Bringing it on Home

I do not spend much time on names for characters. I also spend a great deal of time on names for characters.

To clear this up, or at least do my duty of making it more muddled, there are times when I let the first name that passes by hold. Sam Delarosa and Eric Parker are perfect examples of the first name chosen as the first that slipped by. Leopold Tarkenfeld was as well known, along with the primacy who appear in these Tales. Nearly all the Sultans have such names. Any name is often as good as any other name and this holds true more often than not. Most characters can survive such and it's easiest this way. Why beat yourself up over a name unless there is reason.

With reason, I'll mention a character who will make her appearance here in this blog shorty though in the story she appears, "The Woman in the Tree", I did not know who she was. I did not know who she was until January of 2020. Before then, she was just the woman in the tree whom none could identify. When I learned who she was, where she hailed from, well, I had to invest seriously in order to find appropriate names in the language of that culture (Sami) and then, amongst those found, hope one sparks and demands its use. That is how Násti Harju came to be, specifically with the irony found in the meaning along. A proper introduction to here will be found three years later in a story called "Hrafns". Sikyatavo is another example of a name researched as are Łitso Gah and Niu.

Some names are researched for ethnic consistency but that search for meaning is moot and thus just chosen by what announces itself to my reading eye. I do get a little bit of a kick from this though for it is only I who knows which is of meaning and which is not. If my plan holds, my audience will always have this point on which to argue. The best I can say is keep it clean and no weapons, please (unless you do the whole gladiator dress-up bit).

Then there are the place-holder names, ones I'll start with in organization and prep and then stick it out. "A Memory of Flame" is a perfect example of this where, with a physical descriptive clue and an appropriate historical time, I hopefully leave my Reader softly whistling "Suicide is Painless" beneath their breath the rest of the day. A Tale titled "Waiting For Ants" saw a trio needing names and those derived from a term 50 years yet coined lent their true ones. In the last story I wrote in 2017, finishing in one weekend while sitting on that delightfully hard chair in the room I stay when I'm chaperoning my daughter's visits to her mother, this proved the case for a story titled "Homecoming".

"Homecoming" is a story with five prominent characters named. There is a 6th, but I did not know her name then. I just wanted to make sure she was seen so that I would not forget her. I needed to remember her, to take her finally out of my first notebook and let her at least be known. Her story will be written on New Years Eve, 2018, in a family-oriented story titled "She Leaves Tonight".

Of those five, two were old friends, Sultans in fact. Another was an orderly at the Pioneer's Home in Prescott, AZ. This is a storied institution who serves those of Arizona mining heritage. His name is one chosen from the flurry that passed through my head when I needed a name. Yup, just reached in and pulled one out that was as good as anything. Just note that regardless how his name might indicate, he is not the Colonel in this story.

It was the names of the two primary characters which I needed and offered place names for my own enjoyment. They were just two bums, hobos who had been palling around for the last couple years since the Depression began. I had not known how they met at the writing of "Homecoming" and while now I do, then I just knew they stuck together, an odd couple who were in such desperate straits that shared the one blanket they had of necessity.

This is a simple yarn about a simple job two desperate men accepted to drive the old friend of an elderly resident of that Pioneer's Home back to the ruins of the old town once his so that he may pass at peace where those he cared most for were lost. All Ernest and Norbert were needed to do was this... take the old, dying man back to his home before he passes, to let him know he made it back and take a photograph as proof in order to be paid. Take that venerable gaunt back to his home and lay him on a bed of straw so his last moments were at least in comfort. They were told to hurry for the old man, confirmed by that odd couple, was at Death's door and payment would be deferred without proof.

I have seen this photograph. I have seen it and I have shuddered at the impossibilities it implies. That old man, a venerable gaunt lay reposed on a broken throne of straw, a fitting seat for a Sultan fallen so far. He is not idle in that image taken in the first rays of light to crest that mountain. Indeed, the details of one of his hands wave in blurred focus. The discerning eye, if looked at close enough or beneath a glass to magnify, will note the profusion of small, grotesque bugs infesting that straw and crawling over the panicked face of the subject. There is terror clearly represented in those eyes strained wide and his mouth is agape in howl, a small contingent of those pests gathered at that orifice and falling forth. Behind that throne, clear in monochromatic glory, is the curious aspect of a child in tattered nightgown, a cracked mask of porcelain upon her face.

 This is the photograph that provided these two the means to their future, the investment required to raise themselves from the stakes this nation had left them when it sank upon its fiscally devastated knees. This was the hope those two held forth as they collected the wages of their sin. This is the haunt that will at last drive these two men back up this mountain and into a nightmare anew... specifically the nightmare of trying to turn a 39 line Renaissance poetry form into a 78,000 word novel of which the fool behind this keyboard is deferring to write blog posts.

