End of the Month Thing

Finished two stories in January, so I'm ahead of my own curve.

"And the Cotton is High" was finished in first draft for Dead Bait , and will be revised tomorrow for the second and final drafts.

"Cooking for One" was finished in first draft (and started) today, and finished in four hours, and will undergo revisions afer dinner and a visit by friends for Devil's Food .

"Ain't Gonna Dig No More" was rejected by Apex for "lovely writing, no a tight story, and too horrorific for our tastes". It has since been re-subbed to Allegory for their consideration after a review and tightening of certain parts I missed during revision.

"No Deductible" is still a lady in waiting over at Weird Tales with no word.

I'm looking for markets still on "Rock A Bye Baby", "Fragile Obsession", and "No Tell Hotel". The first made the first cut and was then rejected by The World Is Dead and most recently by Necrotic Tissue, the second was a submission to Ghost in the Machine , which I have since given up as a dead market, and the third made the short list for Morrigan Books' Voices anthology. If you know of any markets, let me know.

Also, stoked that I finally got Rex Storm, Large Vermin Exterminator in a story.

Stories that have seen print this year are "Many Comforting Words", "Winter Wonderland", and "Big Jim Can Wait", all of which are in the Northern Haunts anthology from Shroud. My copy shipped yesterday. I'll be one pins and needles all week.

Stories to see print are a singleton, "Crib Death", slated to appear in the next issue of Sand from Strange Publications.

A few ideas bouncing around my head thanks to some weird dreams I had last night. I have to eat more popcorn before going to bed.

Other things to happen this month:

Got Promoted
Qualified for the loan to buy the ranch house
Discovered exactly how large the tax refund is going to be (let's say I'm getting rid of some debt this winter)

On the baby front, they've started to roll over, teeth, and crawl. Plus, Maggie has me wrapped completely around her finger. Des, my wife, has started painting again, which is good. In case I've never mentioned it, my wife had a little reputation as an indie filmmaker for her horror and weird movies, and is a wonderful painter. When we first started dating (I had a mustache) she made a painting of me as a confederate soldier under a tree, staring over a blood-stained battlefield in sunset. Don't tell her, I have no idea where it is. Recently she's started doing some other art.

Speaking of art, there was an artist out there that stays in my memory. I had a friend named Kelly who went to Southern Illinois University in Carbondale. I forget her name, but she said she painted her nightmares. There was one painting that hung above their couch everytime I visited, a monster of some sort. I just remember it freaked me the hell out. I wish I had offered to buy it at that point.

Oh well.

That's the news from the homefront, where I now have more time because I have an 8-5 shift again.

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

Poop: It's Everywhere

Guess what I just finished doing with my kids?

Anyhow, my weekend thing. Got off the pot today and started wrapping up the first draft of the Dead Bait story, starting the edits after a bit more in the way of grocery shopping. In the same not, Cate Gardner has received her first acceptance of 2009, much later than I expected. Seriously, Cate is a pro in a dabbler's world. This woman needs an agent and a contract just so I can say "Oh, yeah, I know her on the internet!". Great writer, and a friendly person. Congrats Cate!

Outside of that, not much going on at Casa Del Tabler. We had company over last night, and agreed to do a weekly potluck rotating between three houses. On the bright side, we may be moving again from a rental home to one we own. My sister is moving out to the country with her husband, and if she does they're offering to sell us their Ranch Home at the price they paid for it about 7-8 years ago. It was a foreclosure home at that point, and has a lot of work that was done to remodel it since, so getting it at that low of a price is a steal for us. We'll see how it pans out.

Finished a few short-shorts this month, and I realized that since I've become a father of babies again my horror mind tends to go towards the evils and fears of child-rearings, from zombie stillbirth to demonic, cannibalistic infants, down to the fear that something out of our power can hurt a child (think my fear of snakes...I hate snakes, yet have this worry one will somehow crawl through our heating vents and end up in the crib). "Trolling Nature's Bounty", my Dead Bait story, is a nice break from that, and injects a little dark humor in.

Now, my end of the year submission wrap-up:

"No Deductible" at Weird Tales
"Tribe of Harry" at Annalemma
"Parable of Judas" at St. Anne's Review
"Ain't Gonna Dig No More" at Abyss & Apex

A few more that came back, getting sent back out today.

No, to drive for diapers and Happy Meals!

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

One Day Late, But A Dollar More

A belated Birthday gift...

