Is There Nonfiction in Your Work?

6/02/2020

This is going to be a two part blog, since I have two things I want to talk about. 

First: I’m usually sure of myself when talking to people about anything. Ask anyone who knows me, I have no problems talking. It’s a gift … and a curse. I’m also opinionated and my filter is usually in serious need of repair. 

However, doing videos, recording myself talking, has always been difficult and awkward feeling. It doesn’t feel natural to me. That is why doing the video series that starts today is important. 

Let me explain, then we will get to the first video. 

I would like to, eventually, do public speaking, whether it is at a book club or in a library or at festivals and conventions. I want to share my thoughts with folks—some of them are too deep for the voices in my head and they scatter when I talk about certain topics. In order to do that, one of the things I have to do is conquer the awkwardness of doing videos. I’m not even talking about live videos—just prerecorded sessions. 

A couple of years ago, we did a similar Q&A set of videos. We had to do multiple takes on each one because I didn’t like the way I sounded or how my answers came out. Sometimes there would be background noise and I wouldn’t like that. I was trying to stage my videos, and as I mentioned before, I couldn’t escape the awkward feeling of them. I wanted them to be perfect, high quality pieces of art, when all we had was a cell phone and whatever backdrop we decided to film at.

This time around, we just went with it. We’re not trying to be perfect. There are going to be mistakes in some of these going forward, at least until we get our footing. We’re going to forget things. On the first video, we actually forgot my contact information. We’re going to experiment with a couple of things. As of this writing, I have developed an idea that might make things a little more natural feeling for me. We’ll see.

A couple of quick notes: the questions are randomly chosen. All of them were written down on index cards and shuffled several times before the first one was selected. We also shuffle them before each question is asked. I do not know which question I am going to answer until it is asked. None of these videos are rehearsed—they are completely by the seats of our pants. 

The first question comes from J.J. Marcum, from here in Columbia, South Carolina. We shot the video at Granby Gardens Park in Cayce, South Carolina, where Cate and I grew up. J.J. asked: “Is there any nonfiction in your stories? In other words, are they inspired by true life events or just your creativity?”

Check out the answer by watching the video. 

Is there nonfiction in your stories?

I would have liked to have been a little more eloquent in my answer, but I loved the question. If you have any questions, please feel free to leave them in the comments below. 

The second thing I want to mention here is my novel, My Summer Vacation by Jimmy Lambert released yesterday. You can find it on Amazon if you want a digital copy. However, if you want a print copy, please get it directly from me. You will get it signed by me and the price of the book includes shipping, which you will pay more through Amazon. The synopsis is as follows:

On the third day of summer vacation in 1979, three boys walked along the side of a road, laughing, talking about baseball cards, swimming at Booger’s Pond and Sarah Tucker, the prettiest girl in school. How could they know a few minutes later one of them would be dead, one crippled and one about to face the worse summer of his life? 

Wrongly accused of a crime he didn’t commit, Jimmy Lambert is sent to The Mannassah Hall Institute for Boys. On his first day there, Doctor William English strikes him. It would be the first of many Jimmy would suffer at the hands of guards and inmates. Fighting back is an option, but could it have dire consequences?

As Jimmy loses hope, two unlikely people come to his aid. Will they be in time to save him from the bullies at The Mannassah Hall Institute for Boys? Or will they be too late?

If you have enjoyed my work, I hope you will consider purchasing a copy of My Summer Vacation by Jimmy Lambert. You can get the digital version on Amazon here and the print version through me by clicking on the link below. 

Thank you for reading, watching the video and coming along with me through this road trip called writing and story telling. Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.

My Summer Vacation by Jimmy Lambert

A.J. Brown's new novel.

$15.00

My Summer Vacation by Jimmy Lambert … Finally Gets Released

Coming to you, live from wherever you are on June 1st, My Summer Vacation by Jimmy Lambert, a novel by A.J. Brown. 

Starring Jimmy Lambert, Doctor William English, Robert Mahler, Paul Bissette, John Warner and Sarah Tucker. With guest appearances from Mrs. Robinson, Jack Lambert (not the football player), Denise Lambert, Rita Horton, and a host of others. 

***

On the third day of summer vacation in 1979, three boys walked along the side of a road, laughing, talking about baseball cards, swimming at Booger’s Pond and Sarah Tucker, the prettiest girl in school. How could they know a few minutes later one of them would be dead, one crippled and one about to face the worse summer of his life? 

Wrongly accused of a crime he didn’t commit, Jimmy Lambert is sent to The Mannassah Hall Institute for Boys. On his first day there, Doctor William English strikes him. It would be the first of many Jimmy would suffer at the hands of guards and inmates. Fighting back is an option, but could it have dire consequences?

As Jimmy loses hope, two unlikely people come to his aid. Will they be in time to save him from the bullies at The Mannassah Hall Institute for Boys? Or will they be too late?

CHAPTER 1

Jimmy Lambert stood in front of a classroom full of kids. There might have been a couple who were a year older, but mostly, they were his age. It was the third day of seventh grade and none of the students really wanted to be there. They were still in summer vacation mode, still coming down from whatever high, low or in between they experienced since the last day of the previous school year. Most of them had normal, even boring summers, which made the summer assignment just as normal or boring. 

Every kid knew the assignment before they left school on the last day of sixth grade: Write a paper about your summer vacation. It wasn’t like it was a big surprise they would have to stand in front of the class and read the paper out loud—they had been doing this very thing for the last two years and probably would again next year, when eighth grade rolled around.

Though he should have been nervous, Jimmy found he wasn’t. Not even close. He had no sweats and his heartrate didn’t increase when his teacher—a short, round black lady by the name of Mrs. Robinson, with more chest out front than up and down height—called his name. His hands should have been cold and there should have been butterflies in his stomach. Still, he stood from his desk slowly, putting both hands on it and pushing himself up. His warmups were too big for him and cinched in front with a drawstring. On his right leg was a brace that ran from ankle to mid-thigh. It was covered by the warmups. The shoe on his right foot was two sizes too big, while the one on the right foot was a normal sneaker, sized eight in boys. 

After a few seconds, he took half a dozen hobbled steps forward. Then he turned and faced the class, a group of twenty-seven students besides himself. They all looked at him as if he had something interesting to say. Of course, they did. He had been on the news multiple times since the last school year. Some of them probably had questions, ones they might hope he will answer with his report. He didn’t know if they would consider his summer vacation as interesting as the news reported, but he knew without a single doubt, none of them had one quite like it. 

Jimmy held his report in both hands, thankful it was bound by a blue folder, something the other kids didn’t think, or care, to do with the annual rite of passage. He looked around the classroom, saw mostly familiar faces, though a couple were clearly new to the school. His eyes fell on the pretty blonde with the green eyes and wearing a light blue skirt and top. He could see her knees and legs. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her eyes were wide and staring directly at him. If that didn’t make a young boy nervous, then nothing will. 

Jimmy glanced at the binder to see he had opened it to the first page. It simply said, My Summer vacation by Jimmy Lambert. He had put thought into his paper. A lot of thought. Plenty had happened since the last school term ended and before the new one began. Most of those events he left out of his report. Some things were too graphic to write about. Still, it wasn’t a generic rehash of boredom the other kids over the previous two days had given. It had some of the things they probably wondered about in it, but without all the sordid details. Who wants to hear those, anyway?

He looked around the class one final time. None of the other kids looked bored. They all sat at their desk, their reports in front of them. He took a breath, released it, then started.

