Damn Ephemeral Tracks!

I lied... I said the weirdness would start now and it should 'cause the next story in line, "Mythic Proportions", does get mildly weird. Thing is, I have now been awake 19+ hours and am starting to drift. It's been a very busy day starting at waking up at 3am (it is 10:15pm as I write this) for work and then my daughter's online school and then a zoom meeting and then a promised drive for my wee one who just wants to ride around a little, dinner and two loads of laundry and I'm not going to be completing anything overly successful tonight... especially since the harsh chemicals I use at work have my hands dry to the point were 7 of 10 fingertips are split. Even typing on a computer keyboard is damn annoying.

Thus I am going to get away easy tonight by posting something I found earlier today as I was trying to figure something out on my computer and accidentally found something I wrote last year. Now please note, this was written after, well, the note to myself says it all but I'm just going to copy the whole into here so ya'll can see how an idea burst open... and then gets lost until I fiddle around on my computer. This though is an important note because it gives me some direction to follow concerning a character I had dedicated to just disappearing but didn't know how. I'll let the note I wrote to myself as I was in a half-sleep state speak for itself, specifically in the fact that you can see my mind blinking here.

Oh, and for the discerning eye, this gives you a great example of what my screen looks like when I'm working. This is the font I use, an old type-writer font, from the Underwood #5 actually, which is what Robert E. Howard banged away on. Until I can get my Underwood #5 cleaned and such (yeah, uh, lots of confidence on this one here...) so I can make a font based on my own machine, I use this. It's called MyUnderwood and yeah, just look it up. I like it 'cause, as I said elsewhere, it gives you a certain aesthetic when you're working, one where you want to lower your fedora and shout at your paper as the words clack off the platen. It's like live action role playing for writers and I highly recommend it for anyone with an over active personal fantasy life focused in that pulp writer mystique niche...

*****

6-19-20, 1 am

I know what happened to Radul!

He goes missing… he just isn’t there.

Why? I’d thought of that in earliest charges against what I’d set myself up with in There is Clearly Something Amiss. Nesmith just shrugs.

Tonight, after being awake 20 hours, an 8 hour work day and 107 miles under my belt, no nap and only a Marie Calendar’s pot pie in my belly, it came to me on a walk to go get beverages at a late hour. It was around 11pm and I was walking back to Yvonne’s place from the store this first night of mandatory facemasks. I was chasing through ideas seeking leads, looking for something to speak up and something did.

Let me first square away a few points, the first being Radul Izkov is, so far, only a mystery. We know that after Vidak’s death, Radul becomes reclusive and dour. This is confirmed in The Trial and Execution of Leopold Tarkenfeld.

Sleep might overtake me as I sit, half dressed with one shoe on and still, somehow, pants half off, weaving from side to side and losing myself for great stretches of time. I just must say this, a hint dropped to myself if my fingers fail. What if, upon the death of Atterly at the rope, at that moment, Radul just goes, leaves of an instant… seriously, a fucking instant and so transfixed by the spectacle of Atterly’s hanging, people looking right at Radul don’t seem him just go away… vanish… ceasing occupying space. It isn’t until after the body dropped that anyone turned to comment to Radul.

Where is he? Well, that place, or way/space/dimension wherein my dead, my ghosts at least, exist, that darkened place with vivid colors ‘til nigh not much but faded monochrome with hints… aside from those distinct attentions such as blood. That’s where he is. Yup… sucked right on through physically to the other side. Might want to read up on some myths of divine mortal ascension for inspiration.

Can we consider a Chapter 24 only tied at the start, one trio running progressive and the other trio into the past so they end as far from each other as possible? Yes, it is possible to consider and actually, as we all know, oft times the story develops from the addition of those around it.

Oh, um, in any story which deals with the execution of Simon Atterly, the set up could be included of Radul just popping (almost wrote pooping) out of existence. Or there could be a Tale based on reaction to Radul going away… and that is what the name of this title implies.

The second story potential which I’ll have to come up with a temp(possiblepermanent) name which deals with Radul in the land of the Dead. In fact, WITHIR (this story idea the whole note is based on), could end on the other side of the door (metaphor, folks! er, me). By the way, this is going to end up being a wild and fucked up journey for Radul… but I could have so much fun for it for what is someone who exists in the land of the dead having ascended there both body and soul together? What would this be called?

So let’s develop this off the title and go from there… Where in the Holler is Radul? (or should it be Radul Izkov?)

Oh, one thing brain storm walking dredged up that I have to write down before falling over is I forget ‘cause I’m that tired damn ephemeral tracks!

Girl Rattled

One story is written and it inspires another which in turn inspires another which in turn inspires another and this and how the Tales of the Bajazid are formed. From the inspirational explosion that was "Child of the Earth" came the concept of the Circle of Midnight Black and subsequently that which took place Outside the Circle of Midnight Black. It is that outside development that is of concern here for I have not yet further progressed inside that Circle.

In "There is Clearly Something Amiss", a story whose origin appeared at the same time the development concept for "Child of the Earth" came about, there is mention of a massacre found early the second morning as the US Marshal's and the mine inspector are on their way in to Baird's Holler. I knew when I came up on this horror in that meadow that I was going to have to explain what happened. You don't just leave nearly two dozen bodies strewn through the grass with no explanation. I just needed to identify which party it was crossing that meadow I was going to relate and from which particular member of those parties this nightmare going to be viewed.

I also needed to actually determine what happened in that meadow that would leave such carnage. Truthfully, I had an idea. I was pretty sure I knew who was responsible for this and knowing this, I knew that I had the ability to go full crazy. With the knowledge of what waited, what was hunting the meadow that night, I had to isolate that POV and develop that person into someone the Reader feels for. Taking a tiny clue from "There is Clearly Something Amiss", something horrible discovered that morning, settled for me that decision. Always aim for the most heart wrenching, right?

Sara Jane Callow is a young bride, wed into a tight, extended family. The patriarch of the clan manages the smelter at the Mortenson Mine in the town of Baird's Holler. His two eldest sons, Sara Jane's husband one of them, work at the smelter with their father. Sara Jane's husband, Calvin, had two younger sisters and a younger brother as well ranging from 10 to 17. Also in the house was Calvin's grandparents and his older brother's wife. Sara Jane's mother has been welcomed into the family as well, the Callows being anything but callow (seriously, I was not intending that at all). Oh, and of course, we cannot forget the matriarch, Constance. That would probably not go over so well.

 

Sara Jane is a bystander in the events of the day, the day happening to be the very one which "Child of the Earth" begins. As news from the mine filters back to the Callow household, as the Callow men send word for the available women to come bringing bandages, Sara Jane is left with her husband's grandparents and her infant child to worry away their concerns. As the afternoon draws on, the family patriarch determines a rash course of action and sets the family in direct and immediate motion. They are to pack up everything dear into two wagons and they were leaving Baird's Holler this very afternoon. John Callow, a man unflappable, was clearly frightened of something and that was a distressful thing for Sara Jane to know. Something was clearly amiss. It his from here the world devolves and things get rather extreme. Let me just say this young woman does run and she does escape that terror raining down upon her family, but she is definitely rattled.