Sand has accepted "Crib Death", a 716 word piece, for inclusion in Issue #3, due out in February of 2009.

I'm happy. More later.

Blood On Bluegrass

I finally broke the writer's block, and it isn't on a story. Not exactly.

I'm working on a story about a true suicide that happened here in Kentucky, at least they thought it was a suicide, and it may have actually been. I want to play it close to the vest right now, but it has homosexuality, a love triangle, felonies, embezzlement, a coverup...all the makings of sensational psuedo-news.

EDIT:

I realized I should post some more.

Alright, so here goes. Work has picked up, and as a result I have four 1/4 finished stories sitting on my hard drive. It isn't about substance right now, just getting the starts down on paper. If I can muscle through that, and get a flow going, I can always go back to rewrite the beginning.

In other news, the whole family got sick last week, babies and all. This meant my 7-day vacation from work for writing purposes turned into 7 days of sniffling and sneezing, turning into a couple of days handlingt he babies myself as my poor wife passed out and had to be hospitalized. She's alright now, but with her condition (MS), both her M.D. and I are in agreement that she has to take better care of herself.

As for the stories...well...

"Norton Is Watching" has been rebirthed, and "The Parting Glass" has come into development stages for the basic idea, clocking in at 958 words for an intro and atmosphere. "Deep Dark Hellhole" is starting to bud into the real meat of a short, short piece, and I've started outlining the NANOWRIMO idea.

I swear I'm going to try and finish that this year.

As for everything else...well, I have no excuse. See, I know I can write, and I know I do a decent enough job, but I'm seeing a serious lacking quality to my recent work. Chalk it up to stress, time constraints, family...whatever. It's no real excuse. I've got to get my feet under me, in a literary sense. I started out this year piss and vinegar and went strong up until July. After that...well. We only have to look back at my blog to see what happened.

So here's the plan...get one story finished prior to NANOWRIMO. Complete a draft of a novel, even if it does turn out to be as rancid as my son's last diaper, during November. Do two more stories in December. Rest for half of January, then kick my big rear back into gear. Luckily, I now have three days off a week, working 4 days a week, 10 hours a day. My wife and I have agreed the extra day is a no-kids, no-distractions writing day, 8 hours from rising to resting in front of the P.C., 4,000 words a day. That...well, honestly shouldn't be a problem for me. My normal daily limit for 2-3 hours is 1,000 words, and that's counting distractions.

I'm counting on you fine folks, then, to harass me every Wednesday on whether I've finished my work or not. Beat him, harangue me, cajole me. Hell, get my phone number and call me incessantly to ask if I'm at the computer.

As for the project above...right now it's research and trying to secure interviews. I have to get the family, coworkers, cops, and journalists to talk to me, secure 15 year old case files, get audit reports, find friends/witnesses willing to talk to me, and secure a photographer. I also have to turn my coal room into a kid-proof lair where I can tack up crime scene photos in all their gory details. It isn't horror, but damned if what I have (just in two interviews and news clippings) doesn't lead me to believe there's a story there.

For now, though, I have to help train a class of new hires tomorrow, so off to bed I go.

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

The First Line

Well, I'll join the band wagon. Here, in no order, are the first lines from the last 20 stories I've written.