"Homecoming" was the 18th Tale of the Bajazid, completed at the end of October 2017 in a cramped little room hosting a delightfully uncomfortable chair. It stands at 4,970 words, a length it did not feel like when writing. Indeed, this Tale moves with a steady pace, so much so that it feels shorter, at least to he whom this story was told to in that cloistered room.

"Homecoming" also marks an omission and an error of consistency for upon its completion, I foolishly decided that since I had met my goal and was now able to lord over a comfortable stack of black document binders, I could and should rest up for the coming year. Because of this, I let two months pass without serious consideration. I consider that an error, one I learned exactly one year later what such time could have conquered.

There was one more project that I worked on following "Child of the Earth", inspired from that story and the beginning of a project I hope this year to finish. That is for the post next though, the concept as it began and the increasing challenges I would keep adding to it.

How To Go Bald, Lesson #6

 With the completion of "The Journal of Caleb Walsh", I was at ten completed works for the year and it was only September. In other words, I was ahead of the game and feeling good about it. The next project I dove into was a bit of an oddity. Basically, I wrote another Sonnets Redouble for no reason other than I like to tear what remains of my hair out. To illustrate, please, attend to the structure requirements I laid on myself.

First for the Sonnets Redouble. In my days long ago when I would pen poetry of questionable character, I would challenge myself to try different forms to see what I could do. This was back in the 1990s when the internet was not so comprehensive as it is now and I would spend time in libraries looking up poetry forms. I thought that if I gave myself a broad base of structures of familiarity, it would broaden my potential and scope. Mind you, the over 1,000 pieces I piddled with over the years were for my consumption. This was my therapy, my meditation, my rage into the night.

In one very difficult semester... they were all difficult as I was a young single father to my eldest daughter then... I signed up for a poetry course in hopes to finding this basis of structure. It was not a class I attended more than once, both due to the time constraints I had on me requiring me to abandon the class as well as something the student teacher said when I asked if there would be any revelations of classical structures. Her response, sniffed out, was "We're only interested in where poetry's going, not where it's been", and to me, that seemed wrong. How can you go somewhere without knowing where you came from? I mean, before Picasso reinvented form on canvas, he studied the techniques traditional. It is from the building blocks of the art from which expansion can be made.

Thus my explorations were my own. I wanted to know the blocks that built because without, what do you have? I would go to readings when the rare chance allowed and what I noticed common through almost all was that no one was venturing into actual verse. Everything was basically a monologue, broken up in staggered patterns and dramatic pauses. I was looking for poetry, not one angry rant after another about some social ill... or in the case of many, every social ill they could blame on the "Man" all at once in full blown overload. I'm sorry, but to me, that's pretty much listening to someone rant indignantly about some social ill in a tone of voice and staggered pattern of speech. All the power to you Spoken Word folks out there, but I was looking for poetry.

I spent a lot of hours in libraries and would copy the patterns into my notebooks. I've been keeping these notebooks now since I began amusing myself so and behind me sits a box, not small, full of nothing but. I would copy these forms from notebook to notebook, reserving one section of said notebook specifically for this. I hunted down classical styles as well as international forms and have nearly tried them all. I love Rondeaus and Sonnets come in a variety of fascinating flavors. Sestinas and Pantums fill my notebooks along with so many Tankas (truly prefer those over Haiku) that I began to think in 31 syllables. I do not have a Villanelle. That eludes me and I suspect it ever shall.

Now, about them Sonnets Redouble...

First you take a sonnet with 14 beautiful lines.

Then you take each of those lines and use them to create 14 more sonnets, each starting from one of those lines.

This means that basically, you have one sonnet that serves, as I like to think of it, as an "Index of First Lines", and then those 14 sonnets indicated.

So that is that and it looks all like fun and games. Sure, no problem even. Just take those lines and work them out.

Keep that attitude... you'll need it.

I do need to pause here in that the formula I recite here is what I discovered in a book at the University of Arizona Poetry Library. All instruction of such mentioned on the internet today seems to indicate a reversal of that by having that Index sonnet appear last, behind the 14. I don't see how either way is valid or invalid. I prefer the introduction to then be explained rather than a summary. Thus all such that I have done have been done that way. It's how I was introduced to the form.

There is such a thing in this world as a Crown of Sonnets. Here you have seven sonnets in a circle. By that, I mean the 1st Sonnet is all nice and jolly. When the 2nd Sonnet begins, it does so with the last line of the 1st. When that 2nd Sonnet ends, it gives its last line to the 3rd Sonnet as its first line. Thus you keep going with each Sonnet finishing with the beginning of the next until you get to the very last line of the 7th Sonnet... which is also the very first line of the 1st Sonnet making the whole basically go in a circle like a crown. These can be fun and they can be frustrating... mostly frustrating. It is hard to marry such lines in a circle like that.

