How to get unstuck if you find things a bit muddy

 Back before I got bored to the point of standing in the cold doing nothing but feeding a bad habit, I would stroll down to the middle of the creek where a concrete drive crosses and provides a place to pace back and forth well away from anything combustible or to the annoyance of others. I find I still spend a considerable amount of time well into the depths of the night down there pacing back and forth but now it is without that bad decision wreathing me in stench and such time is never spent just feeding a boring habit. In 2018, I was still smoking and I remember one night that July which stands out. I had driven up from Phoenix and being summer, that meant my daughter was down there visiting her mom. I had work to return to and thus as I drove up the I-17 toward Sunset Point, a very active part of that journey for me apparently insofar as the genesis point for Tales to spring forth, one did just that. 

I paced that night back and forth in a light rain, the flow of the creek not yet risen to tempest but still getting used to the notion of water again. I was down in the concrete drive, my steps away from the running flow that cascaded down over the edge to flow further down the creek. My thoughts were on what I already knew to be "The Portraitist", a Tale that would not arrive for two more years. I was at the point of concern as it was well into the month and I hadn't a Tale yet to tell. This new thought, that of a photographer documenting the depredations of the Depression, was the first clear spark I had had yet as none of those in my notebook were speaking to me. I was chasing hints of what could be in contemplative pacing when the water over that short fall and the rain sprinkling down began to soak its way into my thoughts. With my back to the runoff behind and my face turned to the drizzle to see the moon dancing behind racing clouds, something new crawled up from the mud in the creek behind me and whispered itself into my ear.

"Puddle of Mud" fairly flew from my fingers over the next few days. It was a very pulpy thought that I had had, one which I could see in the pages of a comic book controversial before self-censorship stifled the creativity of the macabre. That is what this Tale is meant to be. I do apologize for... nah, I don't. It was fun all the way around to write and still if it is raining and I'm poking around in the creek at night, a smile comes now to my face.

Oddly this I realize is, roughly 84 years or so after the town of Baird's Holler met its end, the final chapter of the "Outside the / Circle of Midnight Black" saga begun with "Child of the Earth", published by Nightmare Press. Why this connection matters is that "Puddle of Mud", coming in at 4,356 pulp soaked words, will be appearing very shortly in a new anthology by Nightmare Press. Trust me, they had no idea... and neither did I at the time even though I do have a bit of an inside here. The fun part for ya'll will be figuring out just how one fits to the other.

 Do forgive me for not providing any practical advice for getting unstuck when things get muddy. I was relying on my characters here to help me out on that, but...

Rachel Maddow bears some responsibility here...

...or at least the person who made her desk so shiny and reflective.

Weird shit happens, man. That's really all I can say outside of I was watching TV (and do thank me for putting that Roger Waters song in your head there... you're welcome. you will enjoy that) in the background, MSNBC 'cause, well, at that hour, there is no more informative voice if you really want a deep rundown on something while lamenting that you're in for at least 26 minutes before a commercial will allow you to lose that 7 or so pressing ounces of excess weight. I cannot recall what the topic of that show was but it was in April of 2018 and the discussion was such that I abandoned all other activity to focus entirely on the winding narrative she puts together. What I do know for sure is that the word "tremendous" was displayed behind her and upon her shiny, reflective desk, five of those words were reflected upside down. That's all I'm going to say outside of that I was also, most likely, somewhat stoned, maybe... but knowing me, it just might have been my ability to activate the now latent THC which has become a part of my genetic structure. A few of you know what I'm talking about...

There is a disclaimer that I've grown used to seeing in almost every submission call I've encountered. The words are always to some degree discouraging children or animals as victims in stories. Thing is, if the story is about a bullied boy hiding from his tormentors, well, that is the story. If it is necessary that a horse be put out of its misery from a leg shattering fall and the only thing handy is a hatchet, what needs to be done needs to be done. Extending beyond my own sins here hinted, this often must be the case for is IT not true that childhood fears extending to adulthood start in childhood and even Atticus Finch was not above putting down a rabid dog.

There is some sick shit in this world. That cannot be denied. It as well should be stomped out whenever found in the natures so abhorrent. That's my opinion and I'll hold to it. By sick shit, I'm not going to disguise my meaning here. In the northernmost parts of Arizona and the southern most parts of Utah, there are a couple little towns that are basically the epitome of religious horror. What I am speaking of the long broken away perversion of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints which has gone for generations of unpaid sin, a fundamentalist cult not affiliated with the major American religion heavy in presence in this corner of the nation. This is the "Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints", the incestuous, rapist cult ran by Cult Leader Warren S. Jeffs, someone who hopefully will never leave prison. Here in Arizona, dark stories from this secretive cult have always slipped down to the civilized parts of the state, still and even with Jeffs incarcerated.

These perversions of faith, extremes of fundamentalism grasping on to a few specific notations of verse in whatever inspired text they be, exist throughout all families of the Abrahamic traditions. Usually they hide in the shadows, at times though they break forth with hellish ends. It is in the shadows where the true sicknesses are spread, where perversions become holy writ through generations bred. Whether the temple is of the people or it is but a branch divided, they exist in this reality of horrors. They serve as inspiration to those fictitious as well, object lessons that prove the creative mind is always behind the fanatic in terms of contemplation of possible horrors. The best any peddler of tall tales could ever produce is but a shadow distinct only in abstracts. Thus is the nature of the church started by Jonathon Kearns, former Sultan and part owner of the Mortenson Mine in Baird's Holler, Arizona.

Robert A. Heinlein famously never wrote the story of Nehemiah Scudder, the evangelical leader of an extreme fundamentalist perversion of the Christian faith which gains traction for some time in his Future History. While the effects of Scudder's horror reign is felt throughout Heinlein's universe, it was his revulsion at such a character that he could not bring himself to pen the tale of such a man direct. Thankfully, since I am specifically delving into the weird, that becomes fodder for what I can let play out. What I needed were a few verses I could focus on, ones appropriate to the besieged and which would be perfect fodder for some non-thing so damned to twist. Then hint the worst... don't dwell on it but let it be known the specter is there. Only the crude exploit such.