This story, "Girl Rattled", was finished on January 20 of 2020 at 4,933 words. It is part of the collection Outside the Circle of Midnight Black, taking place on the first of those five horrific days. It does run hard to pulp but that is a positive... the visuals are pretty great. I mean, you're gonna have that particular arching spray in your head for a bit, if I've done my job right.

One last thing before I go... I gotta talk about the title. The development of this story sprang in part from the realization of the title. Upon selection of the POV character and what I knew zuvembie could do... well, I had seen "The Ballad of Buster Scruggs" not long before by the Coen Brothers. One of the shorts within is titled "The Gal Who Got Rattled". It is a rather beautiful little piece in its horrendous sadness and it is based loosely upon a 1901 story by a gentleman named Steward Edward White titled "The Girl Who Got Rattled". Now I haven't read this story though it is on my "to-read" list, but that doesn't really matter. I don't know how loose "The Gal Who Got Rattled" is based on "The Girl Who Got Rattled", but "Girl Rattled" is based just by that right there... and the fact that I have actual rattles in my story.

Tomorrow things get weird... finally.

I know who she was, that Woman in the Tree

 I celebrated Elvis' birthday in 2020 by completing my first Tale of the year, "Hrafns", a short little (2,611 words) yarn that took me quite far in places I had not planned on going. I would go on to spend the rest of the year waiting to prove that which I had learned in the research that went into this Tale, the primary focus of this examination springing of natural course here in these mountains, only to be disappointed by, you guessed it, 2020. Yup, with an almost complete lack of rainfall... the worst I have seen in my life and I'm and Arizona native with more than a half century racked up... well, let's just say the ground is dry and none of the fungus the forest animals rely on sprouted this year... not even those pretty ones you used to see in old-timey Christmas cards.

There were a few things which led up to the writing of this story. First, there were the multiple deaths that took place the night of December 24, 1871 and one of them was known to be a woman lodged in the upper branches of a tall cottonwood overhanging the then under-construction Baptist church. Ever since that story, "The Woman in the Tree", and its follow up, "What it Feels Like to be Hunted", there has been an injustice of ravens which have fluttered around on the edges of my thoughts. I needed to find out who this woman was and I was pretty sure I had a delivery system in place to get her into those high branches. I just needed to figure out how to do the impossible and when weighed with such stakes, it's always best to hallucinate (or just smoke a gentle bowl and get busy).

Since these Tales seem to have brought me into a permanent semi-hallucinatory state through their intrusion into my near every thought, I figured I'd go that way (with help from a gentle bowl) and began to run down who this woman was and where she came from. Having an affinity for those two ravens who flew for Odin, his Thought and his Memory, and having that association appear in my head whenever ravens cross my mind, that was the first to where my own thoughts went if memory serves. From there, and being that Christmas had just passed and the imagery was on my mind when this story was conceived and began, that Christmas mushroom, the anamita muscaria or fly agaric, became a vehicle of natural choice.

Now I'd known of this mushroom for many a year and its history and legacy. The lore associated with it and those in the furthest reaches of Scandinavia for its mystical properties and symbolism is a rabbit hole I was well comfortable in visiting... again. I had never conceived of consuming it though and had to understand its preparation, particularly with the limited means this character would have available to her, and did quite a bit of reading. Turns out you could just bite the damn thing but that seems too crude and if this is a person who is familiar with this as a sacrament and the preparation thereof, some form would be needed. I took a deep dive on this one, both with this mushroom and the associated culture.

Have I mentioned there were no rains this year and no "experiments" rose from the forest floor?

As for that associated culture, when it landed upon me where this woman must be from, I needed language adjustments because I can't just use, and this is a common thing, words available to the reader but anachronistic to the character unless there is a bridge of sorts. I needed as well to find a name and there is always a fun dive. I ended up trying (and failing) to match her name with the same region I used with some of the word choices used and I know that there is a mix. I hope the casual reader will not fault me and those of this particular culture realize I did as good as I could with what I had.

As for who this woman is, she is representative of a particular element found throughout all cultures in all times... someone we recognize when their faces are splashed on the evening news and we ask each other what happened to that person. She is an aberration common to all. Why choose to write about someone such as that? I can hear certain family and friends say. Well, because writing about an ordinary person doing ordinary things does not a Weird Tale make. Also, I never liked reading about ordinary people doing ordinary things. It is more fun, and this is a selfish reflection as the Writer, to find such an aberration and then wind it up and let it loose. Taking that ordinary person doing ordinary things and then thrusting upon them extraordinary challenges is another way to look at it. Taking a horrible character (ethically) and putting them in extreme situations is just fun. Remember, I like Slavers 'cause they are a character class that you can pretty much pull the toes off of one by... hang on, making a note elsewhere...

Now here's another thing that I've found is fun as the Writer and that is taking a person who is horrible and hiding that little fact. Instead, what I find before me is a woman so far from her lands of ice and snow, so far from the traditions she never thought she'd miss, and putting her in the most desperate straights. I mean, from the far north of Finland to the deserts of Arizona for Christmas Eve, 1871? That though was also one of my big problems that lay before me. I am pleased with the execution of this in this Tale with that method of delivery discovered allowing methods for further deliveries to be made. Trust me, it makes sense.

As for who she was... well, she's a stranger in a strange land, barely conversant in the language and the one who brought her here from her frozen home dead in the desert heat of Phoenix. It is desperation and desire to escape the heat of that desert which brings her the final leg to the mountain town of Baird's Holler, a place where the desperate go to die and often much worse. It is when scrounging in the forest following the rainy season next that she spies a familiar spotted cap. She is lonely, she is hungry, she is desperate... she just wants to travel home one last time and fortunately, there is one way she just might.

Okay, I did have fun with her name. As I go through lists of names available that I could find in such situations, if I am not looking for something of a particular meaning, then I'll just keep reading until one either sounds right speaks out to me. With Násti, well, um, I was just reading along and looking at meanings associated, I could not help noting the mixed-message that would cause with a speaker of English and not a tiny population herding reindeer in the Arctic wastes. That was already a plus because throwing the Reader a bit off is always fun. Let their own mind construct from the sound the hear in the their heads, meanwhile "Star" will be busy preparing a nice, safe place from which to leave when Yule thins the veil.