Okay, what is about to happen should be obvious. I wrote a sonnet and then developed 14 sonnets based upon the first lines of that sonnet. Then, because... I really don't know... I "crowned" those 14 sonnets making each begin where the last left off and circling in a big old loop back to the first of those 14. In other words, I foolishly merged those two forms. That's the basic structure of what I was working with and what I did, and then a year later, oops, I did it again.

I do want to state that I did not adhere to the rules of iambic meter with these two pieces, mainly because I am only human and seriously, I was already tackling a large enough structural concept. Instead, I based each line on syllabic count. The first, "Shadows in the Afternoon", finished on the 80th anniversary of Robert E. Howard's death while sitting beneath the pavilion outside the window of the room in which he wrote, contains 10 syllables in each line. The second, "Henry Pickett's Home Brew" was completed in September of the next year and there, each line contains 13 syllables.

 "Shadows in the Afternoon" concerns the gallows erected along the western wall of the courthouse and discusses its history and a few of those who met their end there. Do to its nature spanning time, it is basically a rich field in which to harvest. Those noted who swing here in this early piece each has a story to tell and they are each marked in my "to do" list under place-holder names. At least a half dozen Tales may ultimately be culled from this, and possibly more as I remove their hoods and examine their fates.

The second such sequence, my 11th Tale for the year 2017, is titled "Henry Pickett's Home Brew". This was written with specific temporal intent for I knew exactly the day it took place. The idea forced itself upon me. I had learned that a Decennial Celebration had taken place and I wanted to set the scene, mark it on the timeline in this history. That is basically how this functions, drawing in motivations and the impetus for this gala fête and taking it through to the tragedy revealed in the charred remains of the morning.

 I have revisited this moment with two stories penned in 2019. These two Tales appear in "A Celebration of Storytelling" by Dark Owl Publishing. The stories are titled "Permissible License" and "Dance of Skins". I was lucky enough to find a publisher willing to include both these stories, each taking place at the same time from vastly different perspectives, in an anthology. Being the scope of the tragedy and being that I had, for that day, a potential cast of up to a thousand, I have a whole host of potential Tales available here and expect, as time goes on, to ultimately be able to have enough for a collection of Tales based on this one night.

I will, when it is time, dive deep into these two stories. Each one is, well, let's just say that they are established on specific structural formulas, the first including elements inspired by "Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk" and "Chapter 24", both off of The Pink Floyd's debut album, "The Piper at the Gates of Dawn". Trust me on this. The temporal structure, present to flashback, is based on the primary concept line in the second song leaving six sections with a seventh bringing the whole together while the establishment of positive and negative space in the introduction of the first song informs the physical space of each section. This structural formula, specifically the temporal sequence, has become a staple formula for me, one which I refer to as my "Chapter 24". When a new story begins forming, this is one of the formulas I always check first to see if the story fits.

As for "Dance of Skins", well, let's just say I broke "La Villa Strangiato" by RUSH into forty 15 second sections, then divided the whole into 5000 (story length planned) which gave me 125 words/15 seconds song time. It gets complicated after that, so much so that it needs some serious explanation. I am also using this same structure in the novel length Sestina I am currently working on within a 2000 word section which, well, is half in one POV and switches, mid-sentence into the next sub-chapter section and a second POV, both of whom I intend to introduce in the next exciting episode of this blog.

Like I mentioned in my first post, I'm doing some seriously weird shit with structure.

Case Study on the Limits of Linear Thinking

 While I was writing "My Thoughts on What Happened to Timmy Carmichael", I came upon something that I initially dismissed. In fact, it was but a memory of my own that stirred that mention. It was a long time ago...

I am a lucky man, and by that, I mean there are those in my life whom have been there through the worst as well as the best reaching back to those most awkward days of youth. In particular, the kid who told me on the the first day of freshman science class that "that's not your seat, asshole" when indeed it was. Best Man at my wedding and first choice if such weirdness were to pass my way again. 40 years now and still, even when distance demands time. He's also the polar opposite of me in that if we both walked through the same crowded room, I would reach the other side without having spoken with or even been seen by anyone. Meanwhile, he'd have made friends with everyone and will have taken over the hosting duties regardless where the party was held. He is my brother as much as if he were blood.

We would occasionally go hunting together. This was his gig, his game. I myself was ambivalent to a degree whether or not that which we sought ever came into view. If it did, great... and that was the best turkey I ever ate! But if it didn't pan out like usual, so what? A few days away from the world in the lush desert lands or high on a windswept mountain solved at least a year's worth of stress. That was the value I held most, that and getting really stoned around a campfire on a freezing night with a bottle of something amber filling our cups.