“My Summer Vacation, by Jimmy Lambert.”

He glanced up, not sure he really needed the paper in front of him to tell the story. 

Jimmy licked his lips, now feeling the butterflies in his stomach. The rapt attention of his classmates was not the same ‘meh’ attention others had received to that point. The nerves came slowly, not because he stood in front of the class about to give an oral report, but because he was about to tell his story, in part at least, to a group of people who might already have preconceived ideas about what really happened between school years. Even so, that wasn’t so scary, all things considered.

“Before I tell you about my summer vacation, I need to tell you about something that happened at the end of the last school year so everything will make sense to you.”

His jaw already felt tired, though he had only stood in front of the class for thirty seconds and said only a mouthful of words.

“Though summer vacation was only a couple of weeks away, my whole life changed one day as I ran from a bully, right through these halls.” He pointed to the closed door with a sliver of glass in the center that acted like a window. He turned back to his classmates. Some of them whispered among each other, surely speculating on who the bully could have been. Jimmy could give them three guesses with the first two being wrong and they would still probably get the right answer. Others sat in their seats, their eyes wide with anticipation in them. 

He looked down at his paper, at the words there, written in his not so neat print, the letters big and easy to read. They were words with no real oomph to them, no real impact. They were boring. He wrote it that way on purpose, hoping to just get up, be quick about it and leave out all the mess that happened shortly after school let out, not ending until just under five weeks before school was back in. But he knew that wouldn’t work. Again, the news had painted a picture for the other students. Now was his opportunity to give his side of the story.

Jimmy turned to Mrs. Robinson. She sat behind her desk, thick, overly large glasses perched on her wide nose, her short arms propped on the shelf that were her breasts. He closed the folder and set it on her desk, then turned back to the classroom of boys and girls. He glanced at the pretty blonde. She smiled, then nodded.

“I don’t need this to tell you about my summer vacation.”

Jimmy took a deep breath. He never thought he would tell this story to anyone besides close family and a friend or two, but there he was, staring at the class as they stared back at him. Now the nerves began in earnest, the butterflies fluttering in his stomach, his palms sweating.

“My name is Jimmy Lambert and I was twelve at the end of last year, just as I am today. I was old enough to hang out with my friends without Mom or Dad holding my hand or looming over me like vultures over the kill. I was also young enough to still be considered a child and still naïve to the world’s venom.” He took another breath, released it, and continued. “I didn’t know time stalked me, its steely claws always reaching, always mere inches away from snatching me up and tossing me into an all too real Hell.”

Some of the boys snickered at the mention of Hell. Though they laughed thinking Jimmy swore and the teacher would tan his hide right in front of them, Jimmy knew better. So did Mrs. Robinson. 

“Quiet down back there,” she snapped, her voice scratchy, “or I’ll give you something to make noise about.”

The snickers stopped and the boys straightened in their seats. Mrs. Robinson gave a backhanded wave to Jimmy. “Continue, Mr. Lambert.”

He nodded, looked at the class and shoved his hands into his pockets. He felt small right then and the classroom looked so much larger. It was intimidating, and the butterflies in his stomach grew a little more intense. Instead of retreating into a shell, Jimmy began his story.

“A couple of weeks before the end of school last year …”

***

Originally, My Summer Vacation by Jimmy Lambert was scheduled to release in early March. Then people started losing their jobs because of shutdowns and lockdowns. I could not, in good conscious, asks people to purchase a book, especially if they had recently lost their jobs or had their hours reduced. Instead, I spent a month giving away free stories on Type AJ Negative. I believed that was the right thing to do. 

So, why now? Why put a book out now? Like many people who write and publish books, I still need to earn a living. Yes, I have a full-time job, but selling books helps keep us afloat. Simple as that. I hope you will consider purchasing My Summer Vacation by Jimmy Lambert. If you would like a print version, you can get it directly from me and I’ll sign it.

Get your copy on June 1st!

As always, until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J. 

February Roundup

2.1 A Thing About Life

I woke up this morning at 4:38. That might seem early. I’ve been somewhat of an insomniac for a huge chunk of my life, but I’ve been sleeping well since mid-January. I don’t know why, but I won’t complain about it. So, there I was, awake and thinking I would go back to sleep. I didn’t. I finally got up just before 5:30.

I let my dog out and started the coffee. As I waited, I sat on the couch and stared at the blank television. Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I just sit, not focused on anything, my mind silent for several minutes. Eventually, the brain wakes up and I find myself, not thinking, but reflecting on life, on things I want to accomplish, on where I feel I should be at this point in my life. This morning was no different.

I thought about my dad, who is dealing with heart failure. I thought about my job, a place I haven’t been happy at in a long while. I thought about how sore I was from being under the house for most of the day before. I thought about writing and how much I wish I could afford to do this for a living. 

Then my mind shifted gears. I thought about how people hate each other. I thought about how politicians wage war on each other and divide our country. I thought about the little girl who was kidnapped and later found dead earlier this month—she was from my hometown and I know the area she lived and died in. I thought about the young man who had been found dead in the woods not far from where he was last seen four years ago. He had been a friend of my brother-in-law. My mind could have been the video for Billy Joel’s We Didn’t Start the Fire.

I don’t understand our country, our world. I don’t understand why we are so divisive. Opinions used to be just that: opinions. We used to be able to have them without others getting upset about it. Anger seems to be an issue with people these days—it’s everywhere you look. We’re an angry world, and I fear that will be the downfall of mankind. 

I write dark stories. Sometimes I write certain stories to understand the psychology behind motives and actions. I don’t write them to justify a means to what someone would do, but to understand why they would do these things. 

The first line of my soon to be released novel, Five Deaths, is quite telling of what the book is about and the mindset of the main character:

I’ve committed five murders in my life, all of them justifiable. 

The main character, Andrew Colson, goes onto to tell the story of those five murders. In his mind, all five are justified, but are they really? For me, it was a look into the mind of what could be considered a serial killer. Is he a serial killer? Well, I’ll let you figure that out for yourselves when the book comes out.

Back to my thoughts. I’ve learned its easy to be mean to people, to insult those different from us, to cheat and steal and care only about ourselves and those in our immediate circle. It’s easy to intimidate people and hurt people. We see it on the news every day from local events all the way up to our government and to events around the world. Sadly, it seems like kindness, humility and love are falling by the wayside. Can we reverse this trend? I hope so. I hope so.

2.2 My Summer Vacation by Jimmy Lambert

My third novel, My Summer Vacation by Jimmy Lambert, is slated for a mid-March release in print form. Yes, you read that right. I am releasing the print version of this novel first. In April, I will release the e-book version for those who prefer using e-readers, such as a Kindle. 

Screen Shot 2020-02-25 at 3.31.06 PMI hope to have a few book signings for My Summer Vacation by Jimmy Lambert, mostly in the South Carolina area, but hopefully in Georgia and North Carolina, as well.

The following is the synopsis for the novel.

On the third day of summer vacation in 1979, three boys walked along the side of a road, laughing, talking about baseball cards, swimming at Booger’s Pond and Sarah Tucker, the prettiest girl in school. How could they know a few minutes later one of them would be dead, one crippled and one about to face the worse summer of his life? 

Wrongly accused of a crime he didn’t commit, Jimmy Lambert is sent to The Mannassah Hall Institute for Boys. On his first day there, Doctor William English strikes him. It would be the first of many Jimmy would suffer at the hands of guards and inmates. Fighting back is an option, but could it have dire consequences?