I had originally, in my notes, referred to this Tale as "Night Flight" but, well, you know why right now, don't you? Yeah, you're checking your playlist to makes sure you have Physical Graffiti in there, right? Yeah, that's just not the vibe that fits this story though. I went with "Hrafns" because, well, that's kinda what the story is about and I always like that spelling. If I ever own a black horse... (p.s. I never will, but I suspect the next midnight cat to claim me will hear that when I beg attention)

"Hrafns" advances further yet the Christmas of '71 collection of Tales bringing to my knowledge now four of the six to perish that night revealed and named. This collection will grow further by the end of this short-story writing season (since I switched to a novel late in the year) and I refuse to apologize for what is coming. I had way too much fun.

Kicking off one hell of a hellish year

 The only rumblings we had that the year 2020 would be burned forever into the history of this nation and this world were mentions of a new flu in China, reports that were then unheeded. It had been one hell of a year looking back from the safety of more than two months past and I am thankful for every day which takes us further. As of this writing, I can say that I am fully vaccinated against the scourge that rides the breaths of the careless and foolish, and so are my parents though daughters still remain at risk. As for how this, which no one wants to discuss so near to that horrid year, affected me and what is of import to this blog, well, my schedule never really changed. I am what is known as an "essential worker" and every day of this damn pandemic has seen me right where I was every day before... in a little box giving people gas. My time was not freed by lack of gainful employment lost due to shutdowns but instead, it was encroached upon horrendously through on-line schooling and the added stress of working with and around a bunch of idiots who couldn't be bothered to care for their fellow citizens enough to take even the most basic safety procedures. Ugh...

Still, I am in the blessed position of having not even the faintest pretense of a life. My world being centered around a few different focal points... my daughter, writing these Tales of mine, and standing in that box telling fart jokes to little old ladies... the planning of my social calendar is always quite easy. Hell, my Lovecraft=reading, wine-selling, poetry-shouting buddy? Half the time he's in Prescott tending for his parents and the other half he's in Jerome where lives or Sedona selling wine to people with discretionary spending capabilities. While I've communicated with him often over this year, I've actually seen my friend only once in 13 months. That, by the way, was the most exciting day of my social life this year.

I set a goal to write a minimum of 12 stories this year and that I accomplished. It was in August when I turned my attentions to the novel which I am working on, the first which I have attempted. I had had at that point 11 stories written and I honestly do not know what it was that turned me to this idea... actually, I do, but it just sounds more dramatic here if I say it like that. Okay, so knowing full well why I decided to turn my attentions to this massive project I am working on, one which even by the word count planned would be more than a normal year of writing, I did it still. It was a foolish move, like sticking your tongue to the hot end of a hair-dryer just because it looks inviting, but I did it. That meant, to get to that 12, I was going to have to follow through and hard.

Well, as we are here on March 8 with 16,000 words to go, I, uh, didn't follow through as hard as needed. Luckily, in September, I saw a submission call for flash fiction in five different categories and a weird inspiration took hold after I completed the first chapter of "A Sestina Writ in Darkness". In short order, I produced 5 flash fiction pieces, each between 936 words to 998, bringing my completed total to an acceptable 16 stories complete and, at the last moment of 2020, 40,000 words done on my first attempt at a novel.

In the collection that makes up the stories for 2020, I kind of went all over the place, No two stories follow each other as happened twice in 2019. No two stories even appear within the same decade as each other in concurrent writing until that quick series of flash piece. The breadth of range in these stories temporally also exceed any such that I suspect I shall ever be able to produce again and this is all because of one story and one damn hippy who ate mushrooms growing on the Bajazid. Let this be a lesson to all you hippies... always know where your 'shrooms come from. 

The back half of this year has been dominated by "A Sestina Writ in Darkness", but the front half proves quite fulfilling. Notable of that which appeared this year would be "Sestina of the Sultans", something which I will attest to as being a literary first, and "The Portraitist", the story I was musing over before the water trickling behind me caused my thoughts to turn one night to that which became "Puddle of Mud". Both of these two Tales I believe are exemplary and stand amongst my best. As well, I took a whack at an historical local, a grave lying lonely in the Arizona desert, and gave it a history which was, with the exception of the outré elements, oddly true in its telling.

While 2020 sucked as a year in ways we all know, I was able to use what little time I had to produce a product for that year which I am proud of. We shall begin this year with a trip around the world and back, to find ourselves in the comfort of cottonwood branches.

In An Alley

 When I sat down to write this Tale, "In An Alley", there were certain things which I knew going in. This was, in truth, a story that had been long planned only I knew not how I was going to approach this. That it was to be though has been hinted at since the earliest days of these writings. Allow me to explain.

In "In A Meadow", the tale taken direct in style to Ryunosuke Akutagawa's beautiful classic "In A Grove", the interview with the Deputy as he relates his capture of Leopold Tarkenfeld, suggests that Leo is an unprovable suspect the death of a prostitute behind Devitt's General Store at some point prior unspecified.

In "Mercy Holds No Measure", Samuel Delrosa is accosted drunk in an alley one night after coming to town to buy supplies and blow off some steam. Sam, drunk as he is, beats the living crap out of a small, rat-faced man and his giant of a side-kick, leaving them in the mud of the alley.

On Christmas Eve, 1871, there were 6 deaths within the town of Baird's Holler and I only knew as of yet who three of them were; Buck Jackson in the depths of Line B, Lionel Williams in a pool of blood on a barroom floor, and some unknown woman caught up in the high branches of a cottonwood tree.

This is what I had to work with. Now I had begun the need for this story many times and I have notes no longer needed referencing elements of what takes place here but no concise POV or even structure ever brought forth. All I had were scattered thoughts. That POV for example, I had always figured it this story would be told through Leo's eyes. That it was Dickie Donnelly who stepped up to tell it was a bit of a surprise. In fact, I'm just going to go ahead and say this. Every thing about Dickie and his appearance in this story was a surprise to me. He was Leo's big, dumb bodyguard, his stooge, his muscle. I honestly did not see what was coming.

Now, being that I've pretty much zeroed in on a dead prostitute behind Devitt's store and I know the night, I needed to set things up. Here is where I learned a little about Leo that I didn't know and that is he's a softy, at least for Sally. She on the other hand, well, she doesn't even want him as a paying customer anymore because, well, he wants to marry her and she's disgusted by his creepy little ass. How's that for some conflict? Get this bit out in a noisy bar with a piano player who sucks so bad Dickie wishes someone would shoot the bastard. Have Sally snub Leo and go hang on the arm of the first guy she sees... and a target for Leo's vengeance. Dickie, by the way, is not pleased at all as this night flowing with money as the Mortenson Men all spend their bonus pay, is being wasted chasing Leo's desire and not that money. There's the set-up.