1. Lantern light off tombstones cast an absurd glow onto browning grass. (Ain't Gonna Dig No More)
2. I was born in a small county hospital on a December night that was warmer than most around that time of the year. (The Ignoble Birth of Tucker Talbott)
3. Jeanette didn’t cry the first time Kitty scratched her, not until Mommy started screaming. (Beautiful Little Rubies)
4. Some folks say snakes aren’t smart, just do what comes natural. (Big Jim Can Wait)
5. “It’s ten in the morning here in the Derby City, and if there’s anyone out there still listening they’re listening to 89.1 WKBS, BS Radio with Mad Mike Stevens and his Midnight Mayhem." (Dead Air)
6. They found Old Man Jenkins’s face behind the radio cabinet, staring up blankly from the floor. (Demon Whiskey)
7. To be face to face with a legend, a man whose name had been tossed around the office since the first time you wrote up a police report for the back page, was more intimidating than you would think. (A Dream of England)
8. Hundreds of glass eyes stared blindly into the basement. (Fragile Obsession)
9. You have this theory that there are two tribes in the city, the Day People and the Night People. (The Tribe of Harry)
10. Poppa Bear knew history often repeated itself, and it was this knowledge alone that kept him working hard to prevent a circular flow of unforgiving time. (Poppa Bear)
11. Twenty dollars a night or ten dollars an hour for a room, an extra five if you want clean sheets, three if you want soap, fifteen dollar deposit for a remote that isn’t fastened to the beside table. (No Tell Hotel)
12. I don’t read newspapers anymore, and haven’t since I was a child. (Many Comforting Words)
13. I never stopped believing in him. (Sacrifice of Man and Cloth)
14. Welcome to Historic Innsmouth, Where America’s Dark Past Comes to Life! (The Simple Account of Sergean Shea, Immediately Prior to the End of the World)
15. “We do not cover amputations unless they are completely and totally unnecessary." (No Deductible)
16. I went to law school in Boston in the late seventies, though I won’t say which school or exactly when. (Winter Wonderland)
17. “Do you think we could work it out?” she asked (Rock A Bye Baby)
18. The first time David heard “Presbyterian Guitar” by John Hartford he was beside his father’s coffin in the Markham Funeral Home down on Main. (Colburn Men)
19. “Is it the undead?” Dr. Lance questioned as sausage fingers tugged unkempt beard. (Linguistic Prescription)
20. “Was that a dead emu?” Richard asked, examining the rearview with fervor. (Weekend Trip)

Alright, there we go. Not in order of being written or anything, mainly because I can't remember the order the were written in, but the last twety stories I wrote and their opening lines!

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

Let's cover August.

Well, I am loathe to admit this, but I only finished a single complete work of fiction during the month of August. I had finished several things during July, got them sent out and such, but August was mostly work and pregnancy. So, as a result, only one piece of writing got finished. That was:

"Ain't Gonna Dig No More" - Submitted to Potter's Field 3

Outside of that, I started on several things only to have them fall by the wayside throughout the month, among them being:

"One Lump or Two, Balgaraog the Eviscerator" - a possible Dead Jesters story. This was started, and about halfway through set aside because I wasn't certain of the story's thread or where it was going. I had Balgarog, the demon from Hell forced to have a tea party with a little girl whose bed he slept under, down pat. As for the plot, the girl, her family...not so much past the first couple scenes. I'm working on this one still, and someday hope to read over what I have and churn out a definite story, but for now it's on hold.

"Mitchell Hill Road" - A calling from the world of Harvest Hill. I've started it, and have decided in a few hours of writing that it will be much longer than the simple one-shot I wanted to do as a work-up for my own amusement. This'll be on hold for definite development until I get the anthology in my hands and see what history has already been developed for the town outside of my own story. It may be a possible submission to some future anthology or project set in that tiny Tennessee town.

"The Coal Room" - Not really on hold, just having a few false starts. Everytime I found the thread, my wife (still pregnant then) needed something done, and by the time I was finished the story would have fled. The basics are still there, just waiting for me to sit down and type the story.

"Rex Storm, Large Vermin Exterminator" - A longtime project finally began, that saw a good amount of work on the outline for it over the month. Between this one and the babies, I have a decent excuse not to get many short stories done over August.

September will hopefully see a lot more work being done, both on "Rex Storm" (which may end up being that 'someday' novel I keep talking about, depending on how the outlines tickle my fancy) and on the short story scene. Now that the kids are here, believe it or not, I'll have a little more time to write because I'm going to be up half the night anyhow. Might as well make some use of those midnight hours. Plus, I tend to be prolific when I'm stressed out.

Well, back to the children, then back to the grindstone. By the way, remember to read Catherine Gardner's new story over at Allegory. It is, very simply, another wonderful piece from this talented writer.

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

Get Yourself a Sweet Madonna!

I hit the Hat Trick! As of today I have three stories in the Northern Haunts anthology, upcoming from Shroud Press.

"Many Comforting Words" was accepted back in June, and today I got a couple emails informing me both:

"Big Jim Can Wait" was accepted.

and

"Winter Wonderland" was accepted.

YES! A trifecta for this anthology. Three submissions, three acceptances.

I'm really loving August.

In other news, finally heard back from Aberrant Dreams concerning "Dead Air". The new Horror editor over there was apologetic for the long wait, understandable considering the backlog they apparently had. Kave Catheson is, as an editor, very congenial even in rejection. Made the statement that the story was rejected, most likely, due to space concerns, and in review it is a bit long even after revisions.