As far as any success though? Again, wild turkeys are really, really good and he being handy with food, the gang feasted that following weekend on fowl prepared two different ways. Of other things? Well, did you know that you can see the most beautiful Wapiti and Pronghorn when you're looking for Deer? And speaking of which, coming upon two bucks just standing there and staring at you with each hosting massive racks of antlers while you're looking for Wapiti (elk)? And don't even get me started on the slippery nature of the Javalina. Also, let's just say that I enjoyed quite a few naps on hillsides courtesy of always carrying a stash. Awkward when you wake up an hour later a few feet down the hill from where you started...

Well, one of these trips was to the Chiricahua Mountains in the southeastern corner of Arizona. Peccaries were the prize, or at least that sought. I'm not even sure we saw a deer wander in the distance that trip. What we did find though was a very old and decrepit shack of a barn. I cannot recall the date exact on the grave not far away, but on the old newspaper I fished out from between two old beams, it was the same printed there but with a divergence of at least a decade. I know not what happened to that old paper... it was frail and I wanted to try to piece it together but at nearly 90 years old, I was just surprised it existed at all. I suspect it just got lost in a move one day, either that or it will be found 80 years from now in the ruins of a place I once lived. Either way, it was that newspaper I found stuffed between two beams in this old, collapsing building that inspired one little moment in that story remembering Timmy Carmichael.

Completely unrelated and having nothing at all to do with anything I just rambled there, in "The Night Hans Kroeger Came Back", I tossed in a line mentioning a tragedy unresolved, one inspired by the events of that story and taking place, the best could be guessed, about a month hence. The crime mentioned in passing hinted of a family ruined and its patriarch gone. That was pretty much it. The whole mention consumed less words than this very sentence here.

There are some characters that come to life for me as I work. This is not of intent. Millicent Flores Kearns, one of my most beloved, was not the focus in her introductions. Neither was Leopold Tarkenfeld. He had appeared only in two stories at this point, one in a role not even deserving the mention of his name. He was actually in a third as well, but I know now that he was completely off as well as in-camera and it took me a couple years and some serious investigation to prove that. At this point, his presence is felt direct or less so in eight stories as well as the project I'm ignoring so as to write this. Leopold has proven a gift that promises steep returns.

I now have names. I know what was in those folded pages found by those boys. I know whose house those ruins were and what happened there. In lieu of the fact that no other documentation survives from that night of shortened breath, we must rely on what is available. "The Journal of Caleb Walsh" explains everything quite clearly in words claimed his own. It is these words we are privy to, thanks to the fine investigative work the colleagues of one individual, a professor at an exclusive university, as they gathered what they could to explain his disappearance.

This document, this journal, was published by HellBound Books in 2020 in the anthology "Ghosts, Spirits and Specters Vol. II". In a bit of delightful coincidence, "The Journal of Caleb Walsh", written early September of 2017, was my 16th Tale. It was also the 16th Tale of the Bajazid accepted for publication. I am very proud of this story in the way it connects extremely disparate elements from wildly different Tales and times. As well, the production quality of the books released by HellBound Books is something to treasure. Please, this is an anthology rich in talent and it was an honor being included, pick up a copy. You will not be disappointed. You will also learn about an accountant I'd like you to meet.

Here in my cars, there's no safety at all

While the majority of these Tales that do exist take place during a specific couple of decades in the late 1800s, not all do. In fact, my second story, "My Thoughts on What Happened to Timmy Carmichael", stretched from the late 1980s to 2014 with the focus on 1992. My fifth Tale, "The Little Metal Man" happened in 1978. "Anger", the 7th Tale, took place in 2008. "A Memory of Flame" was 1954 and "Trane's 'a Rolan'" was 2017. Even "A Safe Place to Hide", 1922, qualifies as one set in the days of the automobile. As the stories continued, that Western town and that around have built up the greatest bulk of the Tales, but of 73 now done, quite a few belong to the modern age and while not all such have cars in them of consequence, enough do that I need to spend a moment on them.

I am not an automobile aficionado and though I've worked on my own cars my whole life, I always did it of necessity, not passion. Automobiles are not my geek. We all have geeks, those things which we love deeply and invest time in without any reward beyond geeking, beyond cherishing the distractions one loves. I say this because if I'm writing something set in the 1950's and I need it to be able to get over roads that are rough beyond reason and don't want my Reader who knows what would get over those roads dismissing the Tale upon seeing a poor choice. Or, for example, the story is set in 1933 and there are a couple hobo's who've been hired to drive an old man back to his long-ago home, I wouldn't want to put them in something that did not exist until after that date.

I've read stories like that before, where the author doesn't have a clue to their subject. Years ago on facebook, when I had only a couple stories written, I got into a conversation on a page dedicated to horror writers. Having no one to bounce things off of at that time except my buddy, the Lovecraft Pusher, I joined a couple others in what I hoped would be a place for feedback and such. It didn't hold for longer than a week, but that was long enough to read one piece sent me. Let's just say that Japan was not in the trenches in WW1 and WW2 took place more than a decade beyond that. This was not an attempt at alternative history but a complete lack of historical knowledge. That was not the only such example in that story, but it is the one that sticks clearest in my head. When the suspension of disbelief is impossible, even a minor hiccup, then that pulls me right out of the story and it's hard to get back in. I did not want that happening in these Tales.