As Jimmy loses hope, two unlikely people come to his aid. Will they be in time to save him from the bullies at The Mannassah Hall Institute for Boys? Or will they be too late?

I’m excited about the storyline and I will give y’all more details as the release date gets finalized.

2.3 Simply Put

Another book, Simply Put, is more of a theory on writing and rules and some of the things they don’t tell you about when you get into the business of publishing, is set to be released on March 31st. Though there are a few chapters about writing, this is not a how-to book on writing. A lot of the things in Simply Put are my observations in the publishing world. There are a handful of short stories throughout the book as well. 

I have put off releasing Simply Put for almost three years, unsure if I even wanted to put it out. Who wants to read a book about writing and storytelling and publishing from someone who is not a bigtime author? Maybe no one. But that is okay. 

Simply Put will not be released in e-book format. As of this writing, it will be a print book only deal.

One more thing about this and I will move on: I chose March 31st as the release date for Simply Put because my friend, Jennifer Miller, who wrote a piece for this book, passed away on that date in 2019. I miss her, our conversations about life and writing and dreams. I will release it on that day in honor of her.

2.4 For the Love of Coffee

My house on Valentine’s Day morning:

Cates Coffee CupI received a sweet card from Cate. The first line said, “I love you more than coffee.”

This was a red flag moment for me. I went to my wife and said, “I’m not so sure you love me more than coffee.”

She smiled. “I do love you more than coffee,” she said. “Well, maybe it’s a close tie.”

The Boy, having heard this conversation: “Dang, Dad, you lost to coffee.”

Yes, son, yes, I did.

2.5 Everything is Life, Everything is a Story

Go back to part 2.1 up above for a second. I mentioned Five Deaths, a novel that is slated for release later this year. This story is less about the supernatural and more about real life, about revenge and love and sadness. 

The inspiration for this story was partially based on a short story I wrote titled, Picket Fences. If you have read it, then you know it is about a man who builds picket fences around graves in honor of his deceased sister. There’s also a kernel of reality in the inspiration to Five Deaths. When I was a child, I read about a man who killed his autistic stepson in an eerily similar way Billie Jumper died in Five Deaths. I remember how horrible I felt after reading about it in the newspaper. What I don’t remember is what happened to the stepfather. My mind created a scenario for what could possibly happen and that scenario made it into Five Deaths. It was based in real life.

When I write, I try to make things as close to real to life as possible, even if it has supernatural or impossible elements to it. At the end of the day, everything is about life. Everything, good or bad, is about life, living and dying. And in that same vein, everything about life is also a story. Some of the best stories I have written over the years comes from the mundane, every day events of life. This is why our focus this year is on Everything is Life, Everything is a Story. #everythingislifeeverythingisastory. If you tag me in anything on social media, do you mind using this hashtag? 

2.6 Farewell

Thank you for reading today. I hope you enjoyed this post. Also, please share this post and leave comments. I appreciate it.

As always, until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J. 

Out of Sight

So often when a new year begins we reflect on the one that has passed. We take a moment to highlight the goods and some of the bads that transpired over the previous 365 days. It’s a bit of reminiscing, but quite often it is more regret than anything. I’m not doing that this year. There are two things I want to state in this piece, both of which have to do with my writing. 

Media Booklet Butterflies and BookFirst, I know I haven’t posted much in the last three or so months. I realized something last year, something I did for a long time because, well, honestly I didn’t want to lose the few readers I have here on Type AJ Negative. Sometimes I posted things just to post them, just to keep my name in your minds and on your lips. 

The way social media works is a simple concept I think we all understand: out of sight, out of mind. The belief of many people in the business of business is if you are not constantly putting out content you will become irrelevant and disappear from the view of customers. With that in mind, I wrote blogs and posted them, sometimes a few times a week, in hopes that you, the reader, will not forget me, the writer with the handful of followers. It’s almost like panicking. ‘If I don’t put out content now I will lose readers. Put it out. Put it out. PUT IT OUT!!’

It gets to the point where putting out content is not fun. One of the reasons I write blogs and books and funny things on social media is because I want to have fun doing it. I want to enjoy the process of growing a fan base. But when I put pressure on myself, what I put out isn’t all that great. That includes blog posts.

When I realized some of the content I was putting out was meaningless, I got aggravated with myself. That is not what I set out to do. I set out to inform and entertain, not to put out mindless drivel. So, I stopped writing blogs for a while, putting out only one, I think, in the last ten weeks, and that one was important to me. That’s why I wrote it and shared it with you.

Here is the deal: I’m not going to put out things that don’t matter or that don’t inform or entertain you in some way. I want to reach you, the reader, but I don’t want to do so out of worry that if I don’t write one or two pieces each week you will leave. I will write my blogs when I have something to say. Yes, I know that means my numbers will go down. It is what it is. For those of you who stay, I thank you.

Now, the second thing is much better than the first. Though I haven’t written many blogs in the last few months, I have been writing and I have been editing and I have been working on quite a few projects. That means real content will be coming to y’all in the form of books this year. Here are a few things coming your way in the next year or so:

Interrogations, a Hank Walker novella, is in the process of going to print. It should be ready to put in your hands any day now. 

Five Deaths, a novel about ghosts, revenge and love. Oh yeah, this is one you’re going to want to get your hands on.

The One Left Behind, a novella about love, death and determination. I’m starting to see a theme here.

My Summer Vacation by Jimmy Lambert. This is another novel, not put out by Jimmy Lambert, but by me. The story is about Jimmy Lambert, a twelve-year-old boy who should have enjoyed his summer with two good friends, only to have his entire world pulled out from under him by a drunk driver, a crooked legal system and Doctor William English, the head of a boys institute who takes an instant dislike to our hero, Jimmy. Recently, I asked someone to read it. She sent me back a note stating: This story broke my heart.

Other possibilities for 2020:

Simply Put, my thoughts on telling stories and the business of it. No, this is not a how to book, but kind of an anti-how to book. It has quite a few of my philosophies, not on writing, but on storytelling, including what I call The Primary Colors of Writing. Oh, and this book has quite a few short stories laced throughout its pages.

Suzie Bantum’s Death, a novella about a woman who committed suicide by jumping into a swollen river. What caused her to take her life this way? One man sets out to find answers and he may have bitten off more than he bargained for.

Southern Darkness, The Collection. This one I’m not sure about yet. Last year I did a subscription similar to The Brown Bag Stories. There are four editions, meaning four stories. Folks paid for the subscription and I have sent out the stories on a quarterly basis. However, I’m thinking of adding one or two stories to the original four and putting out a collection. If I do this, the readers who did the subscription will get a significant discount if they purchase the print book with the extra stories in it. This is one I still haven’t decided on yet.

Okay, I guess I have said all I have to say for now. No need to drag it out, right?

Oh, one more thing: if you have read any of my books and you have not written a review for them, would you mind doing so? I would greatly appreciate it.

As always, until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J. 

#everythingislifeeverythingisastory

#horrorwithheart

A Conversation With Pete Molnar

Writing horror is not easy. Sure, it sounds like it should be, but good horror is difficult. It’s not about shock and gore and gimmicks. It’s not about grossing people out with a million different ways to kill someone. True horror, at its core, is not even about monsters that go bump in the night. It’s about making people feel something. Something like dread, fear or uneasiness about what they are reading. Its the squirming sensation you get when you think of getting a shot at the doctor’s office or when a bug crawls onto your foot.It’s the heebee jeebies, baby.