Statements were encouraging, that it is a good story both in structure and style, needs little to no revision, and shouldn't be shoved in a deep, dark trunk. So I'll find a market that wants long zombie-centric stories about a trapped, suicidal radio disc jockey, gay intern, and burly sound tech trying to keep the airwaves alive as the world slowly dies.

Now, to update Duotrope!

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

Four-Legged Editor

I have a little friend now when I write. A few weeks back we were given a stray kitten, and my daughter fell in love with it. Now we have two cats, our Maine Coon, Ambrose, and a little orange tabby kitten named "Capote" for his funny walk and high meow.

Capote, true to his name, has taken to sitting on my lap while I'm writing. He just...watches the screen. Then, when revising, he does what every writer wants o do. He falls asleep.

Right now he's doign it again. I don't know how to handle this...

Alright, update

"Poppa Bear" got its rejection from Cause and Effect , and "The Simple Account of Sergeant got a rejection from Allegory .

Other than that, the end of the month wrap up goes like this:

New Stories

There were only two this month, really:

"Rock A Bye Baby" subbed to The World is Dead
"No Deductible" subbed to Malpractice

An extension of "Linguistic Prescription" was done for Dead Jesters

Stories Still Out :

"Dead Air" at Aberrant Dreams
"Colburn Men" at McSweeney's Quarterly
"The Tribe of Harry" at The New Yorker
"Poppa Bear" at Underground Voices
"Linguistic Prescription" at both Postcards from Hell (original flash version) and Dead Jesters (special director's cut)
"Sacrifice of Man and Cloth" at Saint Anne's
"Big Jim Can Wait" and "Winter Wonderland" at Northern Haunts
"No Tell Motel" at OG's Speculative Fiction
"Fragile Obsession" at Ghost in the Machine
"Demon Whiskey" at Harvest Hill
"The Simple Account of Sergeant Shea" at Theaker's
"No Deductible" at Malpractice
and
"Rock A Bye Baby" at The World Is Dead

Let's hope I get some good responses in the next week or so, eh?

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

Would you like to upgrade your policy?

Finished the Malpractice submissions first draft. Not a bad one, but I need to set it aside for a couple days before doing the revisions.

Basically, it's about an insurance salesman who sells "special" policies for those entering Bloom Memorial for treatment. I like it, as the entire story is basically told in description and one-sided conversation with a restrained, ball-gagged patient.

Clocked in the first draft at 2,268 words. I wanted it to be longer, it just didn't want to cooperate. Oh well.

As always, my call goes out for proofers if anyone's interested, thoguh I'll probably have it revised by the time any replies could get back to me.

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

Doing science and I'm still alive

Woke up this morning, got myself a gun. Actually, we went to church only to find out our pastor is leaving the congregation. I don't like this, not one bit. I like this preacher.

Anyhow, on the writing front. Started another zombie piece as a World is Dead backup, but only have a general outline done. I'll be writing on it next week in between setting up the nursery, this week just got away from me a little. I wrote every night, but mainly just fluff to make sure the pump is still primed. I'd hear a line on the radio or T.V. and write a few apragraphs of a story flash based around that idea. Make sure I'm good to go.

Starting tomorrow, however, I'm getting back into my old routine of spending an hour every night at the computer, even if I'm writing a sentence and deleting it over and over again. I've discovered one thing in my life, and it's if that first line doesn't lead to a second line right away, then there's nothing to it.

I should explain my writing process a little. I don't plan. I have an idea, and I'll mull it over for a while, then I'll start writing. Once I start, I stop only at predetermined points and let the story sit for a few days. I'll then go back, reread the last couple of paragraphs, and get back to work on the story where I left off. A short story can take two writing days, with three/four days of thinking in between. A flash piece is normally done in a marathon sitting, a couple of hours writing and an hour of revision. If a piece really catches my fancy, like a recent zombie story did, it gets written without another thought, tossed in the air, sliced into little bits, and revised. Those are the ngihts I go through an entire pack of cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey.

Planning seems futile to me. Like going on a good roadtrip, a story should change as you make it. I can't force a dramatic piece to be funny, a comedy to be scary, or horror into romance. I have to let the story go where it wants and hope my fingers can keep up with the flow. I used to call it "finding the thread", but I now call it "tuning in". Good stories are like watching television shows with rabbit ears...you have to keep them pointed a certain way to have a clear picture. Move around too much, and you end up watching Spanish soap operas and ER flashing in and out through a screen of static, then spend a long time bringing it all clear again.