The story of little Esmeralda Kearns is one of a child knowledgeable of her future and what waits. She is terrified of everyone in her family but one of her mothers. She fears her grandfather most of all and the little fairy she plays with when no one is looking, knows this. She doesn't mention this fairy anymore, not after she was prayed over by the whole family. She does not whisper the quiet double-cough anymore but she's afraid because when she turns six, she has to give away her doll, the one she is not supposed to draw eyes on. She knows that when she turns six, the fairies won't want to play with her anymore. She doesn't want to turn six. She wants to meet the Fairy King under the mountain, just like her friend promised her. She wants to, but because of Mama Death out there in the night, all the doors are always locked.

Pitt's Junction, where the Kearns Family arrived in 1885, was renamed Bezer, a fortress in the wilderness where the Kearns' stand guard against the Beast, That Which Damned this valley as a portal to Hell. While I have hinted before in "The Witch of Pitt's Junction" and ever so vaguely in other stories, this was my first real visit since they ran, to the curse of their home, the last of the Unclean from Pitt's Junction and found Bezer. It is here the Kearns' make their stand, besieged at these gates, the tunnel through the mountain to that perfidious town, Baird's Holler where the Patriarch, Jonathon Kearns was once himself among the most wicked of Sinners, a man of mighty pride and wealth before he was saved and commanded to hold from the world this evil at bay, to suffer the sins of torment to protect this world of sin. It was duty, and it demanded sacrifice.

"The Fairies of Esmy" is a hard Tale, but then again, I am not writing comedy. I am not writing romance. I am not attempting the Great American Novel. I am Pulp and proud of it. I am Weird. If I am Horror, than so be it. This is a dark Tale, but also one which I feel qualifies as one of my better, at least to the point of writing I was at. I know I'll say such a lot, but we grow and that is something I am trying to constantly push at so when I speak such, it is because elements of the Tale in question, be it for whatever reason, I remember in their crafting. It was a natural path and it took me to someone completely unexpected at the end. I honestly did not think that encounter was going to be who it was when I was writing this. Don't ask me how, but that's kind of how this is all happening. Happy accidents.

Speaking of happy accidents, a child speaking that which cannot be spoken, which the mind may not form past the skepticism of age allows this writer to sneak past a self-imposed prohibition. I have returned since both to Bezer and to a child's voice and this particular happy accident has even played beyond now those bounds.

"The Fairies of Esmy" is 4,984 words long. It appears in The Monsters We Forgot, Part II by Soteira Press. This was my first acceptance with this particular press, one which has played a much more interesting role in the distribution of the myths within these Tales than I suspect they realize. The next story which they accept of mine, "Tears in Green Satin", delighted me deeply due to the strangest of all connections. "The Fairies of Esmy", was written in June of 2018. I mention this just because, well, sometime in April, not really sure exactly when, I had been watching Rachel Maddow's show and though I do not remember what the subject was that night, there were these five letters reflected upside down...

Run Rabbit Run!

 I was uncertain if this story was ever going to exist. In fact, I had originally planned on not telling it due to being somewhat sensitive to my hosts out here in Arizona, the First Nations of this land and specifically the Navajo. I had not been planning to write this but I felt at last I must for if hints were to be continued to be dropped, then it was only fair I told the story properly and not just in reminiscence of those who did not witness the whole of what was and is, but only noticed the brush sweeping shut behind my protagonist's flight.

I have mentioned before the importance of yellow rabbits, from the name of a saloon inspired by the insult hurled forth by John S. Mortenson the day the Mortenson Expedition discovered the meadow so inspiring of these Tales, to the brash Hopi chasing the deranged mountain man, Horatio Parsons (did I not ever mention his name?) in "Kachina", Sikyatavo, and the luck I had in his naming. This is the story of the third yellow rabbit, the one to whom that insult, a double entendre I knew now disguised in its calling, was intended. I have mentioned before how the colors we in this culture shared, that of the United States, do not share their meanings throughout time consistent through other cultures. The delight of knowing Sikyatavo meant "yellow rabbit" is the basis of this decision as I sought that name elsewhere. That is how I came to know Łitso Gah.

I do have to say that there is a much greater resource for Navajo words on the internet than there are Hopi. This proved to be a blessing and a half as I worked through this Tale. While not pretending at all to write in a language I do not know, I felt it important certain concepts were expressed in the language which the POV originated. I hoped beyond hope as I wrote this tale, "Beesh Gah Beesh", that my interpretations and usage was correct and appropriate. This is very important to me, so very important.

For some while, a customer would pull up and make his purchases. Over time, I got to know him some. I'm just going to say that this gentleman is a remarkable musician. It was during a discussion with me about my autistic daughter during her earliest years with me and in trying to find a way to calm her down, he offered me a CD of his music. It worked... and it is beautiful! I have not seen him in a couple years now, to my regret, but if I do, I will ask his permission for use of his name and update this post. He always had his pipes with him and it is of him playing as he fueled that our discussions began. For those who have never heard it, traditional Navajo flute playing is beautiful, just beautiful music.

Feeling brave one day, I ventured if he would take a look at this little story of mine. It was some months before I saw him again, typical with his appearances, but when I did, I timidly asked if all within was proper and that there were no offensive errors either in the usage of the Navajo words or in the treatment given to Łitso Gah, the protagonist. To my utter delight, he assured me that the Tale in its telling was not only unoffensive in any way, but that he shared it with his brother and together they agreed the language was not only appropriate, but that they had a list of words I could add to flavor the whole even more. Sadly, I only saw him twice after that and it has been some time since he has pulled through. I hope he is doing well for he is a good man and an amazing musician. His music is excellent for writing to and I wish I could let him know how much so.

"Beesh Gah Beesh" is a point of pride for me. First, the affirmation mentioned above has removed all trepidation I had in telling this Tale. Second, it is a clean little story, somewhat Twilight Zone in its style and even in its simplicity. It's straight forward, direct, and it allows me to tell a Tale whose importance I at last feel is needed, serving better told than just hinted at. I shall not go deep at all here into the story beyond the intense research into the Navajo language I dove. I'm just going to say my respect for my hosts is even higher now than it ever was. Oh, and apparently even my pronunciation of some of these words, unheard by me, is correct... though I suspect I sound like what would be called a "hick".

