As long as I don’t lose them, I will have done them justice.

And, I suppose, the entire purpose of this rant was to say that I’ve submitted “Deep Sleep (Part 2)” on creepypasta.com for publication. It was one of the scariest things I’ve done for a long time. I didn’t think it would bother me as much as it did, but I guess that means that the story is more important to me than I thought it was, originally. People really connected with “Deep Sleep” and gave it some good reviews, so I really hope that the continuation of the story is received well. I hope, I hope, I hope.

But if not, I will continue to write. I’ve come to realize, after this last year, that writing means too much to me to give up. It allows me to explore, to create, and to let go. It’s one of the greatest things in life.

Now, I wait to see if it’s published. I hope that people will like it.

Thanks for sticking with me, thanks for reading, and as always:

Happy writing.

The Keeping of the Light – Chapter 18 – Arrival at the Harbour Gate

On the morning before their arrival at Lhorrenhelm, Sherylyn awoke briefly. Her body stopped shaking in terrible fits, and her eyes became clear for a moment. It was in that short time Susan had called to Mister Straulk and he had come rushing to her side, followed by his wed daughters, Shenya and Sasha. When they had gathered close around her, and a crowd of Rivermouth folk had squeezed into the sled, she spoke to Straulk, asking “Where is Locke? Where is my love?” Then Mister Straulk had failed to answer, and only shook his head. She nodded, as though she had already known. “Let my ashes fall where his have gone, back to the land with my love. Let Aer carry me away with him.”

“Don’t speak of such things, Sis,” said Shenya, “you’re here now. It’ll be okay.”

But Sherylyn only smiled at her sisters. Her eyes were full of tears, but it seemed that they were happy. “Yes,” she said to them. Finally, she turned to Lyca. “Yes it will.” Then, as gently as falling asleep, she died, and the Wyndhill sisters wept for a long while.

Before their grief had a chance to settle, the company had reached its destination. Lyca had now opted to ride outside on the sled front. While walking for long was still a burden, she couldn’t bear to remain inside with the grievers, and she was curious to see these new lands. They had come at last to the cliff face of Reef Head, the raised plateau on which the capitol sat high above the sea and saw many miles for every way but the northwest, where the Ridge bent sharply away along the coast. Working their way around the cliff, the group had grown uneasy. Here, the ice was broken at places, and Many were not sure how they would make their way into the city without having to turn back and attempt a climb – something that many of them would be unable to do.

At last, they had come within sight of a ledge that had been carved into the cliff. It was a sort of half-tunnel, a good twenty or more feet deep and sitting perhaps ten feet above the high water mark on the rock. There were guards standing on it in sparse pairs, wrapped tight against the damp, freezing air in oiled cloaks and wearing high, black boots made of swile hide. They were holding spears, with blades as long as arms, and they yelled for the company to stop.

“Who are you,” one cried, “and what is your business?”

“We come from White Bay, and the Whitewater,” announced Hellyn.” Our homes have been threatened, and we come seeking shelter from those who would do us harm.”

Another guard, this one seeming to wear the outfit of a higher rank, answered her. “Tell us more.”

Gerrik walked closer to the ledge. “Raiders have been sighted in our lands. Several lives have already been lost. And my friends from Rivermouth here are short of provisions.”

The higher ranking guard paused before speaking. “Rivermouth? Then you have received the request from the High Keeper? Is the mapmaker with you?”

“Aye,” Lyca said, rising unsteadily. “Mister Crewe is with us, but we received no request. And that is not all. We have received no shipment since Snareset. Our people have come upon hard times.”

“That is regretful news,” said the guard.

“Regretful?” boomed Tiny. “Bugger me, yes it’s regretful. What of the agreement between our merchant and the capitol? What of our trade for winter supplies?”

“Careful,” Lyca said to him quietly. The guards gave her an uneasy feeling. She had never been faced with a spear made with the intent to fight men.

“By order of the High Keeper of Lhorrenhelm, all transport of goods to White Bay has been cancelled. With the shortage of crops this past year and the prospect of war in the north, the capitol has chosen to…”

“What?!” Lyca shouted, unable to contain herself.

“…has chosen to reduce its presence until the proper military action has been decided upon. There have already been casualties, and absolute caution must be taken in our dealings with the Eru peoples and sympathizers in the north of Lhor.”

“Gods above and below, what of protecting your people? Is Lhorrenhelm not the beacon of our country?” Straulk asked, now walking from the sled where his dead wed daughter lay. “Will you not permit us entry?”