PeteI guess you could say life, in and of itself, is horror. After all, some of the things people do to each other is far worse than anything a writer can conjure up. One such story is Broken Birds, by Pete Molnar. In his debut novel, Molnar delivers punch after punch in a story that feels all too real. 

I had a chance to meet Pete at Scares That Cares 6 over the first weekend in August. He is too humble and often doesn’t give himself the credit he deserves. I also got to listen to him do a reading from Broken Birds. That reading was powerful, engaging and cringe-worthy in all the right ways. 

I sat down to talk with Pete recently. Here is what he had to say.

A.J.: First things first: why horror?

Pete: I read Pet Sematary when I was twelve while on vacation in Disneyworld with my family. The book scared me so much I don’t remember much of the trip because I was so preoccupied with holding myself together. Mickey Mouse didn’t phase me, but reading that book changed the trajectory of my life. I knew I wanted to evoke the same kind of fear and terror in another person with something I’d write and I’ve been striving towards that ever since. Then, there is the fact I have been battling depression and social anxiety for much of my adult life. I greatly fear death and dread losing the ones I love, almost on an irrational level. Confronting my own fears and phobias (and they are Legion) through writing horror stories is therapeutic and when its is going well, quite cathartic.

A.J.: Pete, when you set out to write Broken Birds, did you know exactly where the story was going or did you say a prayer and wing it?

1438845475Pete: I started out writing as a “pantser” because I had read Stephen King writes that way. It was a mistake to have stuck to that approach for so long and for such a simplistic reason. Then I signed up for James Patterson’s Masterclass. Drafting a “flexible outline” had confounded me for the longest time, until Patterson laid it out in plain language and broke it down into something less intimidating for me. I am now a sworn “plotter” after having written three previous novels the other way, and Broken Birds was the first novel I wrote using an outline. I used to think using an outline would rob the writer of the magical experience of telling the story to themselves. Now, I swear by this approach, because even with an outline, characters are still going to do whatever they want and they’re going to surprise you no matter what.

A.J.: Some people love animals more than they love people (understandably so). Are you one of these people? If so, did that make writing certain scenes in Broken Birds difficult?

Pete: At first, I was really concerned that the treatment of animals in Broken Birds would turn readers off. Not to mention, the scenes that feature animal abuse were very difficult to write and I almost abandoned the project as a result. Then I realized I was not merely writing a novel about hurting animals, as much as I was writing a testament to the bond between humans and their pets. Will Bentley sacrifices everything to save his dog, Alberta. This is a guy who demonstrates how much his pet means to him, so much so he is willing to put his own life in danger and turn his seemingly idyllic existence upside down to save his dog from the clutches of two twisted, sociopathic people.  

A.J.: Are any of the characters based (loosely or solely) on people you have met?

Pete: I can tell you Will’s girlfriend, Mina, as she is described, is my wife. Dark hair. Light eyes. A book-lover and a deep-thinker. Karl Tarlick is a composite of Charles Manson and Gary Heidnik, a serial killer who created a “real-life” House of Horrors in his Philadelphia rowhome. Will Bentley is modeled after Tim O’Brien, who wrote the critically-acclaimed war memoir The Things They Carried. I’m thankful I’ve never met a woman like Stella or Jack Post, but they are both sides of the Battered Woman-Battering Man coin. I conducted hours of research on this disconcerting and baffling relationship, as well as the phenomenons of agoraphobia and borderline-disorder to flesh out Stella especially.   

A.J.: After writing Broken Birds, did you intend to get it published or did you have help deciding it was worth the shot?

Pete: This was the book I shared with Lisa Vasquez during my mentorship with her. She offered a great deal of encouragement and guidance during the novel’s early chapters. I really put my heart and soul into this book, because I didn’t want to see another full-length novel doomed to imprisonment on my hard drive. I wanted this one to see the light of day and I wanted it to be worthy of publication. Lisa must have seen something of merit in the early stages of the book because she invited me to become a VIP author at Stitched Smile Publications. Prayers answered!

A.J.: How did you find your publisher, Stitched Smile Publications?

Pete: I signed up for the Horror Writers Association Mentorship Program and Lisa Vasquez reached out to me shortly thereafter. She took me under her wing, teaching me the in’s and out’s of marketing and the business of writing. She also offered me invaluable advice and regular critiques of Broken Birds, chapter by chapter. Stitched Smile scooped me up at a time in my life when I had nearly come to terms with the prospect I would never land a publisher or an agent. I had queried roughly eighty agents to no avail for my previous novel The Clockwork Lazarus. It was a tough time, and SSP delivered me from what might have been a lifetime of regret.

A.J.: What was the publishing process like for you, the writer? On the same token, what was it like for you, the person?

Pete: As a writer, the publishing process was as exciting as it was an education. The editorial staff at Stitched Smile made numerous passes through the book and eliminated the weaknesses I had missed during my own three passes. Inconsistencies and grammar mistakes that I believe would have slipped through at many other presses. Their attention to detail was laser-focused. As a person, the journey from draft to finished, packaged novel was pretty magical, and to this day when I see my book lying on a dresser or see my wife reading it, I have to take a second look. It’s so surreal.    

A.J.: Did I hear correctly, that Broken Birds was not the original title?

Pete: That’s true. Originally, the book was titled Moonshadow after the Cat Stevens song. When I imagined how Karl Tarlick, the main antagonist in the book, would look, for some reason Cat Stevens just popped into my head. Long, black hair in thick ringlets that frame and nearly close over his face like curtains. Then, I researched the lyrics to some of Cat Stevens’ songs and stumbled across the lyrics to Moonshadow. When I read them, they seemed to fit the context of who Karl Tarlick is way too perfectly. The lyrics bore a sinister tone, like the song was written by a stalker. 

A.J.: Why did you change the title?

Pete: As I kept writing, I realized the title should be changed to Broken Birds. This was for  two reasons. The first being the psychological phenomenon of “broken bird syndrome” is front and center in the novel’s plot line. But also, I noticed a symbolic thread running through the story itself. That all the main characters are broken in some way. Psychologically damaged and dealing with it as only they know how. In a productive way, or, well, not so productive. I’ll say that. 

A.J.: You went to Scares That Cares 6 this year. What was that experience like for you?

Pete: My first night there, my head was on a swivel. One minute, I’m walking past Sid Haig, and the next I see Josh Malerman a few feet away signing books. Paul Tremblay. Jonathan Maberry. Then there was the fact I was finally able to meet my Stitched family in person. Up until that event, I’d only ever communicated with Lisa, Donelle, Larissa, Deanna, Tara, and yourself through group chat, DM, or Hangouts. I was so thrilled to meet everyone in person and the click was immediate.  

A.J.: If I’m correct, you sold out of your books. How did that make you feel?

Pete: Pleasantly surprised doesn’t even cover it. I had expected to be bringing many of them home with me to sell around my neck of the woods. But Sunday rolled around and they just went and I couldn’t believe it. So cool! 

A.J.: What was it like to sign that first book?

Pete: Another unreal experience. I felt like I’d finally come full circle. My 8th grade yearbook had a section in it where all the students were asked where they saw themselves in ten years. I wrote “Autographing my novel or touring the nation.” I wanted to be a writer or a rockstar. But really, writing was always my first love. Took longer than ten years to get there. It took thirty years, but there it was. Dream fulfilled!