"Beesh Gah Beesh", my 23rd Tale, written May of 2018, came in at 4,029 words well chosen. This story allowed me as well to portray a small scattering of the soon-to-be Sultans from a perspective from outside that select group. It as well allowed me to revisit Hototo and Sikyatavo, at least in passing. Also, if you're looking for the name of this valley, this is where you might get closest to knowing what and why. You will have the chance upcoming to find out what is and why in an upcoming issue of Weirdbook magazine. Just go ahead and get a subscription to this anthology series 'cause there will be a few Tales of the Bááhádzid appearing there upcoming.

Welcome to Gadsonia!

That Arizona is Arizona once was not assured. After the acquisition of the territory from the shifting powers of Mexico, which never actually held claim other than by say-so of this land, there were choices as to what to call the new territory. The two top contenders were Gadsonia, a hopeful attempt to name it after the man who arranged the sale, and Arizona... an Anglicized version of a Spanish interpretation of a Tohono O'odham word describing a "little spring" which ran past a silver mine in the southern part of the territory. Luckily for history, that "little spring" won. I mean, goodness, Gadsonia? Ugh... I'd have to renounce the land of my birth!

I'm just throwing that out there.

Another thing I'd like to throw out there is an event that happened in the early 1870s in, um, Arizona Territory where three Cavalrymen came upon a dead body in the desert between the town of Wickenburg and the southern reaches of the Silver Mountains (in the late 1880s, these mountains would be renamed for two early pioneers, the Bradshaw brothers). It is in the southernmost canyons of these mountains where the Bajazid creek is found and subsequently the basis of these Tales. This body, as found by these soldiers, had with it saddlebags filled with gold.

Another interesting tidbit of history concerning this region is that Jacob Waltz, the man whom the infamous Lost Dutchman Mine in the Superstition Mountains was owned by, had, before his legended mine, claims within the southern Bradshaw range and there are, in the legends and stories associated with this mine, rumors that it was in these mountains, not the Superstitions, in which that mine truly was. Such speculation hints that he basically led others all on a big, giant snark-hunt in order to protect its location. Being that the Bradshaws are rife with gold and the Superstitions less so...

This is all just stuff and stuff, nothing more. Just things that those born generations deep in this land tend to pick up if they are interested in the history of the region. I, uh, fit that mold.

Taking these elements and stirring them around... the body in the desert, the contentious name, the possibility of a Dutchman's mine... well, two Tales were initially inspired and set aside for a good long time. These were two of my earliest story ideas, once again finally finding their way through my keyboard. The first, "Waiting For Ants" (5000 words on the button), initially had in my notebooks the holding title "Three Blind Rats". I chose that name from the air in order to remember I was going to be following three soldiers and what happened to them. That title held no meaning beyond that... though I could not escape the operative word there. It served as a hint as to what might occur even though all I knew was I wanted to follow these soldiers after their discovery in the desert.

As for who these three men were, the depths to their knowledge required only investigation into one. The other two are his subordinates and I needed not to delve into their pasts. The primary though, he just kinda crawled forth and introduced himself as I went along. It was actually a pleasant bit getting to know him as there was no conflict or pause in his revelation. He seemed to need to be as he was and his name was only partially responsible for that.

I must talk about these names. I've mentioned how I've often used place-holders if something isn't inspired at the beginning. Well, my place-holders served in some degree to establish character here, at least in Harry's case. Quickly must point out that surnames here have no meaning or relation to the given names. Those given names were what propelled me in physical description of the three, each of which should be obvious. I will admit to changing those names to the full given names of those whom I began with, just to hide the influence a bit, or at least enough that the casual reader without certain information might not get. Besides, it was funnier that way.

For those who do get the joke... even though it wasn't a joke... do note that single identifying word that could be used to give it all away, or even hint slyly, could not be used. To do so would have been an absolutely horrible anachronism, something I've tried hard to avoid. Thus a study always of what types of gear, specifically firearms, are mentioned. Again, if I have a pistol mentioned clear enough to reveal make, it would ruin it for anyone familiar to see something that couldn't be. It would be like portraying Abe Lincoln doom-scrolling on twitter.

Now this and the other Tale conceived with it, a desire to place a Dutchman in my cheery little valley, were begun as nothing more than knowing I wanted to pursue these lines. I had no idea how either one would turn out when I began, but knowing what needed to be began the first... which takes place a couple months after the 2nd. As "Waiting For Ants" developed, the elements pertinent to the body in the desert and the trail it left gave me the story for the first, which yes, is titled "The Dutchman". The neat thing for me was I did not need but to present that corpse and that of his horse to establish what would be his fate. My three soldiers never went far enough up the canyon to discover even worse.

I do realize that I do not give much in explaining the nature of the horror, but that is because doing so would have violated the character's potential knowledge. When what is happening is happening, pausing to explain something the character's could not know would disrupt the flow and offer too much insight beyond the unknown. Besides, this is a history and through all these Tales, there is but one that actually hints to what is that is. There is a reason for that, or a couple. Those reasons are mine though so stop poking around. I ain't gonna tell you direct.

There is a third Tale sandwiched in between these two, directly following "The Dutchman", but that Tale is yet realized and the hint for its existence does and does not exist in that story.  From that story which is not yet, the Tale "I Met a Man as I Lay in My Grave", soon to be released by Soteira Press in their (pause for confusion) upcoming anthology "Horror USA : Louisiana", was inspired. Trust me, a lot will be explained in that Tale so I highly recommend picking this one up when it hits the shelves. These folk put out a very high quality production. The "man" met here has become an enduring and endearing character, one I've gotten some unexpected mileage out of (pun uncertain if intended).

As for this Tale, "Waiting For Ants", let's just say that operative word I first began with in my holding-title for this story does play a role, but not in the title the Tale now holds. This Tale should also serve as a warning for future characters, but sadly, there was no one around to carry this call. I will say though, the manner in which it all plays out began and once it started, it needed to play out. I do feel bad for Lawrence though. He kinda got it worse and that was not intended. Thing is, when things happen, they happen.

Up high in the branches, there are ravens waiting...

 

 Ah, Christmas...