When in a story the vehicle becomes more than a shadow and clear enough that its lines are defined, I need to determine what that vehicle is. In the first story written with vehicles in it, their mention only need extend beyond type. There were a couple of vans and pickup trucks as well as emergency vehicles, but all that was need was their silhouettes and Rolan Trane's SUV just need that description. For such generic use, I need nothing more. It is for those vehicles that appear with importance that I focus my research. That research generally comes from two places, the first being google and a search. For example, the two trucks in "A Memory of Flame" were so located. The other place is by watching the cars I see every day and then stealing them for my stories.

The first such theft was for "The Little Metal Man". I needed something that would take the Millers across America comfortably while allowing the father his indulgence of back roads, camping and exploration. I was already considering a Jeep Wagoneer when a new customer began dropping by in such. I took note, went online and started looking them up for that year I wanted to see if they would fit what I had in mind and needed, mainly a tailgate that came down as opposed to opening on the side. This customer's Jeep had the side-open style and a little research showed that they came both ways. Delighted, I made sure their Wagoneer was the newest model possible as his star was rising and his salary was good. Their model was off the lot and this the maiden voyage.

The complete sloughing off of certain social constraints excised has left me rather popular amongst my customers, enough so that the number and type of compliments my bosses get sets them odd expectations for me and has further compounded my reputation at work. The crazy fuel guy is crazy in a delightful way apparently and the nonsense... literal fucking nonsense... that I spew gets me a lot of Christmas gifts each year from customers. By nonsense, just note that I tell everyone to "please, enjoy your gas" and when a customer is confounded at their pump, I usually know what is wrong right away (user error). In order to avoid embarrassing them as I walk them through it, 'cause it's always something simple they screwed up, I generally mostly talk about kittens and how it is very important to think of kittens while preparing their purchase. This leaves them distracted enough so that when things go right, they don't feel stupid but are instead left, well, I always talk about kittens and even grouchy old men trade their scowls for shaking jowls. Even the Corporate bosses are aware of my, er, customer service skills. My supervisor almost passed out when I offered to fold one lady's receipt into an origami swan just to show her how wonderful her receipt could be... as the Vice-President of the parent Corporation of the company I worked for was standing behind me. He, by the way, had to step outside due to his laughter.

I mention all this because when I see a car of remarkable beauty such as a Studebaker Hawk or an oddity such as a Jensen Interceptor II, I go out and admire it. Most those who have such cars always love to talk about them and I generally am given an earful. That Studebaker owner, for example, opened the trunk for me so I could judge if it had enough space to fit two men no more than 5'6" each in height... and yes, I told him why I needed to know. By the way, that story named for that car is one of my favorites but we're going no further on that right now. "The Golden Hawk" will come.

I joked often with the Wagoneer owner and when I told him what I was doing and why, that I needed to get a good look at the interior to describe it accurately, he allowed me my inspection. It wasn't until some time later I told him just how I needed that information and exactly why I needed a good look at the interior, but I did 'cause he kept asking over the next couple of months. Yup, needed to know just how much space I'd need and whether that metal ice chest (it was the '70s) would be able to fit between the seats and the roof easily. You know, at a quick roll? Oh, and his Wagoneer turned out to be a 1978 model. Have I mentioned I have had some weird luck with these Tales?

The second need for a vehicle direct also derived from there but instead a vendor who would always park his Subaru Outback next to my car. By the time I was starting "Anger", I had decided upon just such a vehicle mainly for the all-wheel drive. While those back roads can be accessed on a 2-wheel drive vehicle, don't be alarmed if that is where your vehicle will forever remain. Thus the need for a practical station wagon style vehicle for a young family. When I finally got around to speaking with the owner of that Outback, I had already chosen the year and the story was nearly done. I mentioned to him what I was doing and if I could look at his interior one early morning as we pulled up together. When asked why, I told him I needed to know how the center console was set up because, well, if a rabid mountain lion was crawling through the open window, what would dig into a person's back as that pressure and panic raged? Best thing was, it was a 2000 model, same as I had chosen. Yep, that research proved very useful.

As for "A Memory of Flame", what was needed there were comfortable passage for five men with ample supplies. The host of that party was wealthy and this was the 1950's. Tents were canvas, not nylon that disappears into a tiny pouch. I ended up with two different years of PowerWagons, ensuring each would be 4x4 and that one was an extended cab so I didn't have to have one truck packed too tight. I can't remember off the top of my head right now what years they were and that detail here described is not really important. This is mainly to illustrate the care which I have taken at times to ensure that I make as little a fool of myself as possible and don't place Imperial Japanese soldiers in a trench in France in 1919 (yes, that detail was wrong as well!). That the technology expressed is correct is what's important.

