Permissible License

I am just going to say this, but I listen to an awful lot of Pink Floyd. This is primarily because of the long instrumentals without interrupting words in such productions as "Atom Heart Mother" or "Interstellar Overdrive". By putting a lot of these on a playlist together you can go for hours and that's pretty much what I do. Oh there is other music I listen to, but Pink Floyd get slightly more than their fair share mainly because they deserve it.

Now it isn't only the instrumentals I listen to but those do hold the bulk for my writing just because sometimes words can influence and while sometimes that is good, at others it distracts. One particular album that I was listening to a what at this time was the Piper at the Gates of Dawn. It was also getting a lot of play because my daughter discovered it in my playlist and beautiful things happened. For example, she spent a month at her mother's at summer and I had loaded this music onto her mom's computer. Her mom doesn't turn off anything that my daughter is listening to. She also absolutely abhors anything that I like, especially music. I find out, after coming back for a 2-week visit during the mid-month that my daughter had "Interstellar Overdrive" playing on eternal loop 24/7 for two weeks straight... loud. It just filled my heart with joy.

Now while that is all heart-warming and such, it doesn't seem to be bearing anything upon these stories. Trust me, it does for that album with its regular play at that moment served perfectly as an inspiration in structure as I was contemplating the next Tale to write. I had a submission invite to a collection focused on celebrations or festivals or carnivals, some type of community celebratory gathering (like we all remember used to take place). Now I have a little ghost town up in the mountains and there really isn't but two decades time in all of my writing availability which features a possibility for some type a festival for that is only the time that the town existed. Lucky for me, I had written a ridiculously sized sonnet series a couple of years before titled "Henry Pickett's Home Brew" which gave an overview of the towns decennial celebration. I had my moment.

 

What I needed was the story. Nothing at this point had pulled itself up as to what to do so I started going through the lists that I have of Sultan's who I have not dealt with and whom I might bring life to. I already knew, thanks to "There is Clearly Something Amiss", which Sultan's were alive after 1878. With the exception of George Franz, and since I already knew his fate he was exempted, I had my potential primary but I just needed identify him. I settled on Simon Atterley because his name had been dropped a few times and always in some way that hinted he did something really, really bad. I figured I better get this out of the way so that I have it at least in the background, so that I know where he's going.

 

I knew this story would not end with his demise because that has already been stated, that he was hung for the murder of a fellow Sultan. I also knew this was not the time for him to kill the Sultan who he was hung for. I was basically coming in completely blank. I wanted to establish Simon's crimes and as I begin writing, they came clear. The story itself and how it developed, the histories revealed and the crimes hinted at all pretty much flowed forth. As I wrote and the more I wrote the more the story solidified and the revelations that came clear through it actually astonished me. I was not expecting Vidak Ivkov but that also has cleared up another Sultan's death and giving me a new story to write, including a story hinted by the hint of that story. I also did not know that is what happened to Henry Pickett. In the poem I knew he was found lying beneath his wagons but I did not know how he got there.

 

As for where Pink Floyd comes in and specifically the Piper at the Gates of Dawn, it is in the structure. Now please bear with me and I will try to make this as clear as possible. I have found in writing some of these stories that there are structures that I return to over and again. One frequent form would be a switching back and forth between a current sequence and a flashback sequence throughout. In other words, you are telling what is going on in the immediate while alternately revealing what has gone on to get to this point. It works and works pretty good but I discovered a refinement.

 

In the stories that I have used such a structure before there is just that back and forth as needed with the resolution taking place as it may. Well, "Chapter 24" was the song that was playing and the primary line within got stuck in my head.

 

"A movement is accomplished in six stages, and the seventh brings return".

 

That right there was a light bulb going off in my head because I hadn't been sure how to structure this story and I was staring at the blank screen. I knew I should use that alternating structure but I wasn't sure how to set it up. With this advice, you're getting three quick sections of current and three sections of past. It was perfect because you don't really need anything further and that 7th section is the resolution, whether it be short or long. Now this may not seem like any Grand Revelation to anyone else but for a 5,000 word short story, this has given me a solid template that I can go back to time and again. With that set structure, and with other set structures that I have found comfortable, it is easier then when you have a story idea to be able the hold it up to the different story structure concepts you have to see which one it fits in. This one I call Simply the Chapter 24.

 

The next element to this story is the song "Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk" from the same album. This is structure influence, not content, and the structure I was looking for is in the opening of this song. Let me explain: it starts with two Beats, a quick dadump followed by a space followed by dadump-dadump followed again by an empty space before dadump-dadump-dadump and one last moment of silence before the song breaks into its whole. In other words...

 

short beat - break - double beat - break - triple beat - break - rest of story.

 

Being that I needed the first break to be longer in order to build up some of the backstory needed I focused it as follows:

 

Current Time - 1 paragraph -intro to action

1st break - backstory - paragraphs as needed - set up scene

Current Time - 2 paragraphs - raise specter of conflict (kind of literally here)

2nd break - backstory - modest number of paragraphs - describe scene dynamic that influences action

Current Time - 3 paragraphs - false climax to heighten stakes

3rd break - backstory - climax of existent conditions establishing story opening scene

Current Time - continue with primary tale in order to seek full resolution with all elements now in play

As for how this worked and this story, it allowed me to start immediate into the action of the story in order to build the suspense. Then it gave me a good section for to establish what the day was and why it is and why there is a gathering for this celebration what the celebration is all about. Back in the current space, still confused, the progression continues as to the mystery of his affliction. The next backstory introduces the outré elements which appear to influence the celebration beginning. Back in the current time we now have our primary conflict fully defined. The last backstory sets the stage for explaining the absolute madness going on before we get to the 7th movement and the current events, now fully informed by the back story, bring us to resolution.

 

I have not used the "Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk" bit again but the "Chapter 24" breakdown is actually a very comfortable format. I said I wanted to use this blog to explain some of the things that I was doing and this is exactly what I mean. The way this story came about insofar as the structure is emblematic of how some of my thought process works when writing these. This one I was just able to capture and hold. I was able to identify it and I was very aware of its development. I was taking permissible license with the tools I had as a writer at my command. My history with structured poetic forms has played a large role in my writing as well as the music I listen to and the books that I have read. This is just an example of it coming together. Also, it gave me the title for this story. Now I did have to find a justification for using permissible license within the story but my primary use of this title was because I was taking permissible license as a writer to do what I would.

 

I'm going to say it worked. Every time I go over this story I find myself extremely pleased with it. It was also not alone because as I was finishing this another even more insane idea crept into my head. I was still thinking about this celebration, this 10-year anniversary in Baird's Holler. That one was also inspired and amplified by music only this time it was RUSH and a delightful little discovery. That story is titled "Dance of Skins" and that is the next post.

 

As for "Permissible License", it was completed September 2, 2019 at 4,983 words. I submitted both it and "Dance of Skins" to that anthology and both were accepted. Their arrangement within that anthology, A Celebration of Storytelling by Dark Owl Publishing, places permissible license at the beginning and dance of skins, an exercise in malevolent, towards the end, nicely book-ending the section on horror.

Goodbye Mama Elena

 In "Fruit of the Womb", there was a little section that immediately inspired a new idea. It was in speaking about Mama Elena, one of Millie's mothers. Now let's just say real quickly that this is a polygamous community in the very worst sense. Take your expectation of a harsh patriarchy and extreme chauvinism to a point somewhere beyond Warren Jeff's compounds in southern Utah and northern Arizona, the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ and Latter Day Saints. For those of you who do not know about this cult, one that isn't overly flashy, it is a breakaway from the Mormon Church founded in 1929 and is primarily located in the areas mentioned though they have a large compound as well in Texas. Their Prophet, Warren Jeffs, is currently serving a life sentence plus 20 years for child molestation. He's getting off easy.

Here in Arizona, we hear about this cult and have always had them in the back of our consciousness as every now and then some horrid news would creep down, usually in the form of the "lost boys", young men who are pushed from the community due to whatever reasons or young women who have escaped that hellhole. While this perversion still sits in the northern realms of this state, it is a shame, one that there is very little recourse for as this cult hides their practices from the outside world and people not in their cult do not live in their communities. Being that we have them here, I figure I might as well use them as a template for the psychotic religious community which has formed in the Bajazid valley region.

Millicent had two mothers at first... Deidre and Elena. Millie had fair, yellow hair like Deidre and Esmy, darker skin and hair like Elena. Still, the children are encouraged to consider the mothers as equal and vice-versa... which is something that does not occur because, well, human emotions. For example, Deidre was extremely harsh toward Esmy before Esmy went away because, well, Deidre knew whose child that was and she was not a very stable individual from what I've gathered. I only have the information from "The Fairies of Esmy", "Fruit of the Womb" and now "Goodbye Mama Elena", but I know she devolved heavily and her passing was not mourned by Millie. Indeed, it was Mama Elena who, over years (and with the loss of her precious Esmy) developed a relationship with Millie leading to a strong and deep connection to the mother who didn't look like her. (the third mother, well, she was a short addition to the family that did not work out so well apparently... must have to figure that one out)

In "Fruit of the Womb", there is a little mention about how Mama Elena is not doing well, that she's no longer there in her head and that it has become too much of a burden on the community to care for her. In such cases, as are the community standards, such individuals deemed a drain on the community or those who have been accused of crimes against the Prophet (Jonathon Kearns) or the community are set outside the gates of the community until they are gone. By this, well, Bezer has been haunted since its inception through its original sin... or the folly of the Prophet. These are the events detailed in "The Witch of Pitt's Junction" and the removal of the elderly colored lady from the community under accusations of witchcraft... after this lady, known in the community as Mama D (because her heavily French name is a tongue twister) had saved one of Jonathon Kearns' boys' life. This betrayal has become the haunt, the curse of this community, and thus the punishment for those who disobey and the cleansing of those no longer productive.