When "Shanga-ree" passed my pen and became a Tale complete, I was left excited by what possibilities were hinted in the finale, the tiny little line at the end that hinted of things beyond, namely the flurry of pistol shots heard in the distance. What this inspired, revealed to me was that Christmas Eve, 1871, was a pretty hard night in the town of Baird's Holler. I knew that beyond the tragedy in the Tale just finished, there were five others who lost their life that night. Mind you, this was inspired by the real life incident on which "Shanga-ree" was based and thus, to mirror that history, I knew that a total of six perished before dawn. I just had absolutely no idea who though.

"The Woman in the Tree" (3,916 words) is a story which burst forth full from my aching brow. The manner of its construction was different than any attempted before, an epistolary piece quite different than the small folio found belonging to Caleb Walsh. Here was a letter, from one Sultan to another, dated May, 1898. Within that letter, Charles Chesterfield is writing to William Nesmith in response to requests for memories tied to that town they had long ago ruled. The reason for this being that the latter had taken it upon himself to catalog those incidents which were beyond the realm of possibilities known those fortunate enough to never set foot in that damned valley could know. See, Nesmith had a plan, one which I shall someday find in its entirety but which now remains naught but a hint only mentioned in the intro to "The Journal of Caleb Walsh". It is a book, one with only a very small published footprint which has all but been forgotten. Indeed, I know that the copy once held at the Sharlot Hall Museum in Prescott is no longer in the care of that institution but was borrowed permanently sometime in the 1960s by one Willard Reams. Seriously, that guy was an asshole. I am also aware that there is one copy in the collection of a private university on the East Coast, but as I'm an Arizona boy, I've never gone there to check it out myself. Someday I'll get a copy of "Ruminations on a Wicked Life" in my hands, but I know not when that will be.

Suffice it to say, Chesterfield, who had moved up toward the Winslow Station in the north-eastern region of Arizona (and yes, you can hum that Eagles song if you want... it is allowed), did his best to not remember those days of yore. Hell, he moved away to be so free, and but for the cottonwoods dotting his property one day reminding him as an injustice of ravens settled in its branches, he would not have remembered this incident at all. That he did was to his detriment and his loss of sleep, as well, with consultation with his wife, a decision to remove said trees for the memories inspired by them in both.

Christmas Morning, 1871, began with a somber note. I now knew that one of the Sultans, one Buchanan "Buck" Jackson, failed to make it from the tunnels on the B-line within the mine the evening before. His sacrifice, for that is how his companions saw it, saved the lives of over a dozen others in that august body and while I did not yet know the details, I knew that those who made it out that evening were extremely grateful to be alive, so much so that they bequeathed his widow with a mansion built to her specifications along with his share, in perpetuity, of the profits of the mine. This simple truth, known only in such vague terms, has gone on to inspire an absolute host of Tales and the Widow's House has become extremely important in the history of this valley.

This day though, there was mourning and as the congregations of the Baptist and Methodist churches gathered before sermons, those two churches facing each other in opposition, there was a bit of a discovery made by one young boy whose impulsive nature caused him to look up in the branches of the tall cottonwood that loomed over the almost constructed Baptist church. As both churches were yet under construction and with the ministers in competition to claim their first use, both congregations had already been meeting in those halls since they could first fill them with pews. That none of the adults looked up was just indicative of the narrow focus they had in their morning discussions about the loss of Mr. Jackson and the revelations of the tragedies known from the night before.

What was up there? A ragged coat spread out in the highest of branches with hints of a yellow dress visible along with limbs visible extending out. Chesterfield's letter focuses on this discovery and of the ravens that held court up high in those bare branches. It details the attempts the week over to recover this body and the gatherings which would appear each day to witness the attempts at bringing this woman whom none recognized by her clothes down for inspection and burial. The mystery which dominated the conversations that week were of how this woman came to be up so high, one which none had an answer for.

Now, please attend, for her identity was never known and when three Sultans of infamous drink finally succeeded in severing that branch beyond reach, there was not but bones remaining. The ravens in that tree were fat though, a horror those watching did their best to discourage through the use of fouling guns. There were an awful lot of dead ravens left littering that muddy churchyard, ones that the residents of Baird's Holler were confounded on how to dispose of as every attempt to clear up the feathered corpses was, like all attempts to scale that tree, interrupted by those birds nesting up high. Not even the dogs local to this town were successful, each being driven away with empty jaws.

This is pretty much the Tale, a memory recalled of a curious event forgotten in the tragedies of that sacred day now past. The only further comment to make here is the addition of one Sultan who had only been mentioned once to this point and that way back in "I'll Always be With You, Boys", one Samuel Arn whose disappearance in the mine at some point was all I knew about him. Sam was one of those beneath that tree each day making bets on when the woman held up there would be brought down and his dog is mentioned as one who chased after those dead birds only to be scared off by those yet alive.

This is important as it will, in December of this year, spawn another tale titled "What it Feels Like to be Hunted". "The Woman in the Tree" will be the third story accepted for publication and for some good while, this publisher hosted an excellent site that allowed me to send readers for a taste of these Tales. "What it Feels Like to be Hunted" was accepted later that year (my 7th acceptance) by that same press. Unfortunately, in June of 2020, this press folded and while there were paper copies produced, the only remaining copies not destroyed in the dissolution of that press of the two books which these two Tales occupy are those in the hands of the contributors. I admit this has upset me some as the shuttering of this press was unnecessary and while I have fully the rights restored, they can now only be published again as "reprints" or, as I now hope, in collections unique to these Tales. Being that these two Tales fall thematically in those set around that horrid Christmas Eve, and being that to date there are now 7 Tales which fall under this banner, I know that this will eventually come to pass. I have more on this night to write, at least three more Tales I know of minimum, but no such collection shall be forthcoming soon because there are some under this theme which are currently under contract, stories such as "Shanga-ree".

There is but one other thing to mention here and that is in relation to that wonderful woman who set my mind spinning the day I took her to see the Walker Kiln. As these Tales are obsessive to me, they would appear as I spoke, the elements flowing forth in my constant chatter on the subject. I must attribute to her the assistance she gave in the inspiration of that injustice and what horror they represented.

Shanga-ree

"The night was clear
and the moon was yellow
and the leaves came tumbling down"

My memory reaches deep and the whole of my life, these words have played ever in my head. This is the result of having seriously cool parents. They are of the micro-generation born not during the Great Depression and not amongst that post-WWII Baby Boom. They are War Babies, born during the days of that conflict and coming of age in that time heralded by poodle skirts and duck-tails. Consequently, the music of my earliest youth up through the age when I conquered the use of their phonograph and sifted through those stacks of vinyl rocked ever around that clock.