A.J.: You did a reading at Scares That Cares 6. Being there to witness it, I think you knocked it out of the park. Were you nervous at all before reading?

Pete: Not at all. Being an English teacher, I read entire novels to my classes. And if I really want to hold the attention of a bunch of fifteen-year-old kids in 2019, a dramatic reading is required. Voices. Acting out Shakespeare. Playing Macbeth. Otherwise, the words are dead on the page for them. I have no problem making a fool out of myself or stepping out of a comfort zone in order to evoke emotion through live reading. Also, having been a singer in bands for fifteen years, I’m quite at home in front of an audience. It’s a lot of fun!

A.J.: How did you feel after you finished the reading?

Pete: It was exhilarating. But I was a little worried about alienating the audience with the particular scene I had chosen to read. That’s why I did a little disclaimer beforehand. It turned out to be okay after all. I think people enjoyed it. 

A.J.: Writing is such a solitary endeavor and authors often spend hundreds of hours alone with the characters in the worlds they create. But who would you like to thank—someone outside of your head—for helping you along the way?

Pete: My wife, Dana, and my daughter, Ani, gave me the time and the space I needed to do the work. Writing takes you away from your family for periods of time each day, but they both were extremely supportive and understanding. They continue to be, and I’m grateful for their love and for believing in this guy. 

A.J.: Before I let you go, Broken Birds is a great debut novel, but is there more from Pete Molnar? What can we expect from you in the future?

Pete: I’ve got a few irons in the fire as far as short stories go. A short story called Swipe-right about a twenty-something girl who stumbles across a different kind of dating site where if she swipes left on a guy’s picture she doesn’t like, the poor guy just winks out of existence. The guys she swipes right on become obsessed with her to the point of becoming dangerous, sociopathic stalkers. Having a good time writing that one! Then there’s my novel-in-progress titled Undiscovered Countries, which centers around a phenomenon known as “coffin-birth” where a dead woman’s body can be scientifically manipulated into birthing a viable child. This one I’m really excited about. It’s already mapped out and outlined. And it’s going to take on a lot more than just the horrific scenario of a “coffin-birth.” It’s going to tackle the twenty-four hour news cycle, religious fundamentalist groups, as well as the persistent scourges of hate, intolerance, and bias in this country. I really think it’s going to be something special for my readers.  

A.J.: Any final words, Pete?

Pete: A.J., this has been a lot of fun! Thank you so much! For my readers, present and future, I extend the deepest gratitude to all of you. Thanks for taking a chance on a new writer!

For those of you who have not heard of Pete Molnar, get ready to. Broken Birds is just the beginning for this talented writer. Beyond the writing, Pete is also a good guy with a big heart and great pipes for singing. Check Pete out at the following links.

www.petermolnarauthor.com

www.facebook.com/petermolnarauthor

@PMolnarAuthor

http://www.instagram.com/petermolnarauthor

Humphrey …

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Dredging Up Memories original cover by Lisa Vasquez

A few years ago, I started a story about a guy named Hank. He was alone in the dead world and searching for his friends and family in hopes of finding some of them alive. That story turned into a novel titled, Dredging Up Memories, and it follows Hank’s story into a downward spiral of … well, I can’t really give you all that information, now can I? Doing that would spoil the book for you.

One thing I can do is tell you about one of the main characters from Dredging Up Memories. Her name is Humphrey and she is a teddy bear. I know, right? Who names a female teddy bear a boy’s name? Anyway, she became like Wilson to Tom Hanks in the movie Cast Away. She also became one of the most beloved characters of the Hank Walker universe. 

After completing the novel, getting it published by Stitched Smile Publications, and then writing a handful of shorter pieces involving Walker, I approached a friend of mine about interviewing the characters of Dredging Up Memories. This young man—his name is Frank—went home and wrote out twenty-seven pages worth of questions he came up with for those characters. 

What you are about to read are the first twenty-five hundred or so words of Humphrey’s interview. I know, it’s kind of mean not giving you all thirty-nine pages of it, but as I said above, I can’t give you all the information, now can I?

I hope you enjoy the following excerpt from The Hank Walker Interviews. 

HUMPHREY 

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Just hangin’ round.

There is a room in an old school in the lower state of South Carolina. The school used to be known as Century Falls High School. It is now Fort Survivor #3. Half a block away is what is left of the middle school of the same name (minus the High, adding the Middle). Directly out the front gates are the remnants of the town that used to be Century Falls. Remnants that consist of burned out cars, and buildings that are little more than husks. If one were to pay close attention he or she would see the occasional dead corpse shambling around the debris and other corpses that are truly dead. If one was listening, then he or she would hear the occasional gun shot, putting that walking corpse down, joining its brethren on the ground among that debris.

This room is on the second floor on a long hall with double doors at each end. One set of doors leads down the steps and to the outside world. For the most part, these doors stay locked from the inside. The other set of doors leads down another hall that t-bones before reaching a set of stairs on either side of that t-bone. There’s no real need to get into where those halls lead.

The room number is 209, and it used to be Mrs. Willoughby’s math class. Most kids hated having Mrs. Willoughby, due to her always angry demeanor and her penchant for giving out zeroes and detention notes. That’s not a problem here now. Mrs. Willoughby is among the permanently deceased. The room, however, has been turned into a bedroom for children who have survived the End Times. Currently there is no one staying in the room and it is as dark in here as night is these days.

A creak rings through the room and down the hall as the door opens. A switch to the left of the doorway is flipped up and the glow of lights spill across the room, forcing the dark into the corners and beneath furniture. Speaking of the furniture, the room is nice. It is painted pink and white on opposite walls. There are a row of four beds directly ahead, foot lockers at the foot of each one. End tables are to the right of the beds, each one with a lamp sitting atop it. On the opposite wall is the exact same set up: four beds, four foot lockers and four end tables with lamps on them. It is clear to anyone who enters that this is a room set up as a basic dorm for little girls who … well, who may have lost everyone except for themselves. On the wall to the right, the same wall the door is on, is a long bookcase filled with books. 

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I’m in this book! I’m going to be a superstar.

Sitting in the center of this room is a table with two chairs. This is not normal. The table is round and the chairs are simple wooden dinner table seats. There is a vase sitting on it with a single daffodil in it, its yellow star-like petals and tea cup bud brighter than the overheads that light up the room. Next to the vase are two bottles of water. They are already open, though the tops are still screwed on.

There is one other thing that is out of place in this room: a video camera. It stands between two of the beds on a tripod, its lens pointing directly at the table.

Two men walk into the room, one of them in his early forties, stubble chinned and a book bag over his shoulder. He reaches into the bag and unzips the front pocket. Jutting from it is a teddy bear in bunny pajamas. The man, known to many readers as Hank, sets the bear on one of the chairs. He doesn’t like the way the bear’s head barely comes to the bottom of the table. Hank goes to the bookcase and snags several of the hardbacks. At the table he sets the books in the seat, sits the teddy bear in it, and then scoots the chair up to the table. 

The second man is younger, but not by much. His hair is sandy brown. Wire rimmed glasses are perched on his nose; his hair is long and is pulled into a ponytail that runs down his back. He walks over to the camera and presses a button on its side. The camera comes on. Accompanying it is a faint hum that is barely noticeable if you aren’t standing right next to it. He fiddles with it a few seconds more, pressing the red record button. He looks in the digital view finder and sees the red REC blinking, nods and walks away.