While the feast being prepared in "Fruit of the Womb" is for a celebration... um, weird culture here and yes, it is horrid but that what makes this such a fun gang to write about... Millie is aware that during the next full moon, the Prophet has decreed that Mama Elena will be set outside the walls if she does not pass on her own before then. "Goodbye Mama Elena" is the story of what happens that month later as Millie prepares a bed of straw outside the compound walls for her beloved Mama Elena to be comfortable on as she waits her end. Being that Mama Elena is pretty much no longer there in her head, the tragedy is more sad for Millie than terrifying and Millie does her best to decorate Mama Elena's bower with flowers and to make her comfortable.

It is while these preparations are going on with the whole of the community lining the palisade walls of Bezer to watch that lucidity returns to Mama Elena long enough to tell a terrible truth, one which leaves Millie with an horrible choice. This story gets just a little more sadistic and a little more sad with each word. It is a farewell and Millie is given the honor of holding watch that night so she could keep an eye on her mother... and have the first shot at either Mama Death or the Strawman should either come to collect their offering. It isn't either of these two though that appear, that walk through the moonlight in a stained nightgown to claim Mama Elena. Instead, it is an old hatred long forgotten and a final act of cruelty.

"Goodbye Mama Elena" was finished on the 8th of August, 2019, my 49th Tale completed coming in at 4,790 words. I found a publication that was looking for stories under the them "close the gate" and being that the gate in the palisade wall is extremely important for the safety of Bezer and it is that closed gate that plays prominence here, I submitted and was delighted to be accepted. This story opens the anthology "Thuggish Itch : Close the Gate" by Gypsum Sound Tales. It is an Australian publication which is kinda cool 'cause now I'm international :) Being that a South African publication recently picked up one of my Tales, well, my stories have traveled further than me.

By the way, the contributor copy was upside down when I opened the package but I learned that all you need to do when you do get a package from the upside down part of the world is turn it right side up. Glad to have cleared that up for ya'll.

Millie

 Back in the early days of these Tales, back around the time I first learned the nature of the horror that abounded in Jonathon Kearns' new town of Bezer, This idea came to me long ago but I had not figured out how to play it because, well, this is not an easy one in any way. One of the problems was, I did not know who this woman was and with the nature of the furnishings available in my earliest glimpses into this story did not help me in placing it in time. Another was the issue of portraying the horror that is without portraying it because that would just be crass. Then there was the simple and all important point of it just not being the time to write this Tale. Seriously, that is often the very thing that pulls an idea long in reserve up immediate to the fore... it is time to write that Tale.

I do not kid when I say I constantly think of these stories. They are a great distraction from the woes of the world, this one which I am creating is one I am having a ball diving into. It's an adventure with each one and each opens multiple possibilities. I catch what I can, leave myself breadcrumbs and clues for later so that when I come upon them again, they might stir a fancy. It works for me.

Long ago when I had lots of free time and did things like read and read and read and write the assorted verse as a creative release between reading more, I learned a little bit about my inspiration process. I don't consider my mind, in the cartoon in my mind, an organized collection of file cabinets but more a mad alchemist's workshop. A little of everything I read goes into a conceptual pot and just hangs out. When I had that time to read, when my world wasn't chasing a high-energy kid singing "Wheel's on the Bus" to an eternal repetition, I would always have multiple books going. There was always the main book that I tended to carry until done but I would keep a book, usually non-fiction or short stories in the car as an in-case book. Then there is the ever thankful bathroom book that is good to have a rotation going on because it can be a life-saver. Short stories or non-fiction again. Keep Tolstoy off the can!

Here's what would happen. Something in the world or something I was reading or a pattern took over in my head and an idea would begin to form. I often noted it would have elements of some sort, usually so very indirect, of that which I was reading or had read recently. Other elements of the concept would pull from other things read which have no bearing on the other elements. It was always kind of fun to look at when done with a bit of verse and be able to see what I had keyed on, the disparate elements involved... kind of like a ladle was dipped in that pot and in the bowl were these ingredients thrown together with arbitrary intent.

I was after a little bit of math one day when considering the date for this story which had been waiting ever so long to be written that things kind of came together. It had been a year since I had written "The Fairies of Esmy" and Esmeralda's older sister was on my mind. If she was this many in that year and if the age in which childbirth begins on average in this community then if I add this and carry that and yes, you know, considering the particular age of the particular ritual that is particularly called for here... Hey, Millie! Is that you? Really? After all this time? Wow! Uh, tell me about yourself...

 As soon this understand came clear, that the woman I was looking for to tell this story had been hiding in the background this whole time. "Fruit of the Womb" was ripe for telling and I had at last the voice. Millie is a talker, a good and easy one to listen to. What makes her so special is that she is so very honest, so clear and pure in her faith. She is a true believer, this one is, and her importance was elevated in this Tale to one of primacy in my mind. She very well might be the most horrific character haunting these tales.

This story touches upon what some might consider blasphemy. It is also one of the more sedate and calm stories I have written. I have no idea where something this ordinary yet this nightmarish might end up. Do recall the base real-life concept inspiration for this place... and then play around in the Old Testament focused on what advice therein is found for those living besieged. Then note that the entirety of this fortress in the wilderness, this town formerly known as Pitt's Junction, exists on the belief that they stand besieged at the Gates of Hell. Find one particular verse, form it into the shape of a ladle and dip it into that stew,

"Fruit of the Womb" was completed on July 25, 2019 at 4,326 words. It did wonders for filling out a lot of the history of this town, even from such a cloistered perspective. For one, it established some family relations and structures that I knew needed to be portrayed. Jonathon Kearns had some weird ideas. It explained the follow up of what happened when Esmy disappeared and what Millie's life was up to this point. It explained her mothers and her relationship with the one who remained, Mama Elena, and how it came to be. It shows Millie's piety in a seriously frightful light. With what this story immediately spawned from one little line relating to her favorite mother, another tale within two weeks, and what I have since learned of Millie but have yet been able to get to pen, I fear I might have created a monster here. She is going to be so fun to play with.

Feces mixed with mud, stirred with urine and blood

With "Roots Is All Evil", I was able to tell a short history of a location through brief vignettes interwoven with a singular theme. In that case, it was the cautionary tale being told by the host of the campsite. With "Totem", I took that idea of structure from "Roots Is All Evil" and applied where I had been most afraid to go... the pre-history of this place. Here, instead of a campsite and a curious story, the focal points are a cave and a totem. As you can see, this stuff never leaves my head.

Now currently this is the earliest in time which I have explored insofar as historical record. I can place rough time periods to what first appears here though that I'll leave for the reader to recognize. I have tried to follow geographic history for this region where appropriate for that all too often as well determines migratory patterns of man and beast. However early this story does appear, it is recognized in the initial scene that there are, or were, others and thus these here, while they represent the beginnings of the occupancy of this cave hinted at in the stories "The Witch of Pitt's Junction" and "Kachina", there is evidence this is not the first example of humans entering this valley. I happen to know of a shard of carved ivory broken up on one of the upper creeks that argues an earlier pathfinder.

These are early though. On the timelines I have built up for these Tales, some of the characters presented in the earliest vignettes reach back to the days of specifically fluted flint tips. In fact, the overall timeline for this particular story, runs at least 14,000 years ending some years before a socially disturbed trapper seeks refuge in this cave having stolen four katsina from the Hopi a hundred miles or so distant.

Throughout this Tale of 2,409 words, one thing remains constant and that is the evolution of what was seen in "Kachina" and "The Witch of Pitt's Junction". Where in those Tales, it is a sculptured of hammered gold sheets, it was not always so. This Tale races evolution through its many forms, or enough to allow for nearly unlimited license to mine, ending in this golden monstrosity from the figuring shaped from feces and mud mixed with urine and blood and adorned with horrors too intimate to mention it began as.

I finished this Tale on July 4, 2019. It was the 12th story finishes for this year and I was pretty much at halfway through the year. I was a bit ahead of where I had planned to be but I had no plans to enjoy any rest. I was kind of on a roll right at this point and every free moment my mind was able to get away, I was where I needed to be.

One really nice thing about "Totem", outside of providing some extremely disturbing imagery to open the game, is that it, like "Roots Is All Evil", is also able to be harvested multiple times before it is even near bare. In fact, I allow for legend to build within this Tale that has recognizable consequences at one point. This gives basis for needing to build further on the character here referenced, one Carver of Wood, and the history behind his legend. I even have an entire span glossed over in vague reference, having had to find a word appropriate to represent the number "ten-thousand" in years. That was fun... but again, if ever I complain I don't have anything to write, that means only that I'm not paying attention to what is waiting to be written.

 Oh, and I told ya you'd get the shit joke! By the way, when considering the bulk of these stories placed in temporal order, this Tale, "Totem", is the very first of them all. That means the very first line anyone would read if they were starting these Tales from the earliest occurring, the first line they would read is the full expression that titles this post. Yup, gotta keep it classy...

I Met a Man as I Lay in My Grave

 Okay, here's the thing. I had just confirmed the existence of an absolutely fantastic character who had up to then just been a shadow haunting one of the the smallest corners of my little fantasy world. I knew his name, one that I had heard in the background but now knew for certain. He appeared there on the Bajazid, sharing an evening at that creek-side campfire, and I learned just a tiny bit about him, scarce enough to matter but overloaded each and every word. I'm not touching any of that outside of the fact that I knew that Abel had not been back in this area in twenty years. I also learned in "Roots Is All Evil" that Abel Johnson has some rather horrendous personal traits.