The guard in command looked them over for a while. “You have, in your company, a certain Arron Crewe?”

“Aye,” the old man said, standing with his gnarled cane. “I am he.”

“That is good,” the guard said. “Have your company any business or trade to offer the city?”

“We are poor and starving, and filled with grief for our lost loved ones. We come asking for help. Will you not give it us?” Lyca demanded.

“Where it is earned, cripple,” spat the guard. His eyes flashed with a sudden anger, but it faded quickly. “Have you business or not?”

“We have furs, tanned and cured.” said Gerrik.

“Our service,” said Lyca. “We can offer our strength.”

“Aye,” said Tiny. “We would not have come this far if we weren’t hardy folk, guard.” He said the last word mockingly, but just so.

Finally the guard nodded. “Very well,” he said, and made a signal to a pair of guards nearby. They rushed over and unwound a sturdy stair-ladder, which dropped to the ice. “But you must be taken before the High Keeper at once. Then it will be decided what service you can provide. Come now, and quickly.”

Untrusting at first, the company gathered their packs from the sleds and began to climb onto the ledge. The children and elders went first, aided by the guards. Old Crewe got many curious and strange looks from everybody as he made his way up the stair-ladder, but nobody said a word. They had to leave the sleds and moose behind, as there was no way to get them onto the ledge, but the guards assured them that they would be collected and payed for by the capitol. Gerrik looked sad to leave the beasts behind, and he gave the guard in command a grudging glance when he climbed up.

They were lead along the ledge, passing other guards here and there, and passed slowly around the great cliff. After a while the ice gave way to water, deep and dark. The wind from the ocean here was bracing, and Geoffrey buried his face in Lyca’s furs as they walked. At last, they came to the great Harbour Gate of Lhorrenhelm.

The city, built on the foundations of some ancient Eru temple, was protected against outside forces as well as any place in the north of Lhor. Guarded by steep cliffs on all sides and backed by the Western Ridge, it was no wonder that this was the place where mankind had begun to recover after the Dark War. Being a center of trade, the great harbour would be an access point for any attacking party, but this much had been accounted for well, as Lyca could now see with her own eyes.

A great, two-sided gate of wood and iron stretched across the harbour opening, which was at least a hundred feet from side to side. The gate itself hung high enough over the water that a small craft might pass under, but any ship bearing sail or even a high keel would be caught and denied entry. On either side of the Harbour Gate, holes in the cliff face revealed the faces of archers and flickering torches. The gate was shut.

They passed through a small doorway at its base and continued along the ledge into the city harbour, which was itself many times the size of any village Lyca had ever seen. It’s sides – like the surrounding coastline – were sheer granite that ran upwards to dizzying heights, and along the rough rocky walls shacks, huts, ladders and walkways were built from many-coloured beams of wood of varying origin. Above and below the harbour walkways and huts sat, connected together and resting on one another like some vertical maze of engineering that Lyca could have imagined only in a dream. Here and there, great chains and ropes were strung along the cliffs. Some, it seemed, were supporting the woodwork, but from others baskets and boxes were hanging and being sent quickly from one side of the harbour to another. Gods, she thought, what world have we stepped into? At her side, Geoffrey’s face was slack with amazement, and he seemed unable to say anything but “Wow.”

The guards led them on, up what seemed to be a main walkway that spiralled around the wall of the great harbour. The smells of smoke, fish and tar drifted around the harbour and their snow in the air. Lyca’s leg was aching, and it was hard to keep going, but then she saw it…

Rising over the cliff edge, a monolith of pale stone stood threatening against the sky. At its peak, a great beacon of red and orange glowed like a star above the city. The Lightkeeper’s tower. That’s where they’re taking us. That’s where Mavis and Jamie will be.

“Hellyn,” Lyca called to the woman walking in front of her. Hellyn came back to her side and offered her arm for support. “No, I’m okay. It’s something else.”

“What troubles you?” she asked. Then, lowering her voice, she said “It’s the guards, isn’t it?”

Lyca nodded. “Yah, that’s about right. Something about what he said.” She leaned close to Hellyn and made her voice a whisper. “This talk of war. Military action? What service have we promised to provide, I wonder?”

“I fear the same as you, friend.” Hellyn nodded at the Lightkeeper’s tower up ahead. “We’ll soon find out, I think. And Oyewa help us, may we find news of your two friends.” She held out her arm again. “Come. Your leg needs more time to heal.”

“Aye,” Lyca said, and taking Hellyn’s arm, she walked on. We’ll soon find out.