Now, the primary action of this place does take place in an alley and it is to that alley we go. The altercation mentioned in "Mercy Holds No Measure" was up next as Sam was the man Sally snubbed Leo for. It's to be an ambush, as that Tale mentioned states, but it is lying in wait that the only true moment outre that exists in this story appears. "In An Alley" is, with this exception, pretty much a straight crime story... I think that's what it would be... but there, as they wait for Sam, a teamster staggers by, drunk and muttering angrily about his hat. Knowing this is not their target but a target anyways, they consider their assault but the growl behind them from a raggedy, yellow, king-sized bulldog stays them.

That night, Christmas Eve, 1871, has built into it certain qualities which extend beyond their immediate story and reach out into the night air of Baird's Holler. In "Shanga-ree", there is heard as Mr. Lee steps from Curt's Saloon on the upper, west end of Main Street, a rattle of gunfire down east toward Baron's. As well, there is that bulldog howling. The dog builds through the night but the gunfire takes place at midnight, just as Shanga-ree has claimed his prize. These elements exist and thus, at that appointed hour in "In An Alley" when this cacophony erupted, they are recognized here as well as a feminine scream of horror and pain coming from up high near where the Methodist and Baptist churches were being raised. These stories do not appear in their own little worlds.

This is all, but to declare the date of completion and the words consumed. That total was 4,988 with a stamp of December 25, 2019. Yup, was busy writing a story about Christmas Eve on Christmas Eve (and all through the night... my wee one was at her mother's for the holiday). The other thing I want to say is to reiterate my surprise at Dickie and the range he has. Sadly, I happen to know something and though no words have been attributed here beyond speculative notes hinted in a possible title, but like Leo, even though Dickie is a hell of a character with lots of potential, he has an expiration date well before the end of Baird's Holler. This isn't something that Leo's gonna like and it's going to be one of his major issues going forward, but that's the way it's gotta be. I just really need to get that damn dentist to put down the cards and get in that stage. June 3, 1880, is going to be a grand old night!

Lastly, "In An Alley" completed the Tales written for the year 2019. In total, I had 22 completed works, a rather high bar which I set for myself. The resolution I made in public was again for a dozen to be written in 2020. In private, I set myself some far-flung fantasies and set off into rumors that something in the world wasn't right.

I was in a desperate need to seriously break a rule.

 I needed to tell a story, a short story, which needed more than one Point-of-View.

First, I need to say a little about the origin of this story. This is the oldest story I have in me, one which has haunted me in some fashion or other since I was five years old. See, we were living in Prescott at the time and my father had just purchased a big, brand new tent. Now this is 1972 so this beast is all canvas, not the lightweight stuff we have now. In fact, the tent itself came in one big bag and another bag of near equal size carried the steel poles needed to put it up. It was a top-notch tent and my dad had set it up in the backyard to air it out and get the practice needed setting it up. This, for me and my older brother, was a big event and we were allowed to "camp out" in the backyard that night. I know my brother had some friends over but I am quite sure that I did not or if I did, I do not recall. I know who would have been there if I had but he doesn't make it into the memories of what happened that night. It was shortly after we moved into that house so I might yet to have met my blood-brother (yeah, 5 year olds take things seriously!)

Now, as to what happened that night, I can only clearly remember what I remember. I know it was late into the night, most likely well past midnight when I woke up. I was standing outside of the tent and crying. I desperately wanted to get back into the tent, but I was unable to. There was a thin blue line that was circling the tent... electric blue it was and and led by a bulb sinister in aspect. As that thin blue line would pass the door of the tent, it would thicken and pulse menacingly. It would not let me pass. It would not let me return to the tent, its threat obvious to this little boy terrified by something beyond understanding beneath the night sky.

I slept in my bed that night. My mother came out and found me crying there, wailing actually, and brought me in but that night has remained with me since. That thin blue line will occasionally pass by me in a dream and I look at it sideways wondering what it meant and why it threatened me that night. I have never had an answer until I began these Tales and then it began circling, seen from the corner of my eye, that host that would gather to tell me their stories and I knew I would at last have to deal with it. This idea, this need to confront this phantasm from childhood, took root early on in the collection of these Tales, so much so in fact that way back in "Claude" I placed this house as I would need it to be found, that sentinel placed as it need eventually to be.

Now, as to what happened when I finally came to write this story and the challenges which it presented me. See, I knew that a small boy, basically a stand-in for the child who stood outside that tent in all respects, would be needed and I knew that this was not going to end well for the child. Having already placed that sentinel and cracked the bones of the house, I knew it was not going to end well for anybody in that place. In "Claude" the building is described as appearing abandoned and broken with none of the children who live there coming out to greet Hans as he passes by. This is how I knew it must end but how was I to get there?

I already knew what that sentinel was, what that frozen column before the door of the house was. This was knowledge I had for I knew why that column was there and what waited at its base. I just needed to figure out how to get it there and how to present the rest of the calamity if the primary considered POV was not in the house for the duration of the tragedy. This is where I came into my trouble. Having the location and the seasonal reason for the full tragedy already at hand, the blizzard that struck in the last weeks of 1877, it was just this issue of the point of view that was driving me nuts. It was the understanding of just who my protagonist was which brought the story full from my keys upon that revelation.

The story is titled "The Family in the Frozen House". That was my working title and it really was always to be the title. It described exactly what I wanted to portray. It also reveals that protagonist and the means in which I was able to solve my problem. See, this is not "The Little Boy in the Frozen House" or any variation thereof. It is "The Family in the Frozen House" with the world Family being the focus. This was a story about the Family and if it was to be a story about the Sarchet Family, then should it not tell the story from the POV of the Sarchet Family as a whole? Ah, I was on to something... or at least I had smoked enough to convince myself of this. Either way, since I knew the events of the story took place in a certain order with elements of the tragedy focused in divers locations and times, I figured I would tell the story sequentially through the eyes of each member of the family whose moment of importance took center stage.

This was my great and grand goal and as soon as I began on this, as soon as I decided I would try to sneak multiple POVs in a short story through the guise of them all being members of the same POV "family" relating the events in order of character's immediate importance, the whole thing just kinda slipped out. The fact that I knew well this thin blue line, that it had played a role in my nightmares for roughly 45 years, well, that blue line treated me like the old friend it was and gave me exactly what I wanted.

Starting with the Family as a whole and a description of their life up on the Diski, one of the upper tributaries of the Bajazid, I painted the bucolic scene as one ripe with promise and hope. When the scene is set, when the Family has gathered in and prepared against the first day of the coming storm, I begin with the little boy, Thomas, and the slow crawl to consciousness that I remember so well that night even after all these years... only I wasn't waist deep in snow. From there, Julienne, the second child, wakes to discover the problem. Marc, the father is leaps to the rescue as Marjorie gathers the children against the nightmare descending. Antionette, the eldest child, is left scrambling in the disaster following and little Remy brings us to a close with a chilling clarity of a child.