As soon as "Roots Is All Evil" was finished, I was pretty much obsessed. This is how this stuff is happening. I had two primary directions I felt I could go, the first being telling that story that happens up there on the Bajazid basically as a story about that event. The second idea was to follow Abel around and see if I could squeeze a snapshot of his world. It very shortly became a heated discussion within the confines of my creative directions with some rather harsh words uttered by several conceptual entities. In fact, I have a short sub-list in the List now that is just stories wherein Abel Johnson has potential to appear. His time on the Front in France during those dark days of '16 should be fun to write about.

It was a voice other than Abel's which finally broke through and there I was studying American Civil War history again. I needed battlefields, specifically ones which allowed for mobility even in a locked campaign. The further west I could go the better and, well, Grant's actions around Vicksburg and the associated activities of the siege left lots of such opportunities. This story does take place on June 2, 1863... oddly enough, the anniversary of when he was up on that creek now called the Bajazid. This was a weird accident, I'm just going to say that. I was needing the proper phase of moon for description in each story and using a full moon during the time of that siege landed me on this coincidence. Like I have said, weird shit, man.

The title for this, risen when I locked on this particular story of all the possible which had bloomed, is "I Met a Man as I Lay in My Grave". I rose from the study I was doing, giving reason for what I knew Abel to be doing. The location and time, along with the activities he and his unit were engaged in being consistent to historical record, I had pretty much all I needed. I just needed the encounter... and being small encounters were always big contributors to causalities and that units such as his were in the field and accidents happen...

Who would have known that looking through all those Civil War photographs would have proven so useful. Seriously, I was a serious buff when I was a wee one. I was tracing battlefield maps in books and lining up my toy soldiers to suit when I was five. When I was in 7th grade, I transferred to a new school and was instantly hated by all my new fellow students for those two years because the first social studies test I took there was on that subject. Since the teacher graded on a curve, well, I was really hated especially by all those who got in trouble for getting not even Bs but Cs for that test. Yeah, by junior high, I had seen enough Minié ball wounds to know the pleasantries of what one could do.

I had my set-up and I had my hero, one Gabriel Pendleton from a respectable, devout Pennsylvania family, in a position of irrevocable loss. He is lying as many have on the edges of battlefields, ruined beyond hope but without means to hasten his end and left to the agonies and the animals... or the benevolence of visitors passing by in the night. Herein begins the Tale...

Oh, I knew right away I had a winner here. I liked everything about this Tale as it came out and it fit all the requirements of what I needed in order to bind this character to these Tales so that I could not ignore him, so that he could not evade me. The only other thing that would ensure his existence, prove him to be real in this world, would be for him to appear in a printed book.

"I Met a Man as I Lay in My Grave" will be published shortly in a collection by Soteira Press. When the details are ready, I will edit as needed to ensure my links are good. As it is, this story came in at 4,945 words and was completed on June 25, 2019. Following this, there will be two more stories added up to this point with Abel strong in both and I'm starting to get concerned... With the Butterfly Man and Mama Death and the Strawman and the Patchwork Witch and Jonathon Kearns and Leo Tarkenfeld... and let us never, under any circumstances, forget the most wicked of all, little Millicent Flores Kearns, how the hell was Abel going to get any page time? I mean, seriously, I've got a pretty good Rogues Gallery developing here... and these are only the ones I've let you see so far. Each one of these characters named has minimum of a dozen Tales attached though stories of Millie are also always stories of her grandfather and the Strawman goes where Mama Death goes.

Basically, at this point, I have no excuse to ever say that I do not have any stories to write when I know much of the untold histories associated with these names.

Roots Is All Evil

I was feeling pretty good right about this point. I had finished nine Tales in under 5 months, well ahead of my goal. In fact, the first goal was right around the corner, my public declaration. Me, being a diligent little boy, set right to work on the next piece, "Roots Is All Evil". Right off I knew this story was going to be different than any other I had written just on the basic premise. See, I wanted to tell the story of a particular place, the camp of a prospector high on the Bajazid and diverse visitors he had over the years. There is not much in that description that leaves room for a very dynamic plot, but I knew that. This was to be a portrait of a place.

"Roots Is All Evil" was finished on June 8, 2019, coming in at 4,415 words. It is a series of vignettes spanning a score of years revealing his guests in brief. This parade is connected through an overarching cautionary tale told by the prospector whose claim this is and whose campfire is always warm for respectful company. It all plays through quite nicely, a simple portrait of a lonely man in the wilderness and of the ford near where his campfire waits.

Now I know I say this a lot, but this was a fun Tale to write. I can clearly say why here and that is because it seemed those passing by were already waiting in the wings to tell me what happened when they were up there. It was a straight through write really, as soon as I got the ink flowing. Of the cautionary tale, that is the anchor that ties these disparate visitors together. Of those visitors, I am left with near a dozen solid clues to things that I did not know about and some things I suspected. Of the later, I'd thought Caleb Walsh went upstream. Of the former, those are the discoveries I've only begun to scratch at. This, were I to finish the possibles I've noted down already pulling from this, or which can be hinted in connection, count over a dozen in my notebooks with works finished in that number.

Then there is the one visitor who truly surprised me. His name is Abel Johnson and he late April or early May of 1878 during the thaw from the previous winter's blizzard. I recognized him in that firelight having seen him before. It was at a trading post along the Salt River almost twenty years before. He had been in that cantina when that Dutchman was telling his story about the nuggets of gold in his possession and the two empty saddles of his companions. I did not know his name or even for sure that he existed or would. The Dutchman kept his eye out for anyone following him and I watched as well... but still, I suspected.

I had no true idea how Abel Johnson got here into this story, but I'm glad he did. This character's creation is basically here. When I was writing "The Dutchman", I really was suspicious whether the ruse therein worked but keeping true to that POV, there was no way to put such suspicions earlier. Thus, like a freshly lost tooth, I prodded and prodded and then, when I wasn't paying attention, this guy shows up and I knew then that there was a story unwritten that concludes, or starts, directly after "The Dutchman" and a couple months before "Waiting For Ants". This would prove an immediate inspiration.

I know I say this a lot as well also, but for me, this is an important story. The structure I used allowed me to keep a consistent theme connecting a broad stretch of time, offering me a new way to approach some ideas I had been having trouble with. Immediate inspiration would also prove from this, though it would have to wait 'cause Abel Johnson was really insistent. As well, "Roots Is All Evil" immediately proved itself a source of untapped Tales, ones which allow me to step away from the town proper a bit. It has also put a few makers both geographically and temporally out there which has also already allowed me to connect otherwise unrelated stories. Basically, "Roots Is All Evil" has just been a goldmine for me. (pun unavoidable... sorry)

As for what exists within this story that makes it the story that it is, well, it's got a good lesson behind it, one anyone out prospecting would be wise to listen to. What happened to Bob Macon is a perfect example, as explained by our host here, of why it is better to work toward the center of the creek and to avoid the temptation to start digging around the exposed roots of trees along the creek. Practical advice, really.

A momentary pause in the regularly scheduled programing...

 Mainly because I just finished Stanza 5 of "A Sestina Writ in Darkness" and have been editing every free moment I have today.

Let Me Tell You About the Butterfly Man

 "Butterflies and Moonbeams" is a special story (so get your subscription to Weirdbook now so you don't miss it). I say this because it not only birthed a wonderful character, but it outlined his life in broad strokes with touches of interest upon which to later probe. Much like the Patchwork Witch from "For the Dolls Had Eyes" or Doctor Paulk from "The Obsession of Doctor Paulk", the Butterfly Man is established in "Butterflies and Moonbeams" with focal points throughout from which other potential Tales may be culled. "Tell Me About the Butterfly Man" is the first of what are now three stories which have followed this character, Frank Stenoyer Jr., since he rose from a supporting role of 'lead bully' to the starring role with his own oddly menacing nickname. This story arose from one of those focal points.

Now yes, this is a story ostensibly about the Frank, but it is told through the eyes of an inmate in Holman Prison in Alabama in 1971 by the name of Gerald Grant. This is, by the way, Grant's story, not Stenoyer's. Well, it's Grant's story about Stenoyer as told in an interview room in Holman Prison right around the time embroidered, bell-bottom jeans were somehow popular. It is an interview, one given very reluctantly, to a Professor inquiring about this Butterfly Man, something Mr. Grant is highly reluctant to talk about. This Professor, a Jasper Van Hooten, is pretty persuasive.

I've mentioned this guy before, this Professor who really should have more speaking roles. Thus this Tale, 'cause it's a story about this Professor, see, if you squint enough to see a potential story arc launching point insofar as structural approaches. Well, it's about the Professor asking the Inmate about the Biker BoogieMan grown-up Bikers tell little Bikers to keep them being good little outlaw Bikers.

We're all clear on this, right?

Jasper... ah, yes, the Professor, not the community (there is no connection there... the town being named for the semi-precious stone). Now, the first I met this guy, or at least encountered his existence, was in my 5th Tale, "The Little Metal Man". Jasper doesn't appear in there any more than a quick side discussion between Professor and Mrs. Miller about a colleague of his back home who is a bit eccentric, enough so that Mrs. Miller professes he should be in the local asylum rather than the private university he and her husband both work at. That's basically it right there with nothing more for a long, long time. That little name drop and then I dropped him for projects and characters that actually had something to them.

I teased an idea and it is still there, rolling around in the back of my mind but since then, Willard Reams has been keeping his damn mouth shut. Seriously, this is one annoying character. I mean, once conceived, he expected to take center stage and since then, well, I've been waiting for him to produce and this is the time because I know he knows something here. Just knowing that Reams might have an idea, well, "The Journal of Caleb Walsh" confirmed that at some time after 1979 (date of "The Little Metal Man"), Van Hooten took a sabbatical and never came back. Still didn't know squat about this guy. Sounded like a bookish wimp, though, that's for sure.