As these stories developed, more and more vehicles have come in to play, such as the truck the victims, I mean characters in the story I'm working have. Of those that were of consideration, based on when I knew the truck was purchased, I settled on a Studebaker S8 over Whites or Fageols, three names for heavy trucks which most alive today either never heard of or are so far back in memory that recall is only prompted by hearing or reading the name. This research has opened me up to a world I was never keen on before though, the history of the automobile and the prized beauties of the past. While I am still not a geek proper here, I at least now know how to understand the fascination and it has informed strongly my work.

Wó see ts'inii

There is a creature out here in the southwestern part of North America that classifies, in many ways, as one of the ugliest things to crawl from the earth. It is know by different names, the two most recognized being Jerusalem Crickets and Potato Bugs, though they have no connection at all to Jerusalem being native to this little region of the world and there is no commonality to tubers that don't grow of natural course here. They are ugly ass little things, the size of crickets but they are not crickets. They look somewhat like the cross between an ant and a cricket, as if two of those critters got really drunk then got really freaky and had to explain to their families the perversion born from that union.

They are harmless, these grotesque things, beyond a reluctant and non-venomous bite though legends sift through their obscure nature. For example, the singing that these bugs do not do is an omen of ill luck. In truth, the only ill luck one might have with one of these is being freaked out by it's incredibly ugly nature, stepping back in disgust onto a mislaid rake and getting thwonked by the handle in the backside. Myth serves its purposes though and a low resonance of dread is associated with these by those few who see them and are weirded out when they do. They do not rise from the earth often and in the whole of my life, I have seen but two in the flesh... or exoskeleton.

Speaking of the earth, such is the basis of other names that these delightful little critters are known by. In northern Mexico, they are called Niño de la Tierra, (Child of the Earth) and that right there there is badassery all the way. I mean, that's a truly cool name for a creature that does stalks beneath the earth. Even better are the names the Navajo give to this little thing. Because of the face this bug wears, and I do implore you to check one out, most such names identify that face in description. Wó see ts'inii is the best of these terms I've found, at least to my satisfaction, and the meaning of "skull-faced bug" is very apt.

"Child of the Earth" was begun as "A Memory of Flame" consumed itself beneath my keys. I had known this story was necessary and it was one of three that were knocking loosely around my mind. By this point, I had a good idea when the town of Baird's Holler was going to go ghost and die. Those three ideas were:
A: The mine being shut down
B: A Mine Inspector from Prescott and his journal recovered by his associate
C: A report from a Sergeant in the 10th Cavalry reporting on the disaster at Fort Whipple outside Prescott.

These were the three basic ideas I had at the time. I was woefully unaware of what was about to happen though, so woefully unaware.

"Child of the Earth" is the story of Yesil Batur, a Turkish American who turned of age just as the Civil War ended. It is he who noticed the word their guide, the "yeller rabbit", shouted as he fled the day they came to this valley. It was his comment of that word sounding like the name of a Turkish Sultan of antiquity (seriously, how these two words came together was just a stroke of something!). With the fads of the 1800s of naming things from Classic Antiquity (Atlanta, Memphis, etc...), it was Yesil who was charged by his fellows for giving things interesting names, such as one of the tributaries being named the Sultana or the two creeks high on the mountain Idrar and Diski (he was getting annoyed at this point).

Twenty-three years after the finding of gold upon this creek, Yesil was no longer the happy-go-lucky joker he was when the Mortenson Party first struck it rich. From a hint dropped in "I'll Always Be With You, Boys", I knew a few rather dark things about Yesil but I did not know where this story was going when I started it. As the story progressed and I found myself deeper and deeper into a nightmare I knew I could not begin to fit in this short of a space, the scope beyond this Tale began to slowly emerge. By the time I was done and all that was left was a little mastication, I had a rough outline for what I wanted to do... but only a very rough outline.

This was an incredibly fun story to write. It set a solid foundation for where the town was in its last days and how the mine was being operated under the managerial eye of the only two Sultans who remained vested in the operations of the mine. Only one other Sultan, Colonel William Nesmith, remained in Baird's Holler by that time and he had long divested his interests in any of the operations. Between Yesil and Thomas Lundmeir, the other remaining Sultan, they had turned the mine into something rather dark. The Chinese laborers who occupied the third worker's barracks were locked in at night, an abuse of a system called "Credit Tickets" which had been deemed "slavery" in 1878 and made illegal... but when has that ever stopped a slaver, especially in a valley that the Law forgets.