This was my 21st Tale of 2019. I had eclipsed my goal and then some. The date I finished this was December 14 with the final word count being 3,569 words. I came in, to my surprise considering what I was attempting, well under where I figured I would. The formula worked better than I thought with each element of the Family hastening the tragedy and allowing for a rotating perspective of the night. I consider "The Family in the Frozen House" an resounding success and while I have not played again to such a structure, having completed this with such aplomb,  certain haunts began whispering just a little louder in that crowd that visits. It was this story that gave me the initial confidence to tackle what would become "Sestina of the Sultans" within half a year, another story demanding 6 POVs. From there, the project I am now nearing completion on, "A Sestina Writ in Darkness", was given its structure. This is how this works.

One other thing. I am not through with this house. Just before I took up this novel experiment which is consuming me, I wrote a Tale called "Bounty" which will take place in this house roughly four months from the night this story takes place. As well, and here you might want to look into your classic mythological creatures to glean what this means, but Marjorie was pregnant and I happen to know it was to have been a female child who is now buried in her mother's womb in that frozen house. Just so you know that's out there because I do and I do not know what will be when term comes due.

Butterflies of Blackened Wing

 Finished November 25, 2019 at 1,734 words, "Butterflies of Blackened Wing" is a bit of an oddity. It is not a long story nor is it anything other than a sweet little moment under an Arizona evening sky, but being it is so brief, to discuss it much might run the fear of eclipsing the story itself. As well, I need to take advantage of this brevity to catch up for the joys of that other world, the one where I stand in a box and tell fart jokes for 8 hours on end, has had odd shifts in hours due to the joys of co-workers scheduled surgeries. It's been hard to find these keys, both for this blog and for finishing what I know is happening in what it is I am working on when I am not working on this blog.

So, here we go...

"Butterflies of Blackened Wing", like "Tell Me About the Butterfly Man" is directly inspired by "Butterflies and Moonbeams". Being that "Butterflies and Moonbeams" spans a lifetime, it left quite a bit of clues as to where and when and why our beloved hero, Franklin Stenoyer Jr., the Butterfly Man, has been and done. These two other stories are the first of what I expect is a potentially endless flow. This is a good character and I'm glad to have made his acquaintance in the manner I have. With the seeds that primary Tale has left, moments mentioned, such as these, can fill a book... or at least that's a thought that Frankie has been trying to push.

Why I state that this story is an oddity is at the time, I had only touched under 2k words once before with "Trane's 'a Rolan'". I was extremely uncomfortable working at that length and kept poking at this after I finished like it was supposed to jump up and change or something since there was nothing left to be written in it. It did not feel comfortable for quite some time, at least until I put some actual focus into what I guess is called flash fiction nearly a year later.

Some things are needed

 "The Old Man and His Dolls" is quite possibly the softest story I've written. It is primarily atmospheric as the action throughout is quite gentle. It is pretty much the story of a man preparing to leave his home for the last time and making what preparations he must make. Being that I am a writer of weird fiction and horrifying yarns, it would seem that the importance should be on the sensation and the shock value. That's what the kids want, right? Zombies breaking through doors and divers mayhem in grotesque detail to get that good old adrenaline going? Well, sometimes a simple creep is what's needed instead.

There is so much invested in William Nesmith's house, even after only two appearances, that as I wrote this, I was consumed by the history within this place. Its first appearance was in "I'll Always Be With You, Boys", my 3rd story, as it is the primary scene for the conversation between Nesmith and Alexander Gitney. This house is also the scene of "Come With Me, Dear". That's it. Still, between those two stories, I have filled this house with so much history that if I did not know what was going to happen within 6 hours of this story finishing, I'd have myself the perfect haunted house. I happen to know the future though.

I was following up with a submission call looking for omens, portents, and the like when I began writing this. I knew this story had to be, or at least an explanation of this or that so as to make what will be, when it is time to be what it should. I know that all sounds mixed up, but I am not yet sure all that is going on here and with what I do know, I have to work around. As for what is going on, this story takes place on the last day of Baird's Holler, a couple of hours before the general evacuation begins. Being Nesmith is so invested in this town and being that he needs a thing or two beyond this town, this story itself serves as a bit of a portent.

This story, "The Old Man and His Dolls" is apart of the collection "Outside the Circle of Midnight Black". While this is not the last Tale of that collection, it is the Tale that kicks off the final day. The story itself came in at 4,986 words and was finished on November 18, 2019 as the 54th Tale of the Bajazid.

Being that Mr. Nesmith is expected to write his memoirs, or something to that effect relating what he knows of this place... one where the title has already been revealed (it is mentioned in the associated notes supplied by the curators of a document found as noted in "The Journal of Caleb Walsh")... this particular Tale has more importance than its humble nature might assume. I have work to do...

On Any Forgotten Sunday

 Okay, I'm going to dispense with this title first and foremost. Yes, there is a dumb joke involved. Scratch that... there are two dumb jokes involved and I admit my guilt right off. There was no way I was not going to be able to use this title as soon as its faintest ghost crossed my mind. As for those two jokes, I'll get to them. I just want to get to important things first because I'm a very serious person.

Man, that's gonna come back to haunt me when I'm done with this. This is possibly one of the saddest Tales I've written... but it's also the one you would expect to see in a creep-show type program, a very dark humor playing throughout. Seriously, this is a very sad little story and I feel bad for the levity in my keys right now, but I also can't help it. It is meant to be darkly humorous... and very sad.

Some time ago when the world was still only troubled by the need to obsess over Iraqi tea and who controls the teapot, my dear little sister was running a business providing in-home care CNAs. She had assumed this business she worked for after it just one day closed and she was not going to let the patients and their families have to flounder trying to find a new service. My sister is one of the most noble people I know for a little bit, I did some help for her company in what limited capacity my skills allowed. I did get to meet the clients and honestly, I don't know how medical field workers do it. I can imagine all sorts of things that freaks my kid sister right on out... but she does things without blinking an eye that I could not bring myself to imagine. This here is the hero of the family.

It was one of these clients who I had on my mind one day as a story from the List came calling even before I went looking. The working title of "Sunday Drive" was just that... a really bad yet informative working title. It was an early one, probably within the first two dozen ideas written down, and it was based off a day when my father and I were rolling around the gullies in the desert foothills at the base of the southwestern corner of the Bradshaw mountains... I believe it was the day we found the sad and lonely grave of Annie May White... but it was as we were making our way alternating between being in the wash and hanging onto a tenuous track over the gully that we had to make room for an SUV coming the other direction. That image of the elderly couple out on their Sunday drive (for that is what day it was) for some reason stuck with me and when I was first beginning these Tales, made its way as a potential set-up for a story and had sat thus titled in the List ever since. Now I had an overpowering urge to write this story because for some reason, this client still pops up in my memories.