When I lit upon "Tell Me About the Butterfly Man" as the next in the chute story to write, I had nothing but the passage dropped in "Butterflies and Moonbeams" to go on for how to start this or where to go with it. The writing of this one is one of the most natural I feel I have done from the moment I lit upon the venue, on where it would play out. As soon as I had that, I just let the conversation go and where it went, well, it went into this story. I finished this on May 28, 2019, coming in at 4,970 words.

At the time of this writing, this particular story sits in an odd place. It was accepted into a publication but that publication has gone dark and unresponsive but for a passive website. From the time of acceptance to this time last year would have been 8 months. The one thing I heard which I'll classify as rumor was illness, non-pandemic related. I have many other stories... too many to keep even half of them in circulation in the market I'm learning about so I am not at a dearth of stories or anything, it's just I know that if I submit this one anywhere, it will be snatched up. It is good.

I'm considering this the 3rd Big Lesson in my Adventures in Publishing... though I don't know what that is yet. I just hope this publisher is okay, that's all.

The Trial and Execution of Leopold Tarkenfeld

He did have it coming...

I have had a Leopold Tarkenfeld problem for some time. He has at this point appeared in quite a number of stories, both corporeal and beyond the pale. In his first appearance, "In A Meadow", the deputy interviewed suspects Tarkenfeld of the murder of a prostitute in the alley behind Devitt's General Store. This Tale is set in 1874. His next appearance was without casting credits beyond "rat-faced man", but it is in reference to a fight that takes place in an alley during "Mercy Holds No Measure". This scuffle took place one cold winter night in 1871. The appearance after that is one that I choose not to reveal for it took me ever so long to recognize him after all that time. He is there though and I'm going to just leave it there, though where will remain the mystery. Finally, at last, in "The Journal of Caleb Walsh", Leo appears from beyond the grave with a vendetta in 1887. This means that some time between 1874 and 1887, Leo died. This is the basis of the problem... outside of the fact that he's a bit of an asshole.

By this point I had an idea of what was happening here with dear old Leo. I knew his demise was within the days of the town, just not sure when. I also had at this point, and really the reason for this Tale, realized just how powerful this character is. I knew I had a great villain here, a serious lout that one could, if they squinted, root for... or at least for what he deserves. I also knew I had two versions of this guy, both before and after the grave. As for who he was when alive, that had at this point become quite clear to me. Leo haunted, and still does, quiet regularly my thoughts. He is not a very pleasant person, even more so than I find I'm capable of conjuring. He's a thief, a murderer, a rapist and more, no longer employable by the Mortenson Mine and a fixture among the seediest denizens of Baird's Holler. He also gets his ass whooped quite a lot.

This is a little side fact which really does help define Leo. He's a diminutive man, short and rail thin with wiry muscles and a Napoleon-sized chip on his shoulder. He has shown a habit for acting well before thinking and then speaking with his foot fully lodged. He is also not alone. He keeps around him his confederate, or if you were really generous, his friend, Richard "Dickie" Donnelly, a giant of a man with less than the required wits to roam safely alone. Leo long before took Dickie under his wing and together they make a pretty effective team. There's never been enough to bring either of them in on until the brother-in-law of Kevin Devitt, the owner of Devitt's General Store, was found hung in Mortenson's Meadow near his wagon and his wife, Mrs. Devitt's little sister, was missing.

The other Leo is Dead Leo. "The Journal of Caleb Walsh" gave me a good, hard glimpse at the capabilities of this Leo and I like it an awful lot. That Tale as well gave me the idea of what needed to be, what Leo has been up to. Trust me, the List is full of Leo stories right now, ones just waiting for their turn in the chute. Why? Well, Dead Leo is pissed and he has serious and legitimate reason to be. He is pissed at the Judge, a Sultan named Worthington, and he has a serious grievance with the twelve men of who convicted him of whom Caleb Walsh was the foreman. He's a bit pissed at Marshal Thaddeus Barrett as well he should be and his grudge against his council holds water as well. In fact, he has at least as many or more possible postmortem Tales available as I have plans for his appearances while breathing. Dead Leo gives me an excellent opportunity, through the rotten eyes of one who just doesn't know when to quit, to explore the world of ghosts up here on the Bajazid.

Just got to say, Kevin Devitt has now appeared in a few Tales and I know a few things about him that haven't hit the page yet, things which are fallout from "Shanga-ree" as well as a few particular instances of note throughout the town. In fact, there is a novel planned from the POV of one of the two boys in his shop the day Hans Kroeger went to get some beans and matches and whiskey. I really wish I could do nothing right now but sit and roll off things I've learned of this gentleman, and yes, that he is. His appearances in "Shanga-ree" and "Claude" are who he is and that moral character, as well as his prominence as the primary dry goods merchant in Baird's Holler, gives him an outsized civic role which I am woefully behind on tackling. When it is his wife's little sister who is missing and her husband found swinging from a limb, the Law is most likely going to pick up the individual carrying the dead man's pistol and trying to sell his draft horse.

This is where we find ourselves, in the courtroom waiting in the sweltering heat of the crowded courtroom for Judge Worthington to return and for the verdict to be read. Now, I've been told I pile it onto some of my characters, you know, kick them when they are down and then just keep heaping indignities on the? Well, all it took to give Leo the time of his life at this moment was to ensure his dinner the night before was potato stew... not overly fresh. Yup, his stomach is not doing good and he is feeling the pressure in ways affecting his temperament quite negatively. Not a good idea with Judge Worthington on the bench.

Now this Tale is titled "The Trial and Execution of Leopold Tarkenfeld". True to the title, the story splits itself evenly between these two events with the night in extremely uncomfortable wait to keep the two themes from getting in each other's faces. Allow me to just say that the interim is most tense, more so than one might expect before their execution. That the meal left was potato stew from the same batch now stale in the summer heat didn't help his appetite. It didn't help him at all with his attitude in the morning nor that the crowd gathered demanded his hood be removed and his feet unbound because, well, it's a better show that way. That was a bit of a mistake and I'm just going to say the whole affair was one big shit-show.

"The Trial and Execution of Leopold Tarkenfeld" was finished on May 16, 2019, at 4,885 well satisfying words. Satisfying because as this story finished, a whole concept rushed out and I've been trying to play clean up since. See, as for story arcs that now exist, "The Crimes and Executions of Leopold Tarkenfeld" is the one with the greatest potential for racking up a serious pile of stories. As with "The Trial and Execution of Leopold Tarkenfeld", this story arc collection has two primary parts... Live Leo, the little shit who gets an arse whooping quite constantly despite the protection Dickie provides and Dead Leo, a raging vengeance machine on a mission.

I've got my work cut out for me 'cause Leo really can provide me with no less than two dozen more Tales without even really looking too hard. More than half are already set up along with a few other surprises I've learned about. For example, I know for certain that his legacy is felt even in the ridiculously long Sestina I am currently going mad on (just finished 58,000 words today... only 20k to go!) Beyond these Tales here mentioned (or not-mentioned) he has appeared four more times in the stories that have been written, both during his Crimes and his Executions. 

Oh, I should say that he is also pissed at Dickie. All the evidence was circumstantial but damning none the less and Dickie, well, he's kind of slow. Still, it doesn't matter how susceptible Dickie is to suggestion, something Leo had always relied on, it was so not right to sell him out like that. I mean, Dickie didn't finger him, but he didn't not finger him either. I'm gonna have to figure all this out because I know something that happened when a Dentist and his three traveling companions left Prescott on June 3, 1880 and made a right hand turn rather than continuing on to Tip-Top for the night.

I wrote myself a Future story!

 ...and then the clock struck 12.

See, I finished the next Tale, "Venomous Constellations", late in the day on Saturday, April 20, 2019. Now normally I would have celebrated this as a "420" story or some silly thing like that, but that was far from my mind as I finished up this Tale because it was written into the future. Yup, that is correct... I had been able to, for the first time, extend these Tales of the Bajazid beyond a historical record and into a predictive document. I was telling the future! I was writing Science Fiction! It was April 20th and I was writing about what happened on Easter Sunday, 2019... which happened to be April 21st that year.

As you can see, my soothsaying was short lived.

Of everything I have written, I am going on record as saying the last image we are given through our intrepid hero's eyes in this Tale are the most cosmically Lovecraftian an image as I have produced... as far from anything cosmic as could be. I'm kinda proud of it, this imagery. It flowed from the Tale and determined the name at the last second. When I first had considered this idea, another of those early original notes, I had ascribed to it the incredibly horrid place-holder title of "Big New Thrill" 'cause that's what these two dudes are up to... getting their next big thrill. When I came upon this moment in the story, when it had reached this horrific conclusion and they way the words worked themselves out onto the page, I knew what now was to be.

As for the Tale itself and those involved, "Venomous Constellations" was finished the night before the story takes place. I was chasing the clock on this 'cause I had the idea sitting and returned to and dropped so many times and then the right stars came together and I realized where to go with it. It was finished nine days after "There is Clearly Something Amiss" making it the 7th story of the year at halfway through April and the 42nd Tale overall.

I always knew who these two guys were, or at least I knew I had met them before... or at least have known enough near enough to fit the bill. I just could never get the right fit to their being there, up in the Bradshaws, that fit a reason not forced. That too had been sitting in front of me this whole time as well and it took this long for them to connect. When they did, there it was. The primary problems the characters face and the resolution all remain pretty much how my notes always said they would. Again, this was a story looking for a reason and a voice. Once I had that reason, the voice followed. What remained was execution.