That said, here's the lowdown on the writing front:

I'm restarting my submission for Malpractice . I think I know what I want to do, mixing it with my dead story "Norton is Watching" to make a creepy little stalker bit about an abortionist and an insurance representative.

"Guilty in God's Court", my outlined piece for World of the Dead is this week's project following a day of rest tomorrow.

I still have about a dozen pieces out, and am once more questioning my e-mail's accuracy in reporting incoming messages. As a result, I'm going to start submitting from my Graveside Tales e-mail.

other than that, not much to report. Hoping to "tune in" tomorrow night and get a big chunk of a first draft knocked out.

If not, then I'll start writing and deleting openign lines again.

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

Back to the grindstone

Another week of work over. We'e doing alright, taking calls from people who need help with their health insurance. I've already informed my boss I'm coming after her job after I hit the floor, and next week we get trained in on the last of the basic systems we need to be cut loose from our training bonds. That'll stop us from transferring calls to folks who have the same skill set we have, and it'll stop us from being a general pain for the rest of the Specialists.

Finished up "Rock A Bye Baby" this morning, with only minor changes to it. I was amazed that, in one two hour sitting, I wrote what was basically a finished story. The response is that I'm now working on another Zombie piece because I want to have a backup for The World is Dead . I think it may work out alright, but we'll see.

Other than that, I've just read the amazing Miss Gardner's first draft of her story. I'll have to give it a few moer reads to give feedback, but I'm liking what I see already.

Still waiting on Harvest Hill , and I've decided that, someday, I want to write a novel. Not right now...don't have the time what with kids and all. I'll stick to short stories for a bit. Besides, as Ambrose Bierce (my cat's namesake) once said "A novel is a short story, padded." and "The covers of this book are too far apart".

Dinner party tonight, but before that, let me say one thing about a certain woman in Maine. Check the news, I'm too lazy to link, but this lady found an 8 foot PYTHON in her WASHING MACHINE!

...I'm never doing laundry again.

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

I Now Declare Crap Month...

Officially closed. I think tonight I managed to break my writer's block with an image of a decomposing corpse reflected in a bar mirror. After that I started another piece, a bartender narrating a ghost story to a patron, with the reader as the patron. No, there's no expected dialogue to be imagined. I just kinda wanted to put the reader into the position of being the guy on the other side of a wooden bar with a talkative (and bored) bartender.

I checked my submission list the other day and came up with:

"Dead Air" at Aberrant Dreams I'm thinking this one either got lost, or was a rejection that never got sent out, or some other such thing. It's been well over 100 days. I had heard stories about slow response times...but man oh man...

"Tribe of Harry" at The New Yorker All I want this year is a rejection on their letterhead and a bit of personalization. That'd be almost as good as an acceptance from anywhere else.

"Demon Whiskey" at Harvest Hill I have no illusions of this one getting accepted, but I am looking forward to the comments when that rejection finally comes in.

"Poppa Bear" at Cause and Effect This piece has been called interesting but too sentimental, strong characters that turn into caricature, etc. The general consensus was that it needed some story work, which got done and got it resubmitted somewhere else.

"The Simple Account of Sergeant Shea, Immediately Prior to the End of the World" at Allegory Ezine , a piece that I had fun writing and submitted after a rewrite only at the urging of the undeniable Ms. Gardner, who insisted it could be found a home somewhere. I don't really mind, it was written for me.

"Big Jim Can Wait" and "Winter Wonderland" at Northern Haunts Anthology , if for no other reason than I had so much fun writing my accepted piece, "Many Comforting Words", that I wanted to write two more.

"Linguistic Prescription" at Postcards from Hell , a surefire rejection in waiting, but I'll be honest, I'm starting to get a kick out of reading the rejection letters for this piece, so I'm going to keep sending it out there.

"Sacrifice of Man and Cloth" at Saint Ann's Review , because, like the New Yorker, I want a rejection from these people.

"No Tell Motel" at OG's Speculative Fiction Magazine . Ever since it got shortlisted and then cut from Voices Anthology , this sucker has been making the rounds, racking up two form rejections in less than a month and a half.

In addition to this, I have a basic idea for the Malpractice anthology if I can get it running, the aforementioned Bar Story got it's first two intro paragraphs done tonight (my writing time must be fit into a busy schedule, don't harp on me), and a developing idea for a serious piece after I finally finish "Norton's Watching".