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Dredging Up Memories re-issued cover by Lisa Vasquez

“Morning, Frank.”

“Good morning, Mr. Walker.”

To the teddy bear Hank says “Humphrey, this is Frank. He is going to do your interview, okay.”

Humphrey says nothing.

“Come on, Humphrey. Don’t be shy.”

Still, the teddy bear says nothing. Really, why would it? How would it? It is just a teddy bear, right?

“Humphrey, Frank is a good guy. You have to trust me. Can you do that?”

The teddy bear’s head seems to move slightly. 

“Please?”

“Okay.” 

The bear’s voice is soft, not much more than a whisper. But it is enough to startle Frank. His eyes are wide behind the lenses of his glasses. A lump has formed in his throat. If there is one thing Frank did not expect it is that the teddy bear would actually speak. He really did believe he would sit there at the table with the teddy bear, who had been Hank Walker’s traveling companion for several months at the beginning of the End Times, and field answers from Walker, himself. Not some inanimate object.

“Did … did Humphrey just speak?”

Hank laughs, rubs Humphrey on the head. “Yes, she did.”

“She? Yes, that is right. Humphrey is a she.”

“That’s right. A lot of folks wonder about that, why anyone would name  a female teddy bear Humphrey?”

“It is a fair thought. Why would someone give a stuffed toy that is clearly a female a boy’s name?”

“Why do guys give their cars girl names?” Hank responds. “Who knows?”

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Pelican Snowball anyone?

“Good point.”

“Okay, I’m going to leave you guys alone for a while. I’ll come back later and see how you are doing. Humphrey, Frank is not going to hurt you. I promise. He and I have already done this. You’re in good hands. Okay?”

Humphrey doesn’t look up, but she gives a small nod and whispers, “Okay.”

With that said, Walker turns and leaves, closing the door behind him. 

The room is quiet for several long seconds. Frank has been in similar situations, with the silence being so loud you can hear it. He doesn’t like that feeling. It is awkward and thick. He is determined to fill the silence quickly. He picks up his notepad and flips it open. He turns the pages until he finds the first page marked in his scratchy handwriting as, Humphrey’s Interview. He looks at the first question and starts to ask it, then stops. He looks at the glassy eyes of the stuffed toy in front of him. This is a moment right out of a little girl’s childhood, where the stuffed toy is her best friend and they are having tea and crumpets with their pinkies out and slurping away at the nothing in the cups. He could almost see a girl with her favorite white and pink dress on and her hair pulled back into pig tails, her voice very much like the teddy bear’s in front of him. There is a moment of pure joy as he sees the little girl is blonde and her eyes are blue and she has dimples and freckles across her nose. 

‘Is your tea good?’ the little girl asks.

‘Delicious,’ the teddy bear responds.

The little girl smiles wide, showing off her teeth, including the gap where one is missing.

Briefly Frank wonders if the Tooth Fairy visited her the night she lost that tooth. If so, how much money did he (or she) leave the little girl? A dollar? Two? Five? Maybe the Tooth Fairy was very well off and left her a ten spot or even twenty.

Frank shakes his head, smiles and then chuckles softly.

“What’s so funny?”

He is startled by this question. He’s the one who is supposed to asks the questions. The grin leaves his face and the chuckle dies off. “I … ummm … I just didn’t think you would talk to me.”

“Why is that?”

She is well-spoken for a young teddy bear who Frank imagines is around five or six.

“I just didn’t think you would, especially when Mr. Walker left.”

She seems to nod, but says nothing else.

“So, ummm … would you like to get started?”

“Okay.”

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A boy and a bear.

Frank glances down at his notes. The first question is short, but he imagines it is an okay question to ask. At least, he hopes

“Let’s start from the beginning. What was life like before Hank?”

The silence he so hates fills the room, but it’s not that same awkward thickness. It is more of an anticipatory silence, as if Frank is watching a game show on a television of the past, one where the show has gone on for weeks and weeks and now there were only two contestants left and the host is about to announce the winner. There should be some sort of dramatic music playing, and maybe there is in Frank’s mind. The host opens his mouth and says, ‘And the winner of who doesn’t get eaten by a biter today is …’ and the commercial break interrupts the tension, sending the audience into a series of groans and ‘you’ve gotta be kidding me’s’.

But the silence doesn’t last all that long. In fact, it doesn’t even last as long as a short commercial break.

“It was fun,” Humphrey says. Frank thinks he can see her pink string mouth turned up into a smile. And is that a shimmer in her eyes?

“It was fun?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

Humphrey doesn’t say anything right away. When she does, several seconds have passed and it is not an answer, but a question: “How so?”

Though her face doesn’t change, Frank thinks it does all the same. Maybe it was a twinkle in the eye. Or maybe it was just a slight shift of the head, or the angle at which she is sitting, but something has changed and it is a physical thing he can’t figure out. What he does know is she looks confused, as any living, breathing person would be. Then the light bulb comes on and he realizes she doesn’t understand his question.

“Oh, umm … ’how so’ is another way of asking, how was it fun?”

“I see.”

“So that’s what I am asking: how was life fun before Hank?”

The creative mind is a place where thoughts conspire for either good or bad. It is also the center of imagination, and as Humphrey sits, stoically, in her seat, Frank’s mind begins imagining she iss moving, like a child would, maybe one of five or six years of age; maybe a little older. He can see her tapping her chin as if she is thinking. Her lips are twisted slightly, almost in a pucker. Then she smiles, her small pink thread lips turning up and her fuzzy fingerless hand pointing at him.

“Before Mr. Walker came I was alone in my girl’s room. They had left me when everything went bad.”

She is quiet, this time with her head dipped and her glassy black eyes staring down at the floor. One shoulder goes up in a shrug. Then she lets out a deep sigh.

“My girl’s dad died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” And Frank truly is sorry. 

“Me too. They thought he was dead and they were sad and scared and my girl—her name was Casey—she held me so close as she sat on her bed. She had taken a shower and I could smell her shampoo. She always smelled so clean after her showers. Her momma made her take one every night, and sometimes I got one too, but not in the tub. They put me in the wash machine with some clothes and I spun and swam and spun and swam, and then they put me in the dry machine and I tumble up and down until I am dry.”

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Just chillin’ by a wall, hoping for no biters to show up.

Frank smiles at this. The Humphrey in his imagination is opening up without realizing she is doing so. He remains quiet as she continues her story.

“Then they put my pajamas on and I was fresh like my girl.”

She pauses, as if thinking again. When she speaks, her voice is almost a whisper and Frank has to lean in to hear her. Though he misses the first part of what she says, he clearly gets the second part.

“… they were gone.”

Not for the first time he wonders what it would be like to have gone through the End Times, as Hank Walker calls it. Would he have lost everyone he cares about? Would he have even survived the initial outbreak, and if so, would he have lasted as long as some of the survivors in Fort Survivor #3?

In his imagination—a place he thinks he will spend a lot of time during this interview—he sees tears in Humphrey’s eyes. They are no longer glassy and black, but soft and blue, almost real eyes. His heart sinks into his stomach as he realizes Humphrey is remembering the events that took her girl, her Casey, from her and left her alone when everything went bad. She takes a deep breath, holds it for a second and then releases it. She looks up at Frank. Her smile is still there, but it is not a happy one. What he sees on her face right then is resignation.

“Her dad tried to kill them. Her mommy escaped and took my girl with her. They screamed a lot as they tried to get away from him, and then my girl screamed even more when her mommy grabbed her up and left me behind.”