Now, I know I had a huge burst of ideas flood me on March 23rd of that year as I was working on "There is Clearly Something Amiss" because there is a specific date mention in my notes for this. I had on that day compiled in a single Word document the different needed elements with the names and other information that was developing at the time. This is 4 1/2 pages before I apparently fell asleep with further points to be made and discussed with those point notations already laid out but empty. The information on these pages deal often paragraphs deep on who these folk are and their motivations and that stuff. It is the 6th entry that is curious at second look for the notation added the next morning reads:

"To preserve this, the above sentence was written about 1:30am as I was falling asleep 3-23-19. The last six words I don’t remember typing"

 That which I was referring to was this:

"6:     Brett Flynn is the other and he is as entitled as you would think with wounds delightful at close range"

 There once was a time I slept on a low bed that let me dangle my arm to the floor easily and I kept a pen and pad there. I would sleep with headphones on, something like Roger Water's "Amused to Death" or Jim Morrison's "American Prayer"... some interesting things would appear on that page in the morning... and sometimes I was even able to read them. I have fallen asleep on my keyboard more times than I can count and while most often the result is multiple pages of the letter "v" (most common nose resting location), sometimes interesting things appear. I have no idea where "with wounds delightful at close range" came from.

Oh, and yes, that is an example of the font I write with, MyUnderwood. It's a nice writing font for that old-timey pulp feel.

That which clicked to bring this story from the back of my mind to the fury of my clickety-clacking fingers was Roland Trane and his video blog from "Trane's 'a Rolan". Seriously, why I hadn't connected these before, two adrenaline junkies looking for their next fix with the adrenaline junkie who posted his exploits on-line, I don't know but when they did, there it was. Simple motivational answer... they were inspired to ride Roland's last trail after the video was uploaded without previewing by one of Roland's friends. Thus following that trail, they had a great time. Yup, end of story... good times had by all and now it's back to town for more blow and before work the next day. Got a little time to kill so take this road and find, outside an old abandoned fortress-like compound, the entrance to an old mine or tunnel. Hey, this looks like fun! Time to add spelunking to their list of hobbies right there along with base jumping, mountain biking and white water rafting. After getting really into it, after they've learned all they could...

Now, as the events unfolded in this Tale of 4,911 words, things started taking their own direction. This leads to that leads to this decision leads to... all following the primary plan, just the details really built themselves up here. There are stories beneath the cold waters that flow from the old Baird's Holler/Pitt's Junction tunnel, stories from the week Baird's Holler was damned that I need to tell based on what was found in there. There are other stories as well, one in particular I had no idea was going to show up, but as the horror was growing to absolutely maddening levels in this Tale, when there really is nothing left to do but lose your mind, things get weird and that 4th dimension is crossed.

As for why it is set for that Easter Sunday, I needed the perfect time for two bachelors working in a high end auto dealership to get away and such a time is perfect. I remember one year when my eldest daughter was about 5 and she went to her mother's and so my roommate and I just went out into the desert with some creative targets (for example, an old Pat Robertson sermon on LP pilfered from my grandmother collection she was throwing out) and spent the day blasting away. Was nice 'cause we then went for Chinese while three of our closest friends were at the Thai place down the street. All got together afterwords and was a very nice day all told. When you have nothing else to do, when your responsibilities are shrived (in my case my daughter at her mother's) and work is closed for the day, why not go off on an adventure... or just go blow some stuff up? In such an industry as these two work in, with their familial severances, this is jut the type of day for them. When that date was set, it became a race to get the story finished so that, yes, I would have one future story. This was important for me because a really nice fellow I worked with and who would listen to me work these things out, always begged me to write a science fiction story... so I did. He wasn't amused.

This story also illustrates exactly why I seem to have trouble sticking to a singular theme and working it through such as the "Outside the Circle of Midnight Black" stories. The previous Tale took place in 1980. The Tale which follows "Venomous Constellations", "The Trial and Execution of Leopold Tarkenfeld", takes place in 1874. I am unmoored in Time here. It is not like I'm choosing where I'm going with this. I seem to only have minimal control insofar as getting to add my voice to that which I'm being shown. Oh, also, this might be a good time to remind that I prefer to speak of these as if they are for it helps in my relationship with them... thinking about a dynamic as opposed to a static graveyard.

There is a story of shifting place-holder titles in my List of Tales yet to write. It involves one of the vehicles seen by the unnamed protagonist from way back in "Anger", my 7th Tale. After that beautiful Golden Hawk was discovered up there and knowing that the Free-Men's Collective's truck was up there (you've met some, you'll meet the rest soon), I was still searching for those needed that remained. At some point I noticed a 1970s model pickup with camper-shell up there, CB and other wireless antennae all over it... you know, an enthusiast parked up high for some serious reception. I have yet to write his story, but I know now the signal he was searching for.

There is Clearly Something Amiss

 What has become the "Circle of Midnight Black" and "Outside the Circle of Midnight Black", began as three separate story ideas centered around the tragic end of Baird's Holler in 1890. The first of these, the earliest of that trio, was also the first written, "Child of the Earth". The other two had emerged in my head as taking place mid-week and in the form of journal entries and of the end of the week as told in an oral report to a commanding officer. This is the story about that hump-day madness.

Okay, there has been this story going around the interwebs for some while purporting to a report on a Soviet sleep deprivation experiment where the people in it go raving mad. This is all total bullshit, nothing more. Whole story is fake... but it does plant deep seed. The original idea had been for one of the assistants to the Mine Inspector sent down from Prescott to have salvaged the notes of the principle protagonist in this story, a very humble Mr. Archibald L. Temple. That was pretty much it, a rescued artifact documenting a quick onset madness of intense and irredeemable proportions from the victim's perspective. I had no idea how this was going to play out nor what the impetus was of that madness. To get to an understanding of what happened, I figured I'd just follow Mr. Temple from the first notes in his journal relating to this journey.

I have been to Palace Station a few times and at that time, it was the busiest stage stop on the busiest road in the Bradshaws, the highway named for the Senator Mine. I have stood over the graves of Matilda Spence's husband and some of her grandchildren who died at birth. There is not much of Palace Station that remains today beyond this small graveyard and the main house, a modest structure reinforced and used today by the Forest Service. All the rest is gone... but Matilda was there. I hope my portrayal is acceptable.

Thoughts that I had been chewing on as well as new ideas springing forth the whole time filled this tale. For example, knowing what day Mr. Clark, the gentleman running the furnace, resigned his post in "Twelve-Thirtyfour" was important. As well, knowing the state of Mr. Batur following his recent adventures in "Child of the Earth". Then there were the barely planned being made real such as what was found in the meadow. This has led directly now to two other stories connected to this story arc, "Girl Rattled" and "A Rill Off the Sultana", though the second is a month before discovered as I followed the threads of what happened there.

This Tale, "There is Clearly Something Amiss", was completed on April 11, 2019, arriving at 7,346 words... a complete and utter finger given to my goal of remaining in the 5k arena. Thing is, this Tale needed it. As well, being "Child of the Earth", the primary short that begins the whole debacle, is longer than that limit (and done before the decision to hold at that length), the middle story might as well be of a larger size to act as a balance. I plan on having the last independent Tale in this series as well being around this length while all the others that fill around come in below. I know, this all sounds crazy, but it works for me and I suspect that when this is done, it will work in full, giving the reader variation in pace through these side Tales.

There is an awful lot that goes on in this story, too much to even want to get into. Besides, that's what makes this one fun. There are hints all over this, both to other events happening while this is going on as well as to the first listing of which Sultans were around in 1878 on... as well as, told through the nutty old Colonel Nesmith, a brief summary of what happened to them. Uh, looks like I have my work cut out for me figuring out how to interpret some of these, especially whatever the hell happened to Pedro Guzman and to Radul Ivkov. Alas, this is how these stories appear...

The one thing I can truly and honestly say about this Tale is that "There is Clearly Something Amiss". As this works into the series and I expand through the later days, this gives me a clue what to expect. It also offers me a delightfully obnoxious character to play against from the perspective of Mr. Lundmeir as I work through "Circle of Midnight Black". Knowing how Mr. Temple things of him and the encounters they had, it will be interesting hearing Lundmeir's side. I'm suspecting it will include quite a few blue words and phrases.

At the prospect of a double-date...

 I was inspired to write a little Tale...

Some of us in this life are lucky in a way that is marvelous and is hard to explain to those who have no such connection in their lives. What I am speaking of is childhood friend who has grown with you over the years, even when distance demands, and never does it seem the conversation has ever stopped. For me, this friend, a brother as true as any, has been there now all these years through thick and thin and I am lucky to have him. During this horror we are all living through right now, this pandemic, I recently had the scare of his positive test and subsequent illness. His mother as well, aged as she is, has pulled through and as I write this, tears streak my face. I have almost lost him too many times now and damnit, some friendships are worth it. 17 years ago this month (actually in 9 days), I gave him a kidney. He is my brother and those with such friendships will understand. Those who don't, I don't know what to say.

Right around the time I was finishing "The Golden Hawk", the Gods of Inspiration decided to come and pay me a provocative visit. This pal of mine gave me a call to ask if he could come up from the beautiful desert oasis of Tucson to go camping up on the property here in Howells. Absolutely and when did he want to come? Just let me known and I'll get my little girl down to her mom's and... you're bring her? And who? Uh, YES! Let me know the date!