That though is not the focus here in this story. I'll write that one a year later. This is the story of Yesil Batur pissed off and heading into the mine to see why the Mexican crew (the third crew is made of Whites and Blacks so far down on their luck they'll work this dreaded mine) had stopped working. Suspicious of a strike, he takes an armed contingent with him to set things right, not at all accepting the stories that the workers broke into a cave of magnificent beauty. He is also putting this show of force forth because, well, no one could find him for at least a half hour as they were trying to alert him of the discovery. He, well, liked opium and the outhouse usually occupied him for a while after his first cup of coffee.

Things got out of hand. They really did. Part of the fun of writing this was there was more action than dread, something that I had not been dominant with before. Hell, this one felt "pulpy" to write and just fun. Where it left me though was with an opening to something much larger. The town needed to die and I had those three ideas...
A: Give reason to shut the mine hard
B: Explain why the Mine Inspector went violently insane
C: Explain why the town was burned to the ground and the survivors escorted from the valley

There was something big here, but that was two stories for another time. Now it is about roughly 13 short stories and a novel planned, two chapters of which I've pecked out and I've added six more of those shorts already. Again though, this is a discussion for another day as this little story, coming in at 8,684 words, told what needed to be told concerning Yesil.

"Child of the Earth" was published by Nightmare Press in 2019, my 5th story sold. The title of the anthology is "Animal Uprising". As I will state over and again, support these small presses for they are often the first outlet from which new authors, those like I writing in the wilderness, may find homes. As mentioned before, I make nothing from any transactions made here. I've already been compensated. I just want ya'll to read my stories and this is where "Child of the Earth" now lies. When the whole of this concept is complete, the five days in which the town of Baird's Holler died, then I plan on having two products available... the novel (to be titled "Circle of Midnight Black"... for reasons) and the accompanying shorts gathered. The fun part about this is the novel will follow Yesil's partner for those five days while each of those shorts will fill the spaces between chapters.

Nightmare Press will be, very shortly, releasing another anthology with another of my stories in it, a real humdinger with serious pulp and another super fun Tale... lots of action. Keep dialed in on this channel, kids... things are going to get really weird.

Little Things

 As I was working on the next big idea that was stirring in my head, there was a slight interruption. This was not one of concern but production as on my way home one day, I saw a regular occurrence in a different light. See, I live 6.2 miles up a ten-mile paved, winding mountain road that ultimately devolves into a slew of dirt roads and trails snaking through the mountain gullies to cabins or lost places (most of which my great-grandfather apparently worked). Two miles up is the southern entrance to Lynx Lake and a nature center nearby. Across the road from that is the parking for the 7 Mile Gulch trailhead, a nice little place to park late at night and imagine yourself attacked by mountain lions.

As that road climbs, it gets windier and up and downier as it climbs and climbs and climbs. Howells, where I live, six miles up that road, is 1000 feet in elevation higher than where it begins (though truthfully, I'm generally a litter higher than that but let's not talk about that right now). That road is a very popular road for those individuals who enjoy the punishment of pedaling a cycle up steep climbs, something I really just don't grok. Okay, I'm lazy. There, I said it. This dual use road though is often clogged with cyclists riding in herds and sometimes they remember that they don't own the middle of the road riding in packs. Usually there is a sense of entitlement where they will make you roll behind them at 10 miles an hour up a steep climb as 4 or 5 of them claim the whole road and their privilege. "Share the road" is often a one-way phrase on Walker Road. Usually though it is just a single rider or a small string spread out. It is the groups, the cycling clubs that show this arrogance.

Okay, this is about little things so draw your memories to the now old film "Natural Born Killers" and that scene where Mickey and Mallory are driving through Arizona and decide to shotgun a champion cyclist. That's the little thing here, just this flash passing through my mind as a lone cyclist pedaled properly and politely up the hill as I made room to pass around the time I was passing the 7 Mile Gulch trailhead (and completely unconcerned about mountain lions getting me). By the time I pulled into the Compound (seriously, others up here have thought the houses on this property were some kind of compound before, not realizing it was the oldest homestead up there... well, since old man Dahlin passed... I remember my grandfather taking me to see him once and the mountain lion skin on his wall held my attention... he was the one called to track when one started gnawing on things it shouldn't), I had a story set to run.

I was in the middle of another story at that time, one which has since proven to be of monumental importance to these Tales. That day after I got home and got all business out of the way, I got to work. Setting aside the work in progress, I dove into this cyclist I passed so I could see what happened to him. A couple of hours later, I had a nice little thing all packaged and ready to go.

"Trane's 'a Rolan'" is different than what I had produced up to that point. The primary difference between this and all that came before is its size, coming in at a paltry 1,278 words. It was also set contemporary to the day I wrote it. The style that was used, the "voice", also separated it from my other work with the sentences Lovecraft long and no hint of any dialog. It was just a brief little Tale about an adrenaline junkie named Roland Trane who hosted a website detailing his cycling trips and other outdoor adventures and there was no connection at all to any other story, hinted or otherwise, within it and I was long wary of it.