One of my earliest memories from, dated by the house we were living in at the time, was of my mother dancing as she did her daily routines, the story of a little boy sitting by the railroad tracks picking his guitar and dreaming of his name in lights spinning beneath a needle. I would have been between the ages of 2-4 at the time and I know it was in the earlier part of that span as I still hadn't developed a fear for the coffee table curiously shaped like those boards those people were standing on as those big waves crashed over them on TV. By the way, I still have a scar on my forehead from my one and only attempt at hanging ten. That particular song has stuck with me through these years and has served me well. When ever I get a horrible tune in my head, all I need to do is close my eyes and sit beneath the shade of my memories and I was goode, oh baby, I was goode.

"I was standing on the corner
when I heard my bulldog bark..."

One of the most indelible songs to pleasantly play on my internal mix-tape (I'm an Analog Kid, baby!) was "Stagger Lee" as performed by the immortal Lloyd Price. That version, the one most recalled in casual memory, has always been with me and always my very uncoordinated toes would tap the time or at least as best as this skinny white boy could. Whenever on one was looking (oh, so hopefully!), that song would stir me to dance in a way only surpassed by Elaine Marie Benes in a moment without shame. I did not, I confess, inherit my parents smooth moves.

"He was barkin' at the two men who were gamblin'
in the dark"

The whole process took one week from the moment of inspiration until I typed the last word and hit "save". One simple week of near manic obsession and research before I had in my hands a story steeped in history and in myth. It was a week that nearly drove my co-workers mad, mainly because I always bring my music to work because out in our little box, we don't even get the canned crap those poor fools in the store proper must suffer. Being none of my coworkers ever bothered to enhance their days with music, the playlists were all mine. Why they got annoyed that week is beyond me. I mean, not all of the songs based on the events told in that song are the same, either in versions of the most common or the wide variety that have spawned in the 123 years between the incidents inspiring and the moment of my obsession. Why anyone would get annoyed over by over 40 different versions of that inspired song playing in a continuous loop is beyond me.

"It was Stagger Lee and Billy
two men who gambled late..."

I am not going to claim the initial spark beyond knowing Mr. Price was involved. What I do know is that as soon as I heard that song early in February 2018, the idea that burst forth was unstoppable. The simple story of a night of dice and drink and the inevitable consequence of the bartender's glass shattering was too much to pass up. I figured I just needed a little light research and all would be good. Boy, did I ever underestimate.

"Stagger Lee threw seven
Billy swore that he threw eight"

The story of "Stagger" Lee Shelton and William "Billy" Lyons is not one forged in the fiction of song. It is instead a true American Tale, one which has inspired more recordings of more varied versions than any other event in the history of this nation. It was an encounter between two friends on Christmas Day (actually, around 10pm that night) 1895, that led to a murder, one of six that day in St. Louis, Missouri. Why this of all murders, a spat between two black men in a no-account bar, should rise to such a level of national fame is, well, actually something rather interesting to learn in the course of that intense week. Indeed, with the first known musical celebrations of this event appearing as early as 1897, within two years of the tragedy, there had to be something more to it all than just a couple of drunks throwing dice and indeed there was.

"Stagger Lee told Billy
I can't let you go with that
You have won all my money and my brand new
Stetson hat"

The initial encounter is detailed in a newspaper report from the 28th of December, 1985, in which the base details of the story were derived. What is known is that these two friends were drinking (no mention of gambling) when the discussion turned to politics. As things got heated, Lyons snatched Shelton's hat from his head and upon refusing to give it back, was shot in the abdomen by Shelton who, as the newspaper article states, "took his hat from the hand of the wounded man and coolly walked away". Upon Lyons' death, Shelton was arrested and that should have been that.

"Stagger Lee went home
and got his forty-four..."

What all was behind this though? And politics? What did politics play in this shooting? The ramifications of what all happened next fails to make it into that song, but for some reason, this carriage driver, a black man in the late 19th Century American, ended up being represented by one of the most powerful and prominent lawyers in St. Louis. Indeed, so well represented that he was not convicted... at first. With the untimely death of that lawyer, the case was tried anew and Mr. Shelton was sentenced to 25 years in prison. He served a decade before being paroled but within two years, was arrested again for assault and robbery and died in prison of tuberculosis in March of 1912.

"Said, I'm going to that barroom just to pay the
debt I owe"

Further investigation reveals that Lyons was a Republican, as were most Black Americans at that time, the Party of Lincoln still inspiring a loyalty based upon the stand of one lanky man. Apparently the Democrats at that time in St. Louis were seeking inroads into that community, an understanding that if there were votes to be had, why not seek them out. Thus the nature of the discussion with Shelton, a visible member of a prominent black social club, being sought out to help recruit within his community. I must note also that Shelton was known also as a pimp. While I cannot verify this, it appears that he was known for such trade along with his legitimate business as a carriage driver. Owing that every man and woman on this earth is (hopefully) multi-dimensional, this just adds to the time and place and the complexity of those involved. It also, well, when you think of it, gives reason for rather powerful people in St. Louis to come to his defense. Was that defense inspired by his being a pioneer into the Democratic Party as a black man or perhaps did some of these powerful people have, um, connections to Shelton that they would possibly not want revealed? This is but speculation, but with the information available, I cannot help pose that question.

"Stagger Lee went to that barroom
and he stood across that barroom door..."

There are elements that travel through the songs, both verified and not, which flavor the history of this song. For example, in no accounts are there any mention of a yellow moon, a game of dice, the leaves tumbling, a bulldog, or a broken mirror (bartender's glass). The Stetson hat though, that is verified going back to the earliest newspaper accounts. By the way, that Stetson would have been of the Derby style of fedora most common and popular at the time... just picture Billy the Kid in the famous tin-type taken of him in just such a hat. Other elements are the .44 Smith and Wesson revolver Shelton was known to have, which he first pistol whipped Lyon's with before shooting him... all for denting his brand new $5 John B. Stetson hat, the cost of which to fix, six-bits, was demanded only to be refused by Lyons.