See, little back story on me and my friend. He is a shining star wherever he goes, making friends with everyone in a straight-forward and friendly way. I am a specter haunting the edges of crowds or slipping through unseen and when the light does hit me and my voice is heard, I am accused of being "intense" (that's the word my friend says is the most often used by others). His social ease and a bit of boredom had him somehow connecting with a classmate from our old high school, one who went back to middle school with me. I know why too... I mean, not just because he is a naturally easy where I am tense (he seeks out women to speak to and I pass out when spoken to) but because in the years since I had last seen this very plain, quiet and mousy classmate of mine, something seriously whowza happened. With a hint at who my date was to be, my next story began as soon as "The Golden Hawk" was completed.

This is the story of that date. I could not use my name or that of my friend or the two ladies accompanying, but I knew who I could use. See, I had me a little history. A long time ago back when I was trying to fight my way through college as a single dad working, I took a few writing courses. For one, the focus of my studies had been angling more to the written word as it was specifically because that was something that you did not need to buy chemicals for or lab time or constantly replacing supplies. Instead, it allowed for as much creativity as needed without requiring anything more than a pad and a pen... and weed and beer if you really wanted some chemicals. These courses though, the ones distinct from the media based studies I was focused on, were some of my favorites and the writing courses I would take occasionally after that just because I needed something, anything, have always been my favorite.

Back in the early 1990s when telephones still had cords and stores still stocked replacements as a staple, I wrote a few little stories in those classes I took. Each year I made sure I took at least one such if I couldn't each semester. Each course I did take produced at least one gem and one flat stinker with degrees between. Those that were gems were all focused upon faux-memories of someone not too different from me. You know, standard retrospective stuff from just a few years distant fictionalized and disguised in characters who are not you and those in your sphere but are elements of you and those in your sphere. The good ones were pretty darn good and I have them all still... but one, the first and the most infamous. I have no remaining hard copies of it and have scoured old boxes of 3 1/2 inch floppy drives to no avail. I have found, in very well kept order, a 5 1/4 inch floppy with a label reading "Roaches" but come on man! I mean, how the hell am I supposed to get what is on there off? I'm going crazy here!

While the secondary cast extended into a small circle in these early stories, two characters were dominant with one being the primary POV through them. There was one story with an agnostic POV, but primarily it was one sided. That was the POV I took here as well because, well, consistency even after all this time must be retained, gosh darn it. I will also say these two are and are not me and my friend and while POV determination places my friend in that position based on the invite mentioned which spawned this story, there is no significance there. These two I haven't seen in decades and it was just nice to see them again and let them tell me a little about themselves.

Now if you want, I can draw you a map on how to take this little trip, or at least the areas that retain their cartography under the eyes in the sky. It's really hard to spot that turnoff. But of the civilized roads? It's a nice day trip and if you're with someone special, trust me, those little cabins are kinda cozy. That said, it is always a good idea to carry water with you when you are out in the Arizona desert. When tragedies do occur out here in this desert, it is the lack of that very lubricant of life which is often the culprit.

"Before I Ask For More Water" is a very nice little story. Seriously, it's nice and perfectly themed as a tale of old friends and new possibilities... until they come upon the young woman washing stained vestments with the dust of the dry creek. This is an uncharacteristic Tale in a few ways, the tempo presented and changed as it is providing the chance to throw such a curve. This is all I shall say here of "Before I Ask For More Water" beyond that it is my 40th Tale, finished on March 27 of 2019 and is 3,542 words long.

I'll also say that it was refreshing to work so lightly even if the break was fated. As for that date, it never took place. Between four busy adult schedules and a couple hundred miles distance and then the withdrawing of our social selves... but it was a nice little vacation in my mind, that I will say. I had a good time, that is, until we needed water...

The Golden Hawk

"In The Golden Hawk, Tommy Gallagher made a bad choice, a hasty decision rushed by Benzedrine and fear. Now, with the nephew of a mobster in the trunk of a stolen car, Tommy's bender finds him hundreds of miles from Vegas on a mountaintop in central Arizona. Haunted by his own folly and specters at the edge of mental collapse, Tommy comes to terms with his planned revenge and opts for mercy instead." 

Yup, that's pretty much it in a nutshell.

I have not written many tag-lines... proof of this is I don't think that's what they're called... but for this story I have and this does pretty much sum it up.

This story was finished March 18, 2019, coming in at 5,748 words. Yes, it broke the 5k barrier, but rules are meant to be broken in need and this story presented that need. My wine-peddling Lovecraft-pushing pal holds to the date of this writing, where I am at 73 Tales, that this, the 39th, is my best, or at least his favorite. I am kind of fond of "The Golden Hawk" as well.

In tracing the development of this Tale, I recall a submission call for "cozy" dark tales taking place in the mid-20th Century. That set me thinking, where can I find any cars from diverse eras wherein a representative of such from the period requested might be found? The answer was obvious, the Amalgamated Metals Incorporated AZ-09-AU mine up near the headwaters of the Bajazid.

"The Amalgamated Metals Incorporated AZ-09-AU mine?" you ask.

Yes, and thank you for your prompt prompt. Way back on story #7 when I was still wandering around these hills without direction, I was following a character whose name, believe it or not, I still do not know, not even after nearly 22,000 words. I followed him for three days as he let his anger build and fester. It was on the second day when he had his only true reprieve and that is because he took off and wandered around with his sketchbook and his Tupperware container of weed. One of the places he visited was an old abandoned mine at the top of the mountain. There is structural reasons why he travels up there as a different journey is underway at the same time. His presence there though establishes this location early on in the history of these Tales. Its inclusion in this story, "Anger", was in part because I already, even back then, knew I needed to enshrine this location. It stems from one of my earliest considerations. Why it was of interest here is because of the number of old cars from diverse eras parked here and there. In "Anger", there was no need to mention their make.

Just on a quick side, the AMI is about to play a monstrously huge role in the Tales of the Bajazid as it is the centerpiece of the project I am currently working on, "A Sestina Writ in Darkness".

So, I had my era and I had a geographical excuse for a temporal spread of automobiles. That's nice and good, but I had no idea what to do. Being that I give people gas five days a week, I see a lot of classic cars in my central Prescott location. As they come through, I always admire as I may, often heading out to talk to the people because old guys with well loved restored cars just hate talking about their dearest hobby.

It was around this time, shortly after "The Dutchman" slipped into my rear-view and I was watching the cars roll past that this absolutely beautiful machine pulled in at pump #2. It was a lustrous midnight black beauty perfect in shape and design and as I made excuse to be out looking like I'm working for the cameras, an idea was forming in my mind. Oh, he was ever so willing to speak about his car, a 1958 Studebaker Silver Hawk. So willing was he that upon request, he opened the trunk so that I may see how much room was inside, explaining that for a story I was considering, I needed such a car with just enough room. How much? Well, I need to transport the nephew of a Las Vegas mob-boss...

I had my story and it was desperate. My last impediment was the introduction, a decision determined when that first line came crashing through the tall grass. With the geography known and ready calculations available, the era understood through a lifetime of absorption of Americana with emphasis on film noir subculture, my primary research, outside of my regular guides on time-specific phrases (and the reason you won't hear me mention "stooges" when out in the desert), was into the Studebaker Hawks. Holy smokes! I think I done fell in love here 'cause the '56 version of this series, the one to hold the name Golden Hawk, well, that decided my story as well as determined an artifact new off the lot I plan on picking up as soon as my time-machine is ready. Gonna put it in storage and wait.

Of all these Tales, of all these stories that I have written, the singular connecting thread between them all beyond locale is that they all fit in the speculative realm, in particular the genre of the weird. That said, "The Golden Hawk" is the least speculative of all these stories. Indeed, read without context to any of the other stories, I believe a reader might just consider what happens naught but the extreme edges of a near two-day Benzedrine bender backed up by exhausted levels of panic, adrenaline and dread. That speculative element that exists, or those speculative elements haunting at the edges, may easily be so misconstrued. If however the reader of this Tale has encountered any other story so sub-titled with many directly noticed amongst this small catalog of mine, then those elements cannot be missed taking a relatively horrifying ending for the uninitiated and turning it into a nightmare for those who recognize the shadows.

From the opening line unto that surety condemned, this is one of my personal favorite Tales. With the exception of artifact addition, the revelation of one of those vehicles spied by my nameless hero with an anger issue and a sketchpad, there remains no other connection to any other Tales for these characters beyond that spied at the edges of exhaustion. It was not accepted into the anthology I wrote it for... mainly because I think I mistook the concept of "cozy" as being the space in the trunk of a 1956 Studebaker Golden Hawk. Crashing from a two-day adrenaline freaked high isn't that cozy. That's all good though because I have this story because of it. As well, I don't think that publisher is a going concern anymore. Another Tale I would write shortly after this was accepted but that was some time ago and I've heard nothing in, well, let's just say that if they had published it within six months of their acceptance, the rights would have returned to me by now.

By the way, um, my conception of mercy might not be universal here...

De Nederlander

A horrible end awaited three Cavalrymen who followed the trail of a dead man laden with bags of gold in "Waiting For Ants", written in April of 2018. It was one of two stories I had planned inspired by local lore, and by local, I mean lore rich in the history of Arizona. Seriously, if you're a writer from or in Arizona who plays in the old-timey cowboy day, you are going to be tempted to base a story off of the famous Lost Dutchman mine and legend of the Peralta Massacre. The problem that exists for writers of most "western" work is that their home is on the fabled range or the barrooms of cattle towns. They have no reason to go digging in the dirt. That is not really respectable Cowboy behavior. Instead, that is the labor of the supporting cast lucky to have the iron-jawed hero ride past on a horse whose name alone brings quivers of fear into the hearts of neer-do-wells. There are better things for a respectable Cowboy to do than chase lost mines.