On other fronts, work is going well. A couple more weeks and I'll be shifting calls without supervision, the pay is good, and even on a tight budget we manage to live a decent life. Worrying now about Christmas, what with three kids and all.

So...how're you all doing?

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

A post for y'all

Because I have to mow the lawn and go buy fireworks, I don't really have time to do a nice, long update. Instead, I present something from my crap pile, a scene from a story that never got finished and probably never will. without any further pause, here's the introduction to Stranger in My Homeland.

The first Saturday in May, as written about by Hunter S. all those years ago with his limey friend in tow, was decadent and depraved. It lacked the civil or social value that was inherent in every other high class society meeting this town threw. Instead of string quartets and cocktail conversations about recent pieces of art, there were garish hats and strong mint juleps that stained the white linen suits of the men on the way down, then on the way back up as they hunched over a toilet. Meanwhile, from their boxes in the bandstands, those wealthy few watched the teeming masses on a sea of green surrounded by brown track, a mob of humanity that was circled sporadically by the rumble and pound of hooves on mud as thoroughbreds strained by. High society watching low society as the sport of kings separated the two into their proper social standings. It always seemed strangely appropriate to me.

“Damn tourists,” I mutter, stirring tea and staring into the roiling crush of bodies.

A crowd has moved into town in their bright suits and ties, fat men with faces reddened by muggy air and liquor. Their voices bray through the air, calling to one another in an intense mixture of affectionate curses and amounts of lost money. The tongues curl with accents that sound as foreign as Arabic. Clipped words and missing r’s drown out the lazy drawl that normally fills the street. My knuckles turn white against the cool glass.

“One mint julep,” a portly man in a lime green suit yells out, “and make it good this time.”

The green man wraps one fleshy arm around the waist of a blonde haired faux-southern belle. He whispers something in her ear and she laughs, a harsh nasal noise. Her hands flutter weakly in the air to catch the sun on the gold rings that line her fingers, and she licks his ear as she mumbles something back. Judging from the hungry look that crosses the green man’s face, I guess her response was a lewd suggestion that almost overrode the desire to watch horses run.

I watch the crowd mill about in front of Churchhill Downs. Down the street come the raucous catcalls and hoots of the local revelers. Adopted locals, every one of them, as no self respecting Louisvillian would actually attend the Derby. It was an unwritten rule, like nodding to complete strangers on the street when meeting their eyes. The actual citizens, those born and bred on the too-small streets of Kentucky’s largest city, were at home watching the race on TV, placing their bets in small pools, drawing horse names from a hat as they drank heavily with close friends and not in close quarters with heavy people.

“Heigh-ho Silver, away!” the man in the green suit brays a foot away my steps, flinging his arms into the air so violently that his julep splashes over the side of the silver cup and smacks wetly onto the sidewalk, a mixture of booze and crushed ice.

The suit is glaring in this crowd, a beacon of poor taste and too much money. Lime green, so bright that it looks as if it belongs in the window of a seedy bar advertising a second-rate beer in flashing neon, it’s the sore thumb of a gaudy circus. The color isn’t found in nature, isn’t found anywhere down here except on tiny, old black men headed to church or on the backs of pimps down in Portland. It’s a hustler’s suit, a hustler’s color, what money would look like if a madman with a box of markers designed it, and this guy thinks it makes him fit in. What he doesn’t want to say, the loathing and superiority that brought him south to view the sport of kings in a neighborhood of peasants, is shouted by that garish color. It says, very simply, that he has the money and ability to dress this way anytime he wants, that his status lets him pull it off.

“Jackass,” I mumble, taking another sip of iced tea.

The horses would run later in the afternoon carrying their miniature riders. Every breath would be held as the first leg of the Triple Crown played out in a town that, the rest of the year, was considered a backwater city in a backwater state. By the end of the week these people would be in their homes telling tales of rednecks and hillbillies as they dined over tiny portions of overpriced food. While swigging martinis and ignoring strangers they would laugh uproariously at the simple folk of the south, of Kentucky, and swear that they would never come back.

What I’ve never understood is why they even bother to make a pilgrimage down here. Was it to bask in the decadence of a city they knew nothing about, or just to get drunk like the green suit and his whore? They could just have easily stayed home, these two invaders, watched the race on television and placed their bets with some high class bookie in a quiet little bar where a she-he that looked like Marilyn Monroe crooned Ella Fitzgerald in front of a small jazz trio. If they hate us, our city, our people, our way of life the rest of the year, then I don’t see why they should embrace the worst of the state for a few days in May before going back to treating us like the redheaded stepchild of America.