"He said, nobody move and he pulled his
Forty-four"

Then there is the music itself. Oh, the range of that music... I searched and searched and downloaded what I could find... around 10% of the 426+ versions of this song, including a couple recordings from the Library of Congress done by John Avery Lomax of "Negro Female Prisoners" made on the side of the road as he heard them singing. That version, by the way, is listed as "Shanga-ree". Now note, the earliest versions of this song were amongst the black laborers along the Mississippi and it spread like wildfire throughout the African-American communities, specifically because of, well, several reasons not the least was the "reclamation of manhood" by a black man being cheated (how the theme was interpreted through the stories of Lyons determined to cheat). This is all valid and extremely fascinating to learn, a powerful addition to the American mosaic which I recommend all to spend a little learning about. In fact, a precursor to modern Rap music could be found in those early 20th Century "toast" poems told by those serving time, verses which tended to glorify the crimes with braggadocio. Seriously, this is American history in this song, the history of it and the development of the legend. It should not ever be discounted or reduced to banal stereotypes.

"Stagger Lee, cried Billy
Oh, please don't take my life..."

Now here I am, some dude sitting in a ghost town in Arizona in the year 2018 with all these varied elements before me. How can I include them, the fact and the fiction, to create a story which will sit within the parameters of this little valley I have found deep in the southern Bradshaw Mountains of Arizona? Well, first, let's look at the date. Christmas is important here and I wanted as well to be assured a bright full yellow under which this could play. I also had to make sure this story played between the years 1867 - 1890, the time in which Baird's Holler boomed and went bust. The trusty old internet almanacs tell me that the only such date would have been Christmas Eve, 1871, six years following the American Civil War. That gives me limited time in which to get Shelton from wherever he was to the mountains of Arizona, a task that truly is not that difficult considering the westward diaspora following that conflict. Thus I had my night, one which could produce a yellow moon with leaves tumbling down.

"I've got three little children and a very
sickly wife"

Now, this is fiction based upon fictionalized and true accounts and, well, license is granted to all who pretend at the power of the pen (or keyboard but I totally lose the alliteration if I write that). Thus Lee Shelton for me becomes Sheldon Lee and William Lyons becomes Lionel Williams. It's easy and it leaves clear hints. Sheldon was not a bad man, not at all. Instead, a hard worker, he rose from digging in the Mortenson mine to being one of the teamsters hauling ore between the mine and the mill. In other words, he holds the honest job of driver (wagon, not carriage) and is a genial and popular man in that boom town. He has future and he has promise... but remember, this is the Bajazid and upon the Bajazid, well, all are susceptible to corruption and that is what this Tale is about. It is this nature which is evident as he enters Devitt's General Store on Christmas Eve, a Sunday, just before the owner, Kevin Devitt, is about to close up shop. John S. Mortenson, the primary Sultan amongst Sultans, the originator of the expedition which discovered gold upon this creek, has his conscience burning him and has authorized a payout of $10 to each man working the mine as a Christmas bonus in hopes that those gifted would better their lots with it. Yeah, dumb move in a boomtown full of desperate men, but the road to Hell is always paved with such intentions. It is the interactions there in Devitt's that defines Lee in his undefiled state. By the way, the first editor I sent this to, though he did not accept it, commented that he found this characterization to his delight, avoiding the stereotype of the bad man by nature... and he also wrote that he did not realize the color of Lee's skin until near the end which is what I hoped. A character should not be defined ever by such a means unless it is integral to the story. That has always been my intent and there are several stories within this collection where such is left purposely nebulous with only the vaguest hints and then, only where they become important. Mr. Sheldon Lee is a good man, recognized as such by Kevin Devitt, a character who so far has shown himself to be one such as well.

"Stagger Lee shot Billy
Oh, he shot that poor boy so bad..."

I did quite a bit of research to determine when John B. Shelton hats were made, when they were available and how one would go about procuring a brand new, customized hat in such a remote place. With this hat now on his head, Lee is, well, empowered. It is a fine hat and, according to Kevin Devitt, Lee cuts a fine figure in it. With this on his head, he is emboldened in his generosity, so much so that he gives his old hat to a bum in an ragged grey jacket and offers some jerky to a large, yellow bulldog he passes in an alley. I need to pause for a moment on this pooch because, well, he will begin to follow Lee and his howls serve strong as portents. In fact, this bulldog took on greater importance the deeper this story went, but just allow me to say that it was of an immense size for such a breed, had a dun yellow coat and was scarred and scratched all over with one particular scar upon its forehead shaped in a design distinct yet obscure upon that yellow coat. Oh, and Lee, remembering the words of his Grandfather, a man shipped from Africa in the shames of this Nation, gives this dog a name. Here I had a bit of trouble finding words to use and with the limitations of Google translate, well, it fits with the recollections of a child hearing the distant voice of his grandfather. Igbo is the language I chose, one appropriate to the regions in which men and women were snatched up to be transported and sold. Thus I am hoping for forgiveness, based upon such distant recollections, if the words for "yellow" and for "king" are appropriate in their order and use.

"Until the bullet came through Billy
and it broke that bartender's glass"

There will be dice, there will be drink, and there will be disappointment which leads to an inevitable retrieval of a .44 caliber revolver... not a Smith and Wesson, but one appropriate to the year 1871. That hat, that magnificent hat which gave Mr. Lee confidence beyond his normal stature plays its role, as do the six-bits needed to challenge a debt. These Tales are speculative, weird in their nature with the edge of horror strung throughout. They payoff is violent and sure and as the barroom doors at last swing shut and a bulldog is glimpsed in the night, Sheldon Lee walks off into the legends now infused into these Tales. His importance, and that of this story, are yet to be fully realized. The boy seen in Devitt's General Store in the previous story "Claude", bears the name Lionel Jr. in a Tale seven years yet to be. There is a history here which I have yet to touch upon further though do know that what I know of this young man will elevate him greatly. The title of this Tale as well will come clear to those who read it and the distant pistol shots added almost without my own will directing portend an active night there in Baird's Holler on Christmas Eve of 1871.