“She tried to grab me, but knocked me on the floor instead. I landed on my back. She cried and screamed and then the door slammed shut. I heard the car doors and … they were gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Frank says. 

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The 5 and 3 with M.F. Wahl

Back at the beginning of March, MF Wahl rereleased her novel, Disease, through Stitched Smile Publications. It was a long wait, but one well worth it. I had the opportunity to participate in her online release party as well as do The 5 and 3 with her. So, here we go.

The Five:

  1. We always hear the question, “Where do you get your ideas from?” What I want to know is how do you go from idea to finished story?  Mostly, I just plant my ass at my computer and write. Is there another way to do it?
  2. What is the hardest part of writing for you? Probably the planting my ass at my computer to write part. Life is demanding, and more often than not, it’s not demanding that I make time for myself to pull the words out of my head and slap them on paper … err … screen …
  3. Outside of the writing/publishing circle, when you tell someone you are a writer how do people react? How do they react when you say you are a horror writer? The vast majority of people will tell me they’re not really into horror. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Others are fans of the genre though, and that’s always nice.
  4. If you could meet a character from one of your stories, who would it be and why? My character Alex from my novel Disease. He’s pretty quiet, but I’m positive he has a lot going on inside his head. I think it would be interesting to discover all those things.
  5. What qualities make up your ideal reader? If someone reads they are my ideal reader. They don’t need to read my stuff, and if they do, they don’t even need to like it. Reading opens worlds and allows us to glean knowledge from just about anyone and anytime in history or future. It allows us to live other lives and partake in experiences that we would otherwise be closed off from, both real and imagined. Through it we can explore the human condition. In addition, reading fiction is proven to increase empathy, and learning to read earlier in childhood is a leading indicator of intelligence later in life. Reading is incredibly important and such a boon to human civilization. If someone reads, they are my ideal reader. Period.

The Three:

  1. If you were ruler of your country for one day and you could make one change that DISEASEbyMFWahl_Cover_Thumbnailcould not be revoked, what would it be? Any change that could be made is wrought with consequences, both good and bad, and any policy change that could never be revoked would make for bad policy. Take education, something I feel strongly about, something I feel is on the “need” list if we want a viable society. But, say we were to be invaded by aliens and required all resources for one year to go toward surviving the invasion as a country rather than education. If a policy of universal free education couldn’t be revoked temporarily we might perish at the hands of the tentacled invaders. Beyond that, every policy must be made with an idea of how to fund, implement, and sustain it at its highest ideal. I don’t think I’m qualified to make such decisions. So, I suppose I would veer away from an individual sweeping reform policy, despite the fact there are many issues I feel strongly about. Instead, perhaps I would try to install a diverse, flexible, and highly intelligent council that operated outside the influence of politics and money and that could help create policies with the public’s input for society’s good. Of course, now we’re essentially speaking about the total destruction of our current and corrupt, money motivated political system, and such an overhaul is bound also to have unforeseen consequences, although they may be preferable to the abomination we currently kowtow to. It would also likely be met with vehement opposition by those who benefit from the status quo and be susceptible to corruption in of itself. Which, I suppose would lead me to deciding that the one change made that couldn’t be revoked be that I was the ruler of my country for ever and ever, past my one day with the stipulation that I would step down from my position once I installed an new and fair system. But now, don’t I sound like a wondrous dictator?
  2. Do you have a guilty pleasure? If so, what is it? Nope. I feel no guilt about my pleasures.
  3. Can you give us one memory from your childhood that helped to shape you into the person you are now? My mother used to read to my siblings and me every night. I think that had a large impact on me and helped lead to my love of reading and eventually to writing.

Bonus question:

How does your significant other/spouse feel about your writing? Does he/she support your pursuit of writing/publishing? Of course. I couldn’t get along without the support and encouragement I receive.

You can find M.F. Wahl at her website HERE.

Hank Walker: A Snippet

Dear Faithful Readers,

I want to tell you about Hank Walker, the main character of Dredging Up Memories. He’s an everyday average guy who ended up in the not so everyday average zombie apocalypse. He, like anyone dealing with the end of the world as he knew it, struggled to cope with the loss of loved ones and of humanity as a whole. He dealt with the loneliness in the best way he could. Maybe that was the wrong way, but it also may have been the way a lot of folks would have dealt with it. Who knows?

When I created the character of Hank Walker, I wanted to put him in situations that would test his mental fortitude. I wanted to break him and see how he came out on the other side of that. There were things I put him through that bothered me, especially as I got to know Hank and see his personality develop.

Sometimes when we write characters, we have to hurt them in order to make them believable. We have to hurt them in order to make you, the reader, feel something in your heart of hearts and your mind of minds. But by doing that, we also hurt ourselves, we break our hearts. As a writer, I know I have done my job, if I feel the pain of the story as I am writing it.

I’ve been told on several occasions that Dredging Up Memories is like The Walking Dead with more emotion. I take that as a huge compliment.

I can’t go into too much of the actual storyline without giving a ton away. However, I would love to give you part of the story, here in this post. Enjoy:

51xtx8nzwslA middle-aged man groaned as we neared each other. I screamed back at him before taking the top of his head off with the machete. The pistol took out several more, just click and boom and down they went.

I spun and saw another rotter moving toward me. His glasses were still on his face though hanging cock-eyed, just on the tip of his nose. His hair was short, a few cowlicks kicked off the edges. He was thin, and all I could think was Paul Marcum taking a bite out of Lee, essentially ending my oldest brother’s existence. The man looked similar to him.

I backpedaled to the truck, climbed in the bed, and shoved aside part of the tin can alarm system. There were other guns back there, plenty of ammunition, but all I wanted was a vantage point.

The other dead approached, flies swarming around them, their stench filling the air, making my stomach churn. Even after these few months, that smell still makes me want to heave. I plucked them off one by one until only the Paul Marcum lookalike was standing at the tailgate. He was missing three fingers on one hand, and up close, he was a lot worse off than I originally thought. Skin had peeled away from his face, exposing facial muscles as tough as jerky.

“How you doin’, Paul?”

He looked at me, gave a moan, and stretched out his arms.  

“Okay, so you’re not Paul—at least you weren’t in another life. But today… Today, you’re Paul Marcum, and you killed my brother.”

I brought the heel of my boot down on the bridge of his nose. He stumbled backward, let out what sounded like a howl. He was in pain, and I was happy to put him through more of it. I jumped from the truck, landed a few feet from him. A quick whip of the machete on one arm and it separated from his body.

“You think that hurt?” I yelled as he groaned. “You haven’t felt anything yet.”

I circled around him, rage having consumed me entirely. The blade found the other arm. The snap of bone and the rush of fetid blood spilled from a new wound as the arm fell away. Another pain-filled howl left the Marcum lookalike. I pulled the pistol from my waistband and took two shots at his legs—two wasted bullets that I’ll never get back, but at that time…at that time, wounding an innocent man who unfortunately looked like another one was all I cared about. The rotter fell to the ground, lay there with no hands to pull himself along, his legs useless.

With the toe of my boot, I rolled him onto his back. His teeth clattered together as he gnashed at me. His filmed-over eyes held anger in them.

“You’re mad at me? Is that how it is, Paul? You kill my brother, and you’re mad at me?” I laughed. Maybe the wheels had finally come off the car, and my mind had taken the short road to insanity. I don’t know, but at that moment—that frozen, horrible moment in time—I didn’t care about the pain the dead must have been in, the fear that must have been sitting in their undead veins. The only thing that mattered was revenge. Plain and simple. And revenge I would have.