His face goes blank as the julep is swigged, then twists into a mixture of disgust and perverse delight at tasting something that, no doubt, he thinks is a true delicacy of a backwards people. His whore laughs again, a nasal sound that slices into the very core of the skull and dances on the bone. She wants a drink, tugging the cup from his hands and spilling a mixture that no Kentuckian ever really touches down the front of her dress. Even from here I can see her makeup, placed so carefully on cleavage, start to run down the fabric. Any self-respecting woman would have started crying, screaming at the injustice done to such an obviously expensive outfit. Her response is to grab the green man and force his face between her breasts, to lick the offending alcohol off her body. He goes to work at his new job with vigor and determination, sliding his tongue furiously over exposed skin.

Now the mob continues in its movement, pushing along the man in the green suit and his painted bride-for-a-night, a rolling river of decadence surging through the gates of the Downs. I sip the last of my tea, set it on the rusted metal porch table. In an hour it would be time to go to the bar and settle onto a corner stool before the race was run. Once the drunks had lost their money and gone to draw out more they would flood the Rose Bar with their foreign accents and noxious, whiskey-fumed breath. Any longer than an hour’s wait and it would be impossible to find a seat after these invaders on my peace found out there was a bar within walking distance. I heft myself out of the chair, slip my hat over a balding scalp, and decide to brave the crowd in favor of a quiet drink away from this madness.

Replacement Therapy

Abotu half-done with my first draft of a new story, violating the basic rules for "CRAP PILE MONTH" by producing a new and original work. After polishing it I'll be going back to nothing but pure crap, but for now I want to finish this one.

Work is going well. Quitting smoking, not so much. I've slipped a couple times, but the patch keeps me good on nicotine. My problem now is I've started sucking on toothpicks throughout the day as a replacement for constantly having a cigarette hanging from my lower lip.

This means I will have to institute a monthly "toothpick budget".

Waiting on a few subs, Harvest Hill and all that, to come back into my hands. Other than that, not much else to say. Started riding public transit again today, and had a flash or two for a story while doing so. Might flesh it out some, might not, not sure. I do know that after this one piece is done I'm going back to polishing up another turd I have with some potential.

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

Busy Days

Alright, so we got moved in. Sorta. We still have some things to move from the apartment to our house, but that's really it.

Got a rejection from Necrology Magazine the other day for "No Tell Motel", so I packaged it up and sent it, in Snail Mail, over to Weird Tales for another rejection. Other than that, there's not much going on in the writing front. I started my new job at Humana on Monday, so I need to get used to the routine before I can sit down and get back to work on stories again.

Still got about ten subs out there just waiting on a response. Should be a few coming in any day now.

Slay Bells Ring...

Yes, I know, it's a misspelling of "Sleigh". It's a pun. I apologize.

Finding out there was still room in the Northern Haunts anthology over at Shroud Press, I decided to submit another piece. Once again, my father served as a bit of inspiration. For those who don't know (all two of you), my dad went to Harvard Law up in Boston. As a kid, we would hear stories about the winters up there every time we complained about the cold, and one in particular about how once a big snow settled in. A snow plow, according to my father, had piled snow at roadside to create a wall blocking the sidewalk from view. On the other side of the walk, snow had been shovelled or blown into another wall. He talked about how, walking to his classes, he was in a tunnel almost the entire way, and that tunnel was made completely of snow.

So I wrote a story featuring a law school student, tunnels of snow, and a certain red tinge that coats those tunnels.

Revised and sent it in less than two hours. Now I play the waiting game again. I think I'll just make a submission for each of the anthology sections as long as it's still open, and if I can think of another campfire story idea.

In other news, we now have a house. Nice little 3-bedroom, big backyard, two car garage, full basement. Water and power are on now, Cable guy comes on Tuesday. Rent is reasonable, about $750 a month, and my new job lets employees ride the TARC (our public transit bus system) for free. So, I'll have to get up at 5 a.m. to catch the 6:30 bus and be at work by 8:00 , but I'll save a good amount of money in gas and parking.

We're moving this week, Desi and Sophie (and friends) packing while I move stuff after work, and then Saturday we plan on moving the rest of the furniture with a rental truck. We hope to be moved in, if not unpacked, but Saturday night, and unpacked by my sister's wedding next Friday.