"Oh, Stagger Lee
Oh, Stagger Lee
Oh, Stagger Lee"

In 1895, there were six murders committed in St. Louis, Missouri. This truth stands as inspiration. Of the collections by thematic arc which I have begun now to classify these Tales, the most complete of these are those which focus on this night for I have learned that there were six lives lost that night in Baird's Holler, Arizona. This tale, "Shanga-ree" (4,358 words), still stands as one of my personal favorites, one in which elements diverse came together as my playlist filled every waking moment of its writing. It will appear in Weirdbook, an issue upcoming.

"Shanga-ree
Shanga-ree
Shanga-ree"

Post Script: My goal for this blog is a post a day. On the 25th of January we suffered a massive snowfall (there is over two feet currently atop my poor little buried car) and when I made it home finally through the driving snow, it was moments after all power on the mountain was sacrificed to the gods of winter snow. The night was spent in the soft glow of paraffin oil lamps and a fireplace roaring. For this reason, there is not post holding such a date.

A Very Earthy Return

 2018 arrived the way every year does... with me sitting at home and absolutely avoiding going out into the world. Mainly, I live in a little ghost town on top of a mountain and there is no nightlife up here (unless you like walking in the woods at night which is kinda fun 'cause you're walking through the forest in the dark) and what nightlife there is must be had down in either Prescott (to the left) or Jackass Flats (that's the real name but some dumb developer thought it would draw suckers... and it did... if they named it Prescott Valley) to the right. Prescott has Whiskey Row, the legendary strip where once Doc Holiday and Virgil Earp played cards for eight months before heading down to Tombstone. Now it's just, well, bars with bad music and sloppy drunks, both the barfly variety and the party-party type. Not my scene. In Prescott Valley? I have no idea. Possibly one of the poorest designed cities in the world and really, just drive through it if you are in the area. Go the speed limit 'cause it's a trap and I really think that's the only reason it exists.

Thus with the new year begun, I decided to be a fool once again and make another resolution to complete 12 stories for this upcoming year. I did it once, I could do it again. It was also time for me to reassess my overall strategy in how I was going to approach upcoming stories. I was able to avoid any monstrously huge projects such as had come in the earliest years where I was working without limit. Most of the Tales that appeared in 2017 were between 6,000 and 10.000 words. The remainder were split between a big ass poem, a one that qualified as being near the "flash fiction" range and the monstrosity of "Anger". As I had now found a resource for potential submissions, a website called The Horror Tree, I had begun noting the range of stories which most calls asked for. That number specified was 5,000. If I was going to be serious about trying to get some stories published, I figured I should set a new goal along with the amount to be written. That goal was to try to focus my attentions at that 5k word limit.

With this new challenge of focusing on a specific length along with the continuing challenge for number of stories per year, the only thing I needed to do was decide what story was needing to be written next. Lucky for me, it was January and there was snow on the ground and snow on the ground meant snow-blindness for one who squints even on cloudy days. Have I mentioned I prefer night-time walks when I can? Well, that snow-blindness played a factor when I was searching for what to write next. I turned to one of my first ideas, one which had haunted me since and which I knew I must face eventually. I turned my gaze to the coat Hans Kroeger wore in the story featuring his name. I needed to know why Hans wore his brother's coat.

"Claude" is 4,932 words long. It revealed itself complete towards the end of that January, a success, in my humble opinion, on every level. First, it was on time and within the word count range I had set. Having set that range goal, I had been unsure if I would be able to adhere to it and this first test of working under such a limit proved itself. As well, with the structure alternating between present and past, I was able to advance the story of immediacy while separating the backstory completely from the advancing narrative. This I had not done before, always placing the backstory into the active narrative. It allowed the direct action to flow uninterrupted in those moments needed to advance Hans to where he needed to be.

As far as the story and how it developed, I tried to run these two sections somewhat parallel. I needed to give reason as to how Hans and Claude ended up in the Arizona territory. This is a common thing that I need to take care of in these stories because the 1800s had very few people out here. That means I've got to find a way to get people out here and I need to make it integral to their character. Thus the necessity of the backstory between the brothers. That is a space in which I get to examine their relationship with each other and how it changes due to the circumstances they find themselves.

As for those circumstances, I needed a blizzard. Now I naturally do not remember this because it was my birth year, but in 1967 my parents told me there was a hell of a blizzard out here. In the Verde Valley where the family was stationed at the time, somewhere around 3,300 feet elevation. They told me there were three foot drifts of snow in that Valley that year. Prescott is at 5300 feet elevation, the real Mile High City (you can tell Denver Colorado to suck it). The canyon in which I live outside of Prescott is 6300 feet elevation. This is equivalent to the Bajazid Valley. The snow drifts that year were much greater at this height then they were down in the Verde Valley and I have evidence from another such blizzard in 1938 from a letter penned by my great-uncle before he was lost in his mine of up to 12 feet in some places. This is the model I am using for scope and scale of the blizzard to illustrate why such storms can strike Arizona regardless the images of desert cactus that one tends to think of for this state. As far as placing it on an historical timeline (this story takes place in 1878), I was just throwing it out there. That I will admit right now. That I got lucky, something I will detail fully later in a different post, is just one of the many wonderful things I've had go right with these stories.

Insofar as the immediate story in "Claude", that is nothing more than our hero needing to go to town in order to purchase some beans and some candles and some kerosene... nothing more than a shopping trip and the journey it takes to get him into town. This is where I have a lot of fun. First of all, there is a house that he passes on the way still buried in snow. I had yet to write this story, but I knew it was going to happen and I wanted to make sure that it was there, that I would have to return to it. That story will be written in 2020 and it will be titled "The Family in the Frozen House"" and it will be my first attempt at multiple perspectives in a short story. The formula used for that I truly do hope works but that is again for another time.

The real fun comes when we get to Devitt's General Store in Bairds Holler. I get to play with some serious interactions in there. I get to pull up some characters and get to introduce them such as one of the Sultans by the name of Steven Clayton. I had not realized this when I wrote this story but I had already encountered this character just as I had already encountered another character who appears in this story, which I did not yet know. That other character was Caleb Walsh, the accountant for the Mortenson mine.

Lastly, I was able to introduce finally the Devitt family who first earned a mention in "In A Meadow". The mention was at first just a hint, something to help fill out the suspicions against Leopold Tarkenfeld. I have gotten to know a few things about this family and there is much more to be developed. In fact this will probably be one of the primary story arcs as I grow deeper into this. Right now though, this family is just introduced. The father and two sons, one adopted, are in this story. His wife and two daughters are mentioned. As far as the adopted son, this hint, even though it is not specifically mentioned, lies at the back of the very next Tale I wrote.