I brought the blade down on the dead man’s chest, yanked it out, and swung it down again. Over and over, I bashed the body of the poor man as black blood spilled from each wound, and dead tissues tore free, bones broke. After several minutes, I finally stopped, my arms aching, my breathing heavy and harsh in my ears. The zombie still stirred, his mouth still opening and closing, his eyes still focused on what could have been a meal.

And the anger was gone from me, all of it unleashed on that poor dead man. I shook from adrenaline and sudden guilt. A hand went to my mouth, and I dropped the machete to the ground. I took several steps back until my back hit the tailgate. The man still moved, still made little groans and moans, and his head turned from side to side like he was saying no no no no over and over again.

I pulled out my pistol, walked the short distance to the mutilated body, and pulled the trigger. The man’s head ruptured, and he stilled. Hands shaking, I got into the truck, closed the door, and locked it. I could feel Humphrey’s eyes on me, sense his disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered as I stared out the windshield at the carnage around me. The dead were truly dead, their bodies lying where I felled them.

I hope you enjoyed this snippet from Dredging Up Memories. If so, consider bee-bopping over to Amazon and getting a copy. I would truly appreciate it. If you have already read it, would you mind leaving a review if you haven’t done so? That helps me out more than you probably know.

With that said, I leave you all and hope you have a wonderful morning, afternoon and evening.

Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.

Cory’s Way, An Excerpt

Good evening Faithful Readers.

I am ashamed to admit something. It’s not something like a crime or an addiction or even something as simple as a desire to eat all the donuts at the donut shop (though that part is true, and would probably be considered an addiction). It’s something I can’t believe I haven’t actually done here on Type AJ Negative. So often I talk of writing and life here. So often I promote other writers’ works. So often I do interviews for other writers here. But, not so often, I promote my own work. And, as far as I can tell, I’ve never actually posted a passage from my novel here.

I.

Can’t.

Believe.

It.

I have some great work out there. Two short story collections and a novel, and over the last year or so, I have done very little promoting of my own work. I’m sitting here shaking my head as I think about this.

Well, that changes right now with an excerpt from Cory’s Way, my novel. Are you ready for this? Good. Hop in the car with me. It’s okay. Just open the door, get in and strap on your seatbelt (it is the law, after all) and we’ll go for a ride. We’ll take a short journey into the world of Corey Maddox. If you’re ready, let’s ride:

***

On the day Cory Maddox met George Washington—not the first president, but a black man whose skin was as dark as tomorrow night—he was running for his life. Or so it seemed. Behind him, followed the Burnette brothers, their feet thumping on the blacktop like a couple of galloping horses. They yelled for him to stop running, that sooner or later they would catch him and when they did he would regret making them chase him. Obscenities followed. His Sanity screamed, begging for Cory to heed his warning.

(Run! Run! Run! They’re going to kill you!)

Cory’s side burned; a stitch stabbed straight through from front to back. His legs ached and threatened to send him to the ground if he didn’t, at least, stop for a second and catch his wind. His breaths came out in labored gasps through an open mouth. His book bag jostled on his back, bouncing from side to side, occasionally knocking him off balance. It wasn’t enough to really slow him down, but he held onto the straps tighter, making the running more awkward. At one point, Cory thought of tossing it to the ground, just let the Burnette brothers have it. He could run faster and it might appease them long enough for him to make it home alive.

His mind scrambled to make sense of everything, tried to figure out why they were chasing him. Just what had he done to anger them?

Snippets of thoughts danced in his mind. ‘Hey, new kid…What do yah have for lunch…’ Someone shoved him. His lunch tray clattered on the cafeteria floor, his hands out in front to try and break the fall. There were bruises on his palms. He was certain there were bruises on his knees as well. A teacher, tall and lanky, hair the color of a storm cloud, eyes full with lightning, appeared. Her voice silenced the laughter of the other kids. An ‘oh shit,’ was trailed by a ‘we’ll get you later, new kid.’

Cory’s legs screamed, his calves joining his thighs in protests. The stitch in his left side was united with the one in his right. Tears seeped from his eyes, partially from fear, but more from the ache of his weakening body. It was only a matter of time before it finally gave up and dropped him to the concrete.

“Look out,” Cory yelled just before passing an old man, his cane out in front of him, thick-lensed glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose. Somehow he managed not to crash into the old man. That would have been bad. If anything, it would have slowed him down enough for the Burnette brothers to catch up to him. They didn’t seem like the type that would worry about an old man who had fallen and probably had no way of getting up. If, by a very small chance, they did stop and head the other way, the old man would have probably been hurt, and that may have been worse than a beating.

Neither of those things came to pass. Cory skirted by the old man, stumbled, righted himself, and ran on.

(Almost took the Nestea plunge, there, Cory.)

He darted across the street, barely looking both ways before doing so. Cory tripped as he hopped onto the sidewalk, planted his hand in front of him and almost ended up sprawled out on the concrete. Instead, he caught himself and ran on.

A stone zipped overhead, landing a few feet in front of him.

Rocks?! his mind screamed.

(What else could it be, dimwit?)

Fear pushed him harder.

They gained ground, their voices louder. They were laughing.

Home was four blocks away along the street. It was less than two if he went beneath the underpass just ahead.

(Yeah, that’s what we want to do. Run into the darkness where rats and spiders and other creepy crawlies are, and maybe even a mad man or two…)

***

I hope you enjoyed the short ride around the block and the little peek into Cory’s world. If you enjoyed it, you can pick up a digital copy at that well-known Kindle book provider, Amazon, HERE.

As always, I thank you, Faithful Readers, for sticking with me through my travels in the world of writing and publishing. Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another…

 

 

 

Cory’s Way, A Novel

After his father leaves in the middle of the night, Cory Maddox and his mom, Gina, are forced to start over. Left alone while Gina tries to work her way out of debt, Cory deals with life as the new kid in school with no friends. Fleeing from the school bullies, Cory ends up under an overpass where an old homeless man lives. After being saved from the bullies, Cory and the homeless man, Mr. Washington, become friends.

But things don’t get any easier for Cory. Children are disappearing from around the state, and the bullies haven’t forgotten his escape the first time they went after him. And there is something wrong with Mr. Washington…something terribly wrong.

Accompanied by his only two friends and the unlikeliest of allies, Cory sets out to keep a promise to the ailing homeless man. Will Cory and his friends find a way to keep the promise, or will the journey prove too difficult for them?

Cory’s Way, coming December 6th to Kindle users everywhere.

However, you can pick it up in print format now by following this link:

Cory’s Way Square Online Store

If you are local and I can hand deliver the book to you, it cost $10.00. If I have to mail it (in the U.S. only for now) it will be $13.00.

The first review has come in. Here is part of it:

This book, Cory’s Way, has that instant classic feel of an 80’s movie. You will connect, you will feel, you will know Cory. As an adult you will remember the simple conversations between boys and girls, moms and sons. As a Young Adult, I believe you will relate, but also, enjoy. Such a ride. The real horror is because you feel like you know these kids, feel like you are one of these kids.

You will smile…but …beware. You will also cringe. You may even put the book down a minute to catch your breath.

Sounds cool, doesn’t it?

Pick up your copy or gift it to a friend or loved one for Christmas.

 

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