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

And it's done

Because I knew I would never get it finished otherwise, I found a quiet spot today to finish the Grinder story. Revised, slapped the title "Beautiful Little Rubies" on it, and sent it out to The Black Garden (no linkage this time, see a couple posts down).

Now, to sleep and then to get up tomorrow and start work on this Mythos piece.

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

Fedora Wearing Hero

Saw the new Indiana Jones movie tonight, coupled with Iron Man, at the only drive-in left in town. My sister, her husband, and my nephews came along with us, and much fun was had by all. After that, we went home...where we just now arrived. Sophie is conked on her bed, and I'm sitting at my makeshift work station typing this before her mother and I follow suit in our own room.

Started on the story I plan on submitting to The Black Garden today, got 1,200 words done on a first draft in a little under an hour. After solving my machinery dilemma it came pretty quick and easy thanks to the cat scratching me last night. If you've never seen a Maine Coon, they are huge cats with a good amount of claw spacing. On my knee are three deep, bloody furrows about an inch apart from where he fell off the couch during a movie last night and tried to get purchase on my bare leg. It started the engine and got me rolling on how to start the story and this little girl's obsession.

I have to say I'm having fun with it, which I'm calling the Grinder at this stage. Third person close narrative style, with the narration done as if they are thoughts of a young child. We get a lot of "and Mommy and Daddy and Papaw" type of sentences, but I think it adds to it right now. I'm going to shoot for having the first draft done by Sunday, then spend Memorial Day (after my trip to Zachary Taylor National Cemetery to visit some guys I used to know) revising prior to the family picnic. Everything goes according to schedule, I should have the final draft ready to go out by Tuesday evening...but a schedule is more of a suggestion with me.

Found a few amazingly creepy things today that I like the vibe to. Alice Cooper's song "Steven" has become a top one on my playlist...it gives me the damn chills. A few pictures and posters, and tomorrow we're heading to the flea market where I hope to find something else disturbing to decorate my desk. I'm a happy-go-lucky guy, but I like to set an atmosphere when I write to keep me on track.

My wife has already banned severed heads from the living room, so no worries there.

Speaking of her Pregnant Majesty, she's telling me it is time to stop typing and head to bed, so off I must go. I'll update with a word count and status on the Grinder tomorrow...hopefully.

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

Bit of an update

Well, got my rejection back last night for The Age of Blood and Snow. Wasn't unexpected, though the letter was personal and nice. It more or less said exactly what I thought it was going to, well-written but not strange enough for the anthology. I have to say, it was nothing unexpected, and the fast turnaround time was a really impressive feat. I don't think I've ever had an anthology that has obviously been submitted to that much respond within a day. Kudos to the crew over at Morrigan Books.

Not much else has gone on today. Doing a bit of research for the Grinder story, trying to figure out what I could use that seems realistic. Considering I only want one fantastic element to this story, it would suffer if I had to make up the machine. The little girl needs to be the only creepy thing around, and I don't want to detract from her "vibe".

Resubmitted "Sacrifice of Man and Cloth" to a pie-in-the-sky market while I try to find a more down-to-earth home for it. Started fleshing out an idea for something that could be a bit of a companion to "Weekend Trip". I discovered I like that tiny town and it's Stoker-esque preacher a bit more than I thought I did. Still waiting to heard back from Unspeakable Horrors on the status of "Weekend Trip" with them, though.

Alright, I should probably eat my lunch. A little work, and then a haircut today for my interview next week. After that, my stepdaughter gets to meet her new cousins.

Peace,
J.C. Tabler

Age of Blood and Snow

Well, I did the revision on "The Parable of Judas" this morning and submitted it to The Age of Blood and Snow. Changed the title to "Sacrifice of Man and Cloth", taken out of one of the gospels I don't believe in that I read after finding out I was mirroring a concept with a couple religions. I don't think the story itself is what they're looking for, but with that deadline coming up fast I figured it couldn't hurt to submit and get a little criticism back.

Tonight I'm going to start on the idea I have brewing for The Black Garden. That is, if I can get a few hours to myself to type in. I like where the story idea is going, especially with the little girl character that's influenced by my stepdaughter. The problem is going to be getting a few minutes alone to type on the sucker after setting up a bed and cooking dinner.

Well, looks like I'm off to update Duotrope.

Peace,

J.C. Tabler