Well, um, I have no qualms about digging in the dirt, have done so my whole life much to my laundry's disdain. I descend from those who dug in the dirt and before me on the wall are those family members who did that labor (just to note, it is their photos on the wall). As well, the bulk of my stories are Westerns, taking place in that brief period romanticized in images of the guitar strumming cowboy lonely on the range. My Westerns don't take place out on the range though, nor do they feature as a lead a tough-talking, morally ambiguous ex-preacher/lawman/judge needing to settle old scores or clean up a town. They take place where the real West was won... in the crowded, stinking mining towns that gave reason for residence. Here is where I diverge though for while I do write about a place representative of the bulk of cities started out here, my town is a little weird. I am in the speculative field, after all, or at least one cosmically horrifying rill.

"Waiting For Ants" was part of a two-story event I had planned, a pair of Tales playing off certain elements found in the histories and legends associated with the Lost Dutchman Mine. "Waiting For Ants" was focused primarily on a single detail of a body found in the desert between Wickenburg and the southern Bradshaw Mountains in the early 1870s. Transferred in conceptual time to 1858, that Tale gave me a body of a man in the deserts so described and one of a horse in the rocks in the region of the foothills. "The Dutchman" is the other half of that pairing, the rest of those legends repurposed for the Bajazid.

Seriously, quite a bit of research went into this story. Tracking paths through land I know well in modern display through lost desert trails in a time when the Territory was new in its ancient majesty was only part of the journey. A lot of this research had been gathered over my lifetime of living with these legends in local lore, hometown geek stuff. The prior knowledge that Jacob Waltz, the actual "Dutchman" of history, had some early claims in the Bradshaws (then known as the Silvers) was the impetus of these two tales in the first place. An awful lot, particularly relating to the lie Aert Swygert tells the eager audience at the trading post about, was new to me. That example hinted there, references to the myths of those mountains now called the Superstitions, are from the Diné people, commonly known as Apache... known through the history of the name the Spanish gave those mountains.

What happens up there on that mountain I am not going to say, nor will I mention how Aert came at last to the desert below or how his horse suffered. I will also not speak of his two partners nor the short straw Aert drew requiring his trip for supplies. I will say that I have since discovered that Aert was not as careful as he thought in concealing his departure from that cantina not far from the regional Cavalry post. He watched his whole journey for signs of smoke or dust or the glow of a campfire distant and saw nothing. I noticed nothing as well but I was suspicious.

"The Dutchman" comes in at 4,977 words and was completed the 8th of February, 2018. Outside of geography, there is nothing to connect these two stories, "The Dutchman" and "Waiting For Ants", at the time of this writing to any of the other stories. The only other story I had written at this point taking place prior to the discovery of gold by the Mortenson Party aside from these two was "Kachina", but these two Tales were connected in no way to that. I had suspicions though, ones which began haunting as soon as this Tale left my pen. Four and a half months later, I would know the answer to this in a story titled "I Met a Man as I Lay in My Grave", available upcoming from Soteira Press.

Valentine's Day Spectacular!

Well, that might have been a bit of a flash there, but 2019 was hitting high and hard quite quickly. I had just burned out those five stories between late November and December and had begun the new year with a story ripped out in a week. I was feeling quite positive and these Tales, especially writing them on early morning shifts, were keeping me sane from the bat-shit nonsense that was work... basically the failure to keep a 4th person on staff in my department leaving me stretched too far too long while still doing the whole single-dad-of-autistic-child bit. These Tales were my moment of sanity and peace... ironic as that may sound considering the subject matter I was playing with.

Now, the inspiration for this Tale which I am about to tell about was one of the many dropped hints found in my third story, "I'll Always be With You, Boys". That story is predominately a conversation and there is one small section therein which has plagued me since I wrote it. I know why this was on my mind, this little bit (hopefully) unnoticed (seriously, it is not meant to be noticed), and that is because of the checks I had made into that story in preparation of "Forgiven". For that story, as I was looking in on the Jeffords and Arn reference, I found this disappearing hint hiding not too far distant. That caused me to wonder why William made that sour face and looked away as he answered Alexander, declaring in softest terms that no, he had not ever seen any of these men lost in the mines but the one they claimed was one of the Kroeger brothers and then his eyesight is poor at evening light.

I suspected something.

"Come With Me, Dear" is actually a rather tender little Tale. It comes in at 1,834 words, at this point my 2nd shortest story... and there is no hidden meaning to the word "tender" either. It is kind of sweet it it's own way (and no, "sweet" isn't a loaded word either... I'm not that bad). I was given a deep dive into Nesmith's private life, a moment unfortunately common and always hard on the heart. (sigh... I might have told one bad joke too many)

In all seriousness, this is a nice story and that is an odd word to use with the Tales of the Bajazid. Horror can have a hea... can reveal depth of character and their capacity for emotion in the face of the incomprehensible

Whew! I can go with that one 'cause, well, it's actually quite accurate. One other thing I can state with accuracy is the date of completion of this story... January 13, 2019. I was now two weeks into the year with two solid stories done. I was wondering if I should revise my goal. I was also fearing what potential rabbit hole, or mine shaft, waited for me if this pace proved precedent.

William Nesmith is one of my oldest characters and one whom I've developed an actual fondness for. Oh, he has some horrible personality traits and is in no way a noble or heroic figure... it's just, for all his loathsome traits, he's definitely not the worst guy in Baird's Holler... not by an extremely long shot.

For Valentine's Day this year, I'd like to offer everyone the opportunity to learn what tragic secret William Nesmith has hidden away. You can find this Tale, "Come With Me, Dear" in Fear and Fables by Stormy Island Publishing.

Forgiven

I had just finished 2018 focusing on one of the many Sultans yet who had not graced my pages either in any way at all or as more than just a name dropped at some point. With my new goal set in sight, same as the last with a secret finish, I began 2019 immediately looking at some of these individuals who should be playing a larger and more dominant role in these Tales. Just on a side note here, this rarin' energy to tackle the line of Sultans ended here. Don't want to build this up too much or anything, it's just that I follow where the stories lead and as soon as this Tale, "Forgiven", was finished, I started chasing other shiny objects 'cause they were there and demanding. Here though, I was ardently pro-Sultan in my arrangements and began at once (literally, first words were started just after midnight New Years Eve).

Now, here's what I had when looking at who I should try to follow. First, at this point, I had only about half of that company of 30 men who first found gold in this valley named. A few had become close friends, to some degree or another, and some were acquaintances and then there were those names just dropped and left such as Jeffords who is mentioned in "I'll Always be With You, Boys" along with Sam Arn and Charles Lahore. Now Charles, he I have only hinted here and in "The Obsession of Doctor Paulk" and I had then nor have yet to delve deeper into what I know of him beyond his death. As for Sam, he and Jeffords are mentioned in the same sentence in "I'll Always be With You, Boys" as ones whom William Nesmith asks of Alexander Gitney whether he had seen them amongst the visitors who haunted him nights.

As to the reasons why these two should be counted in amongst Gitney's visitors is that all of them were ones lost in the mines. From this hint I have assumed that Arn and Jeffords both perished... or were lost... in the depths but I knew not how. I do not still know what happened to Sam Arn. The last I heard of him was in the summer of 1872 when his beloved dog Punch disappeared. Before that, he was seen half a year before watching with Charles Chesterfield the attempts at getting the body of an unknown woman out of the large cottonwood that hung over the Baptist church that was being erected. I still don't know what happened to him. His death is hidden from me, as are his bones, but I've heard some whispers amongst some of the Mortenson Men who visit that there might have been an explosion involved. I'm in no hurry to find out and I am sure that when the time comes, he will be there.

As for the other, he was just a name with nothing attached. Being that I at least had a place in which to start, him being lost in someway in the mines, I had my number one suspect, someone I did not need to really push much harder on. There were others in the background waiting, such as Hamish Rós and Steven Clayton, or even John S. Mortenson himself, but Jeffords began speaking to me immediately. I suspect he was ready for some time as the story came out with relative ease, especially when two other thoughts occurred to me, the first being the shuffled step of Buck Jackson as he walked through Alex Gitney's house and the night in which Buck Jackson died, Christmas Eve 1871 when the moon was full and the bulldogs were howling. Seriously, the story came in a flood after that, all 3,836 words.

Just a quick aside here: Around this time I also decided that I really, really needed to set up some databases of my stories in order to keep track of this growing cast and their connections, some way in which to keep things straight. Well, I've ended up with a few now and in a few posts, I'll go into some of them. This post is about "Forgiven" though, a story which I finished on the 7th of January, 2019, seven days after beginning it. This is mentioned here because one of those databases, the one I call "Baird's Holler Master Story Index" has within it a separate page for each Tale detailing certain aspects of it such as the date it takes place, whether or not it has been published (or sold), the cast of characters, what story arc if any it belongs in, word count, story position of order written, and when the story was written. Everything beyond this date I have that direct accounting of.

As for "Forgiven", this was going to make me for the first time confront Buck Jackson's death, something that I knew to a slight degree what happened and directly when, but nothing more aside from the boon that death brought his widow... and thus me with a whole raft of story possibilities. I'm kinda thankful to Buck myself, and in a way, Felix Jeffords. The only thing I truly knew of Buck's death outside of him being lost in the mine was that his loss was a sacrifice, one which saved the lives of 15 other Sultans, an engineer named Hugh Goff who I met in my very first story, and some dumb jackass who got stuck with all these important people. Just so you know, that jackass will have his own excellent adventure as the last story written in 2019, finished that Christmas Eve. His mention here was, well, beneath the notice of our dear Mr. Jeffords. He had other things on his mind.