They were both around 90 years old and while he had a determined strength about him, she was long past her expiration date and her pain was constant. Their apartment was painted all a bright pink with pink everything. There was very little evidence this man lived in this domicile... yet there was very little evidence outside of the bedroom ruled by his wife that anyone else lived there either. There was nothing to even indicate that he had a hobby of his own. He did not have friends and did not engage with anyone else in the community. He had no allowance to. He had not had friends either for a long, long time, nor had he any remaining family either on his side or hers. They never had children. Her funeral was attended by him, my sister, and I. I do not know what happened to him after that day, one which he looked strangely lighter than I had seen him ever before.

I think about that every now and then... or I did before I wrote this story. See, they were married in their early 20s and not long after, her physical condition deteriorated and now, in their 90s, he had spent his entire life caring for her. There was nothing beyond that and I often wondered how sad that was because she was mean. I mean, this woman was cruel. I could hear her from the other room... hell, I could hear her as I neared their apartment. I know that the pain was a lot of it, but I know that was no where near the justification. He had no friends. It takes a long and concerted assault upon a person to weaken them so much that they will eschew their entire life to the point of even having the ability to choose their own entertainment options. It is cruelty and a selfish, bitter heart that seeks to dominate another in anywhere near such a manner.

This is what I had to work with and 11 days after finishing "Needles and Dust", on October 11th, 2019, I finished "On Any Forgotten Sunday" at 4,523 words. It is a very sad story, both the set-up and the conclusion... although I couldn't help snickering to myself as I finished it 'cause it was just so darn wrong yet so darn right.

Now, as for that title...

Back when I was 15, the kid next door was my regular pal because he was next door. He was into motorcycles and trucks and such and I was into books and dungeons and dragons. For roughly 4 years we were best of friends but then I graduated (I was a year ahead) and the world happened. I last saw him about 30 years ago. I did get him to read some books in the cultural exchange of those years (it was the Robert E. Howard Conan books available then) and he got me to go see a documentary, in a freaking theater, of people riding dirt bikes in desert sands. That theater isn't there anymore (I snuck in to see "Stripes" there along with "Road Warrior"... they didn't watch beyond the entrance well) but I remember that day and I remember that film. It was called "On Any Sunday II" and Slade did not let off talking about how rad it was for the longest time.

Now, I'm not a sports guy. I honestly don't know the rules to baseball, basketball, volleyball, football... hell, any of them. I seriously could not tell you the rules of those games. Part of that is because of having an older brother who was obsessed with that but also wanted to keep all such knowledge to himself because, who the hell knows. I just know that very early on I lost any interest in watching men stand around, scratch their nuts and occasionally roll around in the grass an dirt with each other while playing with their balls. It's just not me. Doesn't matter the game, I just don't get it... but I am not immune to the language of the games. It is hard in this culture not to be. Indeed, even language surrounding the games is known to anyone awake in this land. For example, there's this phrase you might have heard. It starts, "Any given Sunday..."

And that is the title...

Oh, one last thing before we go... "On Any Forgotten Sunday" was the 18th story of 2019, eclipsing 2018's 17 stories in the month I am usually finishing my 12th.

Needles and Dust

 "In 'Needles and Dust', a hastily arranged meeting with a desperate, mad preacher offers a witch an opportunity for revenge against the coven who had banished her. Casting needles into diverse divining dusts, the Patchwork Witch discovers as well a chance to betray the fraught fraud seeking her help."

The last we saw of Dawn Campbell Weaver, the Patchwork Witch, she had given me direct one of my more memorable introductions and publications. Right away she provided me, mind you through the experiences of another, with yet another Tale that was immediately accepted for publication. Now while the Widow Weaver did not give her consent for that second Tale, that it was accepted right out the gate and it was all about her tapped into that one weakness common through this cursed creation called humanity and that is vanity. As a loner and a recluse, shunned and avoided her whole life, this little bit of attention she's getting in her afterlife seems to be suiting her. She has some things to say and I think she's finding her voice.

I've mentioned that there are different ways in which I arrive at what I am to write when a Tale has ended. Sometimes I consult a grand and mysterious List wherein titles, most all subject to change, hold the places of story ideas. This is a fertile ground as there is quite a bit buried here, some quite ready to write and just needing the right voice and others aching to be written but unable to define what they want to be. Then there are the moments of inspiration pulled from whatever aether surrounding my skull allows to spark. These Tales are rife with such examples, either inspired by such inconsequential things as passing a cyclist on the way home to the inspirational moments in "Fruit of the Womb" and "Permissible License", either in-story or construction, which gave rise to "Goodbye Mama Elena" and "Dance of Skins" respectively.

Another source which I have used quite often for the choice of what next to write is seeing a submission call and things start off from there. This is how "Needles and Dust" began, from a call for witchcraft, one that specifically focused on "divination". Well, I had me a witch, indeed I did. I actually have me right now... let's see... starting with Delores Jackson and her 12 boarders, that's 13 until we add the Patchwork Witch. Add to that growing number Dieumene over in Pitt's Junction and we're now at 15. I also happen to know someone else ya'll have met before is a witch... something I did not know when I found her up in that tree so that leaves me right now with 16 witches, some a wee bit more active than others. Dawn was active and then some.

I needed a story under 5k words in which witchcraft was specifically the focus. Dieumene's struggles here fated night over in Pitt's Junction did involve descriptions of ritualistic magic... imagination mixed with a dive down the traditions of a specific lwa... but the story was about a thousand words too long and I was having concerns over the violence present as this call hinted toward nothing extreme. "The Witch of Pitt's Junction" whistles happily past that bar. Thus I needed a new story and thus I needed Dawn. No other witch is anywhere near developed to her degree and I had motivation already established. In "Necessary Arrangements" it is hinted that this is not the first meeting between the Patchwork Witch (Dawn Campbell Weaver) and the Patriarch (Jonathon Kearns). Or, in other words, I needed to make necessary arrangements in order for "Necessary Arrangements" to take place so that I may get on to fulfilling that conflagration with Lucifer's match and get the Kearns' over to Pitt's Junction and out of the way so the Patchwork Witch can go on to wonder why her dolls are still little bitches even with the Widows gone.

Is it any wonder I have made the spreadsheets I have? Just for that paragraph I referenced three different ones and left out branches extending in every direction.

If this was to be the meeting before the meeting, I needed a ruse to kick it off. This was Anson and I have some plans for him... not much yet, but just know he's got fiery red hair and like his dad, tall and lean. The insults he receives here will smolder over the next few days following the end of this, but I'm pretty confident I know how they'll flare up. Just not there yet... so much to write!