Small Post Script: It was in this month that I received word that I had my first sale, "Kachina", to Weirdbook. Yeah, imagine how hard it was to scrape me off that ceiling...

Thomas Lundmeir's Splitting Headache

Well, to be truthful, it is also my splitting headache but Thomas Lundmeir's was definitely worse.

As "Child of the Earth" was progressing and a certain worry began to develop in the mind of Yesil Batur, that very same thought began to kindle an idea in mine. See, Yesil and Thomas Lundmeir were the last two remaining Sultans with active interest in the Mortenson Mine. After the events detailed in "Sestina of the Sultans", a Tale that would emerge three years later though was one of the first conceived, these two were all that remained. Of the others at that dinner, Alexander Gitney and Xavier Huggins were no longer, um, available. Charles Chesterfield was absent as well, but in a completely different way having abandoned all interests in the Mortenson Mine and removed himself from the region. William Nesmith, the old Confederate Colonel who had developed a penchant for placing dolls out for the dead was still in Baird's Holler, but divorced from all operations having been strongly encouraged to cede his role by the others in this company. The only other remaining Sultan, Jonathon Kearns, was still in the region just through the ore tunnel on the other side of the ridge. His separation from the company was more complete than Nesmith's having been driven forth with no love lost amongst his former companions.

With Yesil and Tom in total control of the mine, they were the two most powerful men in the town of Baird's Holler, or at least what remained of it. There was no competition between these two, instead a cooperation which ignored the scandalous nature of their partnership and quieted any outrage such would produce. Their interests and predilections copacetic, their partnership allowed each their own hours of primacy. As Yesil was an early riser regardless the debauchery attended to each night, he took the morning shifts. That left Tom the ability to sleep off his debauch late into the morning. Thus while Yesil was working through his morning constipation, the straw-bosses looking for him failed in their search, the out-houses never being the obvious place to look. Due to Yesil's patient absence, a runner was sent to their residence to rouse Tom. These details appear in "Child of the Earth", hints dropped to this effect when Yesil emerges and is appraised of the situation developing in the mine and the anxiety Yesil feels knowing Tom did not wake gently when woken before he rose of natural course.

Tom was woken early.

Now, I ended up with a raw word count of 7,567 when I set this piece aside to finish the 12 tales planned for the year. As it was developing, I realized early on that this was not going to be a simple tale and thus the reason for the hold. What has developed since has grown in scope and scale well beyond any original intent and as the year rolled around again to the summer of 2018, I added another 9,213 words and a gross concept. This was to be a novel, and will be so, but there was something going on behind it, or around it, that began to build.

If "Child of the Earth" was a self-contained short starting the five days of devastation which needed to be, and if I had at least two other stories planned, I figured I could continue Tom Lundmeir's journey and span it the entire five days to the pay-off which I new needed to be. That left the shorts which fit, at this point, at the beginning, halfway through and at last, a detail of the last hours described in a report at Fort Whipple following the final ruination of the town. It was an idea that has gotten out of hand.

Now, I have a name for this project, at least the chapters which focus on Tom. The name, the meaning of which will remain to be revealed, was "Circle of Midnight Black". This was to be the story of Tom Lundmeir exclusive, those five days focused from his POV. As for the shorts, each told from diverse POVs spread throughout those five days, would comprise a second volume detailing the same events, or at least the progression of events not central to Tom but important to what was happening. These would fit, if shuffled together with Tom's story, in between the chapters of "Circle of Midnight Black" (CoMB). For these loose Tales, I use the term "Outside the Circle of Midnight Black" (OtCoMB) for my own categorization. The ultimate collection will look, and this is indicative of where I am on it, like this.

OtCoMB : A Rill Off the Sultana - flash piece taking place a month prior but informative of a certain degree.

CoMB : Prelude - flash short to establish theme and foreshadow.

OtCoMB : Child of the Earth

CoMB : Chapter 1 - Thomas Lundmeir's Splitting Headache

OtCoMB : All Dreams Must Conclude

CoMB : Chapter 2 - The Value of Damnation

OtCoMB : Mama Death

CoMB : Chapter 3 - The Devil's Anvil

OtCoMB : Girl Rattled

CoMB : Chapter 4

OtCoMB : Twelve-Thirtyfour

CoMB : Chapter 5

OtCoMB : There is Clearly Something Amiss

CoMB : Chapter 6

OtCoMB : The Conversion of Heng Jaingou (unwritten)

CoMB : Chapter 7

OtCoMB : The Old Man and His Dolls

CoMB : Chapter 8

OtCoMB : When the Ghosts Hollered (holding title for report at Fort Whipple, unwritten)

CoMB : Epilogue

Now this list is not complete. Up through "Girl Rattled", all the stories take place on the first day. The following OtCoMB stories listed cover events which conclude on each following day. Now, not knowing fully how Tom's Tale will flow, I fully expect each day to have two OtCoMB Tales represented and thus corresponding CoMB chapters which means this list is about 2/3s of the way complete and that is the hold-up on this project. Trying to balance what Tom is experiencing as well as filling in further details of this five day event.

As is quite evident, this is not a small project. When this is done, it should have no less than 13 shorts attendant and an equal number of chapters for CoMB. Since the shorts do not reveal themselves to me until they are ready, or at least the details of such, this is where it is holding while I finish the work I am on. Once this current project is finished, the title working being "A Sestina Writ in Darkness", I plan on turning with greater focus to this. I might not finish it in 2021 as there are other themed selections which have developed and which I have stories waiting to come out, but it will not be much longer than that.

In the end, when this project has fulfilled itself, I will have a 2nd novel complete as well as a collection of short stories equal in length. I figure they could exist separate as two different volumes, but can also be folded into each other creating a single tome. As can be seen, it has some distance to go, the greatest difficulty being balancing the two, both inside and outside that circle. As one informs the other, the reverse is true. Thus as CoMB advances, it will inform other events needing to be told, of which I can already think of at least three other tales outside the novel I have in mind. These shorts as well inform the events of the novel so it becomes at this point a challenge to see what the second day will bring and how it will expand the whole.

I've got some work to do...