So, what I knew was that Jeffords, Jackson, Goff, 14 other Sultans (owners of the Mortenson Mine... I forget, I should remind that occasionally) and some dumb jackass trapped in the mine and I knew that all but Buck Jackson would make it out. Okay, well, how does Jeffords play into this? That was the discovery of the week and the reason this story just came out so clear and clean. See, Jeffords started telling me, as apparently he told a lot of people in his last year and a half after the accident that took Jackson, his confession. Oh, I was uncertain at first his claims, just like his colleagues with the Mortenson Mine and even Delores Jackson herself. Yeah, he was never considered a very likable man, but this defeat which came over him following that evening was extreme. He bore guilt that none would accept and confessed to crimes past none knew how to respond to for they were confessions 2,000 miles distant among men trying to heal their scars.

Felix Jeffords was not a good person. Oh, he had no trouble with himself nor his personality because, well, he was from when he was, from where he was, and of the trade his family had been in. He wore his bitterness on his sleeve for he lost everything irredeemably in and following that conflict which tore the young nation apart. He was of a long line of slavers, dealers in human flesh, a trade his family had been long steeped in and, due to what he considered a blasphemous tragedy, saw it all come crashing down with the enforcement held by the tip of a Reconstructionist bayonet. When, after a year of night-riding, it was no longer safe to return home, he fled west with all that hate still in his heart. It still burned four years after becoming one of the richest men in the Arizona Territory, still stung that to save his reputation, he had to sign a contract making him the equal of a black man.

As for where in the mine this tragedy was to take place, I had that already as well. In "Tears in Green Satin", I hinted at the very basic structure of the mine with the mention of one particular tunnel and the drifts that spread from it. The B-line is the suspect tunnel here. The lettering goes all the way to H with the A-line being the primary tunnel. The B-line was one known to be closed 1874, the date that story concludes. Being the gold was discovered  in 1867, the town risen the next year, and the tragedy which took Buck taking place at the end of 1871, here again was another accidental fit. From the hints I've heard, this particular tunnel was abandoned for good reason.

This is all I'm going to say outside of I really found a love of slavers with this story. Please, don't take that wrong. This fondness I have developed for them, be they folk like Felix or those found in other Tales taking advantage of the Credit Ticket system (for starters), is based on how delightful it is to put them in my stories. See, those in my stories, be they young or old, race and religion not withstanding, their moral fiber strong or frayed to tattered ends, it doesn't matter. This is the god-damned Bajazid and, well, it don't care. Thus, as Chronicler of these Tales, I must assume for these records an agnostic stance as best I can. I admit I develop extreme fondness for some of my players for divers reasons. In some cases, such as Norbert Pike and Ernest Weber, I really like the guys and feel slightly bad for what my keyboard is going to be doing to them in the next couple of weeks. With slavers, taking them as a class, I've grown fond of them because nothing that I do to them ever makes me feel in the least bit as if I over-did things. They're kinda fun... if you know what I mean.

Oh, tomorrow is Valentine's Day... just in time for my dearest love story to show up next in the cue...

Resolutions Renewed

 Thus ended 2018 with 17 Tales added to the growing collection that was my obsession. The whole of this project at this point was 35 stories written with two of that number being Sonnets Redoubles. Added to this number were the two chapters which I had set out for what I call the "Circle of Midnight Black". The year just finished taught me a few things, chief amongst them the value of setting limits. I speak here of the decision to cap the Tales at 5,000 words. This forced me to condense my thinking and thus writing, forego a tendency to be excessively wordy and to learn a length comfort. I was absolutely successful in all these endeavors. Yes, "Tears in Green Satin" exceeded that limit as did "Butterflies and Moonbeams" by three words after an edit, but considering my output, a level which stunned and challenged me, one real exception to that rule in 17 stories isn't bad.

I had developed over that year a rhythm in the telling of these stories. As one story would be drawing to a close, I would try to start listening to the whispers around me. If one found compelling interest, I would begin to listen as I neared my final words on the work ending. That way I would be able to launch right in without pause or doubt. At other times, I would find my inquiries ignored with no true voice rising to interest. Then I would turn to my notebook and begin thumbing through those ideas that I've been able to capture in notes and lists of titles to remind. By keeping a constant purpose, I was also not only able to meet but exceed my goal. As well, at this point, I had now a few acceptances and in my hands, a couple of books with my name in them.

Thus I made a declaration anew, the same as before out loud though I privately set my goal at 18 since I knew I could do 17. I also kept to the idea of focusing on a specific word range. I had by this point begun developing different story arcs within the whole of the collection, the intersections between the different arcs at times non-existent. I was getting confident and, with those copies in hand, starting to feel like a real writer. My goal remained the same though... find a creative outlet in my quiet little world so I don't go mad and sit in front of banal programing. For me, that creative outlet I have discovered to be the primary key to my mental health. When I have no such outlet, when I let the world overwhelm to where I am not listening to the needs within, then I grow depressed and I stagnate. Thus the importance of these Tales, the need to have this means of release and the re-dedication of purpose declared at the introduction of the new year.

The Effects of Hauntings

 It was the last week of 2018 and I had 16 stories in the bag, four more than my goal... but I was not done yet.

I'd seen glimpses in the earliest understandings of these Tales of a small child in a nightgown. These earliest impressions were never more than this and I did my best to ignore her. That turned out to be somewhat hard to do as she kept appearing to me amongst the far edges of my increasing number of visitors. I could not get close enough to her thought to learn anything about her. I will say I was wary for I knew from the first Tale there was a significant Chinese population in town and I was so hoping that the name I ascribed to her was not so... mainly because I did not want to play into certain visuals made famous in horror films based primarily from Korea and Japan. I did not want to have such an obvious ethnic cliche', one which posed appropriation issues insofar as conceptual imagery... I go only there because I have not seen these films nor their Americanized versions though I have seen image clips of a jerky-moving girl in stained dress and ratted hair.

I learned later when I got a better glimpse at her that I could not tell what ethnicity she was for the "china" that inspired her name came from the white porcelain mask over her face. This intrigued me but it still did not answer who she was. That the mask was allowed me to break free from that image construct that I had been hoping so hard to avoid. This is the same reason that I don't have any characters running around in jumpsuits with hockey masks on. I still did not know who she was though, or what she was and why she was appearing. There was no explanation for her and that was not sitting well with me. She remained just this figure in the background who I wanted to ensure I kept track of so she didn't slip away and get lost in the rising hosts that would stop by to tell me their stories.

Unexpected things happen at unexpected times. For example, this little girl started showing up where she was least expected, making it onto the written page. The year before, as I was finishing the final story of 2017, "Homecoming", this little girl made an appearance and there is in existence a photograph of her taken by one Norbert Pike. She is there amidst that host gathering at the end, the only one present described in any detail and this is due to her appearance in the view-finder. Earlier in 2018 this little girl appeared as well in "The Fairies of Esmy" amongst that small gathering as well. She made herself known through her ever-presence in my thoughts out onto the page... twice... but I still had no idea who she was.

There are a couple of historical events which mark the progress and fall of Baird's Holler, ones which are established in the timeline well enough that their import reveals across these Tales. One of these is the plague that spread from November of 1875 through April of 1876, known to the inhabitants as the Black Throat. The other is the blizzard that struck the week before Christmas in 1877. These, like Christmas of 1871 and the final week of the town, are important events within the overarching narrative that defines these Tales. One other little bit of information that was swimming through my head this last week of 2018 was rather fresh, taken from "Tears in Green Satin" and about the two other women who arrived in Baird's Holler with Charlotte on that stage after their Madam passed in Prescott as the brothel was moving from Maryland to California.

I at this point in these stories did not have all the names of all 30 members of the Mortenson Party. This is kind of embarrassing to speak of, but there are an awful lot of them and no, diving into telling who each was was not an option ever in these Tales. I write them as they appear to me, or as I dig them out and discover them. It is best to follow leads, not force them. As of this writing, I now know who all the Sultans were, at least in name. At least five of them have never been mentioned in any stories... unless you call a shout-out to a local hill bearing a name unexplained in that story a mention or someone stating his great-great-grandfather had once worked in mine in that area (this was the last known... oddly enough, I'd known his descendant since my 2nd story). I do not know the nature of all that awaits them... a few of them are merely names mentioned and some only briefly touched upon. Take Charles Lahore... mentioned in passing in "I'll Always be With You, Boys" but without context to anything relating to his fate and then again, referenced in "The Obsession of Doctor Paulk" though without any name attached, just mention of his status. There are quite a few in this list I've never touched too tightly on.

This is what I had going when I sat down to write "She Leaves Tonight". These were the elements which were to go into this Tale... that and the final ingredient of still being royally pissed at that woman for calling and demanding personal information on my disabled child. Sarah, husband of the Sultan George Franz, became the third portrayal of this person, aside from Charlotte the harlot and the Patchwork Witch, in four stories out of the five written after completing my goal of 12 stories for the year. Being that three of these four stories (not this one but I've only sent it out once) are now in print, I'm going to say that this little response to the threat I got served quite well, cleared my pipes so to speak. A couple of rather intriguing characters were born, one with legacy potential, and serious development of the community and history took place.

"She Leaves Tonight" was completed within the last hour of 2018 as I sat typing furiously in those last hours of the year. My daughter was down visiting her mother at the time and, well, New Years Eve is best spent writing extremely horrifying and monumentally sad stories as opposed to becoming one wrapped around a tree or a light post. I have all sorts of stories of such wild New Years Eves, some where I don't even stay up to within two hours of giving a damn. This one was one of the wildest yet with the story coming to a close at 5,000 words (another one stopping to my amusement on that dime... er, nickle). Ah, my capacity to party is... limited. I'm pretty good at hanging people from banisters though.