The crux of this story is the construction, not of the tale itself, but of the witchcraft therein. I was coming in cold on this, google groaning beneath my requests for diverse traditions or techniques which I might focus on. There were two basic practices of divination that I had landed on after discarding ever so many. I did not want entrails and cards of any sort were trite. My thoughts on crystal balls do not need expounding upon here. I needed practices that could be broad in range, both in interpretation of use, as well as culturally as it was revealed in "For the Dolls Had Eyes" that Dawn's education and thus craft is wide and varied. Being that needles are a very important part of the Patchwork Witch's identity, the use of needles of different types was one selection. As for the other, it was dust, a universal substance which could be derived from endless sources. I had "Needles and Dust".

"Needles and Dust", the 4,970 word prequel to "Necessary Arrangements", inspired by "For the Dolls Had Eyes" and completed September 30, 2019, is an example of the way these stories are building their own legacies. "Lucifer's Stick" is a working title for what happens five nights after these two as "Needles and Dust" ends a few hours before "Necessary Arrangements" begins. Of course, as we shall see in "The Sestina of the Witch", to be featured shortly, she had good reason...

An Exercise in Malevolence

I apologize beforehand for whatever headache may be inspired by what I am about to relate.

 After I had taken "Permissible License" with the structure of the story just finished, I was feeling somewhat bold if not outright cocky. As that story was winding down, I got it in my head for some reason to see if I could structure a story based off of the sequences within "La Villa Strangiato" from the Hemispheres album by RUSH. For those of you unfamiliar with this little ditty, I seriously recommend looking it up... and wearing headphones unless you're driving. In that case, turn it up as loud as you can and see where you end up on the other side. As for why I would attempt such a thing, I honestly do not recall the germ of inspiration on this. It wasn't anything planned. It was not some old idea waiting to spring forth. Instead it was "Hey, I wanna do this!" and then getting out the old Math to see if the idea had any merit.

Guess what? The idea did have merit. In fact, as soon as that initial math came back and it was cleared by the Disbelievability Department (often called when my Math Section comes up with numbers that fit), I was committed. I just needed to do a little finer math so as to make sure as to what I was getting into and to start allowing Concept Central to put their boys at work (I've made inquiries... they blindfold one member and dunk him in a tank with apples, each representing a possible idea) as well as let Design know not to tear down the recently finished used set from the last story. This actually got a memo back up 'cause only once had that happened before where a conceptual set was erected and re-used directly... that example being the previous two stories. Still, I had to get things going so when the secondary math checked out, under disbelievable scrutiny, well, there are complaints outstanding that the dunking was so energetic it almost amounted to water-boarding.

I dispute those claims.

I need to lay this stuff out but first I'm going to gather my ingredients for this massive mixed-up mess of mixed metaphors that I am going to be shamelessly embarking up in order to get this accomplished. The Hero of this Tale was a clear choice... or at least he was after he wouldn't get out of my face about it. Seriously, he started preening about saying it's a perfect role for him and that I really needed to get this on if he's going to bag all those he needs to. With that logic, I gave Leo Tarkenfeld the nod. This was to be a part of "The Crimes and Executions of Leopold Tarkenfeld" series, one focused on the "executions" aspect. In other words, this was to be a vengeance Tale as Leo sought to get revenge on those he considered responsible for his botched and unjust execution. This was gonna be a ghost story.

Leo's the main ingredient, the big chunk of ass in the pot which is itself the decennial celebration being held in Baird's Holler. Hey, come to think of it, considering the atmospheric aspects in this and the other Tale of this day (both by the way available in Dark Owl Publishing's A Celebration of Storytelling), the celebration actually does take place in something of a pot... or a big, huge bowl. Ah, these useless asides... What I needed were the specifics. For that, I needed to turn to the primary source material for the conceptual construction of this piece, "La Villa Strangiato".

Again, if you have never listened to this piece, do so. It's just exemplary in every way. The song clocks in at 9 minutes and 35 seconds and is broken up between 12 sections, each of which were apparently inspired by dreams RUSH guitarist Alex Lifeson was having while they were working on that album, Hemispheres. As for those 12 sections, and being that this is an instrumental, they each have their own flavor and all sorts of intricate music stuff that I am only qualified to appreciate and absolutely love but am not, with my inability to tap my toe to a 4/4 beat, anywhere near qualified to talk about. Those 12 sections each has a name though and that is what I needed. They are, with the breakdown of their lengths in song duration, as follows: 

1: Buenos Noches, Mein Froinds // 0:00 - 0:26
2: To Sleep, perchance to dream... // 0:27 - 1:59
3: Strangiato Theme // 2:00 - 3:15
4: A Lerxst in Wonderland // 3:16 - 5:48
5: Monsters! // 5:49 - 6:09
6: The Ghost of the Aragon // 6:10 - 6:44
7: Danforth and Pape // 6:45 - 7:25
8: The Waltz of the Shreves // 7:26 - 7:51
9: Never turn your back on a Monster! // 7:52 - 8:02
10: Monsters! (Reprise) // 8:03 - 8:16
11: Strangiato Theme (Reprise) // 8:17 - 9:20
12: A Farewell to Things // 9:20 - 9:35

Okay, so this is how this worked out and why there is currently an investigation into who locked the Auditor from Disbelievability Department was found locked in a broom closet 7 weeks after this story was completed and this game set in ink. Looking at the shortest section (#9) here, it is 10 seconds long. I realized immediately that if I based it as such, then we're looking at a number well over 90 depending on how numbers round up and down. Taking the next shortest, we have #10 which rounds nearest to 15. Okay, let's see what happens when I very loosely (remember that phrase) do a quick and rough and not overly accurate breakdown into 15 second increments. If anyone does this, the manner in which they round their numbers or what generosity is given here over there might end up differently but that run through gave me 39 sections. Handing that over to the Math Section, they responded that if I had 40, then that would divide nice and evenly into a 5,000 word idea if what was percolating in my mind was to be brought forth.

Here is where things get suspicious and I am pretty sure I know what all happened. See, chances are, the Math Section, eager for a win, got together with the guys in Concept who in turn called in Design and a consensus was reached. If we could squeeze off that extra section, we got ourselves a deal. What was needed was to take out Disbelievability (seriously, cannot believe they did it that way), hopefully distract him or something (tied up in a closet for 2 months!), while that 40 section plan was ratified by a very in-on-it Concept Central. What happened is that Disbelievability was not just hot-boxed until he was too stoned to disbelieve the math, but something much more confusing. I think it might have had me realizing as I finished air-drumming the umpteenth repetition of this piece in preparation that the physical effect of a proper listening of "La Villa Strangiato" should include a few extra seconds wherein the participant, for that what this experience becomes, basks in the adrenaline high brought on for just long enough to justify that extra 15 seconds. This excuse has been submitted for review. I myself find it extremely valid and am running with it nonetheless.

