Book of Emptiness

The Book of Emptiness is the name of the novel I am working on. And that statement alone should initiate peals of hilarity. Novel. Working on. Sigh. These posts are tangentially related to the setting, an ‘alternate’ earth, if you will. One day, if you see a flurry of activity then you may actually witness its completion. Then again it just might be the humidity.

sentinelsI never liked riding in limousines. It was uncomfortable, like the first time you get your teeth cleaned after two years. Even after all the time I’d spent in them it never got any easier. Today was really no different.

Except for the fact that after today no one would feel the same again.

Except for the fact that I was missing the last six weeks of my life.

Except for the fact that I was on my way to bury my best friend.

The drive was interminable. A short six miles from my home. It felt like six hundred. Continue Reading

sadnessLet me tell you a story.

Now pay attention, please. What I’m about to tell you is true, though none of it is real.

If you’re lucky you might find something you like; if not, perhaps you can celebrate with the mice as they toast kitty’s new friend, Scraps the beagle.

“Living without you, living alone”

Years ago – a long, long way back – there was a girl. Her name was Laney (it’s a nice name, though not one you’d ever figure out, maybe, unless you’re Laney.) Laney was very pretty. She was pretty the way a china doll, resting against a sleepy pillow, sits and makes everything around it seem just a little bit…tarnished. Believe it or not, Mr. Stuffmyface – who wasn’t afraid of anything – shivered now and again whenever that china doll, who’s name is Ms. Chips, looked in his direction.

Laney was that kind of beautiful.

She also had a wonderful heart. It was soft (and some say a bit mushy) and very fragile. She had to protect it but sometimes she didn’t. And when she didn’t she would cry. It was an aching thing to see her cry. The tears would be big, thick drops that would avalanche across the gentle curves and lines of her face.

No one liked to see Laney cry; and those that did were big, fat, meanies who ate uncooked worms (no one eats uncooked worms!) Continue Reading

Old John Goode moved his tired feet along the worn, gravel road. They were covered in a pair of tattered and slipshod sneakers, the soles nearly worn through and the canvas spotted with matter of a questionable sort. He methodically put one foot in front of the other, humming an old, soft, tuneless song to himself and twirling his fingers around an imaginary coin that had long since vanished into the heart of America’s grand capital commerce machine.

“Jimmy cracked corn n’I don’t care, what?” He croaked out in a phlegm-coated voice. He came slowly to a stop; turning to look behind him back down the long dusty road. The starlight illuminated the evening brilliantly; and the frost in the air, as well as the old empty fields that rested on either side, glittered like the heavens above.

Old John Goode laughed softly and turned back to his slow shuffle, the humming once more stroking the air.

Overhead a night bird croaked once. Old John Goode paid it no mind. His thoughts were on other matters. Matters of the heart, by gum, and he was having none of the old sass Birdman Crow wanted to cackle out.

…for the rest of Cemetery Tales