Well, the plan got approved and production started immediately. Casting was brought in to look over the script and brought up a question that would hold serious consequences as to who would play the foil. Judge Worthington's boy, the one whose name no one seems to recall and I've never been able to pin-point, was the original prey sought but I knew it was not Worthington's time yet. I also knew who was behind it and as I was playing with my initial speculations, I realized I had the mystery of this story involving Worthington and his boy which was hinted in my 3rd story finally solved and really ready to tell... only this wasn't the time and in the time since, it has not leapt before others to find itself tapped out on my keyboard. It will though because it is ready, just need the moment (and a full Doors playlist, from beginning to end, for this one).

I also knew that I would not be considering Caleb Walsh this Tale as "The Journal of Caleb Walsh" pretty much clarifies that situation up to a certain consideration of the word "clarifies". Caleb did get to make an appearance, something nearly every haunt appreciates the chance to do... it's kind of like when the light is just right on that courthouse wall and they get to swing in sensation there in shadow for just the briefest moment... sorry, I drifted again. Dickie is also off limits 'cause I happen to know a thing or two and I'm just waiting for a drunk dentist to travel down from Prescott... but that won't happen until early June two years later. That leaves me with Casting's curious question... "What the hell is this freaking word?"

That word was "shreves". Go ahead, off the top of your head, pretend to know what it means while you quietly start trying to look it up.

While you're doing that, I'll start with the first section. What we got is basically "Good night, my friends" split between Spanish and the obvious pretense of an accented German. Cheap joke on my part, but quickest alteration is to flip that. Yup, "Good morning, my friend" with the languages flipped. Okay, what am I going to do with that though? Easy, it's an intro and the Spanish gives me my foil, the instigator to provoke action and for this, I looked to one brief hint from "Twelve-Thirtyfour" I dropped to remind myself to someday explain why the gallows held six nooses. Yup, that was the obvious choice... obviously. This is how Joaquim Solis came into this Tale. He has a history which I really need to dive into, both the incident that has left him in the state he is as well as a sort of side-kick to Leo beyond the grave much in the way Dickie served that purpose before daisies were needed for pushing exercises.

Hey, you're right! "Shreve" is an archaic word for "sheriff", just like we all knew it was! Now I don't know if Mr. Lifeson was dreaming of the fuzz while recording Hemispheres or if to him that word, shreve, has some meaning to which I am unfamiliar, but I took what I saw and ran with it because guess who is on Leo's list? That's right, the person currently serving as the town Marshal, a position commonly confused in parlance with Sheriff, enough so to where a Shreve's Waltz could become a Sheriff's Jig... because Marshal's Mambo just wasn't gonna swing (sorry, bad pun on multiple levels). Apparently this story, "Dance of Skins", had its target. The "skin" in this case was to be one Thaddeus Barrett, previously a supporting character in many Tales only identified by his social position to this point. It was his turn to go through a few things, and then a few more, and then a couple more 'cause why the hell not. Also, yes, um, I was listening to a lot of early Pink Floyd at this time as well along with the solo work of one of the original founders. That will become important, or perhaps just a thing, later.

Here is where the complexity comes in. If you divide 40 sections (those 15 second breakdowns) into 5,000 words, you get each section representing 125 words. Thus, there you go. See... super simple. You just plug that formula in and write the story. Thus for "Buenos Noches, Mein Froinds", since it is 2 sections long, you write 250 words for that section (section title included in that count). Do that for each section multiplying that section count by 125 words to find the length needed. Keeping the sections divided, you are able to progress as needed in ordered amounts... that's if you can control yourself down to those limited spaces (that's the hard part). Plugging the content into the architecture with direct adherence will produce a story structurally 5,000 words exact with a forced progression that works good for establishment through to climax.

This chart below is what I created in Excel to steady me through this production. You'll note I don't add up the times 'cause that's all very relative in the rounding anyways. I also don't yet know how to bring stuff over and all so I hope this presentation works and helps my explanation some. I place the titles from "La Villa Strangiato" next to those from "Dance of Skins" to show the conceptual connections and progression. The subtitle here, "An Exercise in Malevolence" is a direct play on the subtitle of "La Villa Strangiato", "An Exercise in Self Indulgence". Malevolence works better for me as, well, these are the Tales of the Bajazid. As for those of you confused by the term "Lerxst", if you are not familiar with that, no amount of explanation is going suffice. To understand, all you can do is listen to RUSH and hope someday you grok.

***

Dance of Skins
An Exercise in Malevolence
La Villa Strangiato Segment Breakdown
Order	Time	Count  X 125	Words	Original Title	Dance of Skins
1	:30	2	250	Buenas Noches, Mein Froinds!	Guten Morgen, Mi Amigo!
2	1:30	6	750	To Sleep, Perchance to Dream	A Wake in Pretense of Dream
3	1:15	5	625	Strangiato Theme	Baird's Holler Theme
4	2:30	10	1250	A Lerxst in Wonderland	A Lemures in Wonderland
5	:30	2	250	Monsters!	Ghosts!
6	:30	2	250	The Ghost of the Aragon	The Beast of the Bajazid
7	:45	3	375	Danforth and Pape	Crossroads
8	:30	2	250	The Waltz of the Shreves	The Sheriff's Jig
9	:15	1	125	Never turn your back on a Monster!	Never Turn Your Back on a Ghost!
10	:15	1	125	Monsters! (Reprise)	Gbosts! (Skin Dance)
11	1:00	4	500	Bajazid Theme (Reprise)	Baird's Holler Theme (Demise)
12	:30	2	250	A Farewell to Things	Scream Thy Farewell Scream
Totals		40	5000

***

So this is it... the weirdest of the weird that I had done yet in messing around with story structure. I know I went kinda far off the reservation on this one and I know there really isn't any precedence for it, but I had fun and it turned out a pretty rip-roaring little Tale at that. Hell, that last section, inspired by a rather rare recording featuring an artist darkly hinted herein, was a delightful little joke that sadly only I'll ever get, but still, it was fun.

This story, "Dance of Skins : An Exercise in Malevolence", appears in A Collection of Storytelling put out by Dark Owl Publishing. It was finished September 18, 2019, and it comes in at exactly 5,000 words... just as planned.

My crimes are not singular here. In the production I am currently working, the expansion of a Sestina (39 line Renaissance poetry form), I have used this structure within a 2,000 word setting. Each of the "lines" in this project, titled "A Sestina Writ in Darkness", is basically a 2,000 word short-story. Two of my characters, Ernest Weber and Norbert Pike of "Homecoming" fame, share dreams. By starting halfway through the "line" of one of these, starting the dream-sequence, I have carried this dream through to the other character's "line", switching "lines" (chapter sections) and character POV halfway through the "La Villa Strangiato" segment... switching the POV mid-"line" (chapter sections) and mid-sentence. It worked better than I thought and I cannot wait to show this one off. I also have "line 37" planned, using the same template shown up above, in another 2,000 word version of this.