I have only sent it off once and while it did not make the cut as it was on the edge of the theme requested, the publisher wrote me directly to speak on the story. I still haven't submitted it elsewhere... I haven't found the venue to fit it... I am no longer wary of it. Instead, I have me a little bit of pride. See, over time, and with that letter warming me, I've become more attached to this story, even finding a means to connect it at last to the whole of this history, but that is a very venomous Tale for another time.

The other little point of personal pride I've found with "Trane's 'a Rolan'" is that, well, spellcheck. When I started looking, some time later, at different little things that show up in the Word spellcheck when you get stats, I discovered something that I find kinda funny. Up to this point, I'd read many times that the average reading level of most newspapers, for broad consumption, was 4th grade. I've read articles by authors giving advice that one should aim for around a 3rd grade level. I'm not sure why, but I guess that is so it is accessible to most readers. As of this writing, the reading grade level averaged amongst my 73 Tales is 6.1. "Trane's 'a Rolan", by whatever Word uses to determine this, comes in at a 12.9 grade reading level which is kinda cool since I burned it out fast and there were barely any edits needed.

The other fun thing was I brought in a little friend at the very end to say goodbye to the shattered helmet camera. Ya'll will meet this little guy, a wó see ts'inii, in the next post so please, hold your horses and if you don't have those, get a firm grip on your Children of the Earth.

I Blame an Ex-Flame

 Seriously, I blame a wonderful woman for the next Tale's inspiration, or at least the flame that ignited it.

Around  the cusp of May and June, I took my girlfriend for a ride to show her some of the places that populate my world and, since I had just purchased a 4wheel drive vehicle, I could go to the places I hadn't before if I wanted to enjoy air-conditioning and no bugs in my teeth. Besides, I was planning on traveling further than the quad would be comfortable on and the picnic lunch was packed. It was a wonderful day and we ended up just past the old Dandrea Ranch, the remains of where my grandmother would play now just a flat spot and some low, crumbled stone walls. It's a great place for plinking, target shooting, and there's this old tree there that is probably now at least 80% lead in some places from the decades of targets placed before it. It was a really great day.

I was able to show her a few places beyond that old ranch such as taking her through Poland (I refuse to use the horrifically lame and completely stupid name some developer plopped on it at one point) to see the entrance of the old Poland-Walker tunnel as we made our way back to the world of paved roads. At the beginning of our adventure, when we first left such roads behind, we began with the Walker Kiln. This is a stone kiln for the production of charcoal used at the Howell's smelter and other industry in the region. There is a whole history behind this that doesn't matter because I stole the kiln and gave it a new one.

This theft was predicated by a question from my date as to what I was going to write about this structure of stacked stone standing like a great beehive in the forest. I had to admit I had not thought of anything but that conversation fired something. Bursts of ideas began sputtering on the ground, half formed worms with no chance of wings. The obvious was too damn obvious... I mean, kilns are for fires and gosh, what else would you write about with an old kiln, right? What was I to do?

"A Memory of Flame" is an example of a story going completely off the rails, out of control and, well, there's some really fucked up shit in this but I do love my payoff. At 9,586 words, I was able to connect this story, which takes place in 1954, to the Sultans from when the town boomed three quarters of a century before. It also allowed me to play with my two new favorite toys, unnamed in the Tale for the POV would not know such, but described in violent fury. It has action, adventure and, at last, in the madness, dread.

I am pleased with my characters and yes, the whole damn thing here is intentional. I needed names and I looked at those known through our collective consciousness to be represented in such a time frame and ran with it 'cause it was fun. I make no apologies for that though I must explain one thing that crossed my mind when I chose my lead. Looking over my potential cast of names, one stood out beyond that which demanded presence of POV. Knowing the prejudices of the time of the Korean War, there was one character in the popular representation who was portrayed in a way that, if it were so in truth for that character presented, the consequence would not be simply dismissal from uniform, but imprisonment for a long time.

It is better to see honestly the horrors we, the whole of humanity, have imposed upon others for reasons that truly have no meaning. I say we for none are innocent of prejudices in some form or another. At 53 years old and having grown up in the days when a pandemic spread with the sinister stain of prejudice behind it, it is nice to see the sloughing off of impractical idiocy. We ain't perfect and never will be, but I think the momentum needed has at last arrived. That doesn't mean we should sugar-coat historical fiction with the mores of today. When that happens, the Reader is rent from the tale and the return will never be complete. The ugliness must be confronted in order to be exposed. As well, the expressions we today understand, those mores pounded hard into us on the schoolyard pecking order blood-bath, were not always so black and white. People are people and ya'll be surprised if you looked at what the range was doing back in the day before the day's day. It stayed on the range though 'cause the towns had brothels. Foxholes at the front don't have brothels either, at least from everything I've read. I've never been a mid-20th century soldier. Comes with being born decades too late.

This story also gave me the name of one of the Sultans who would gather at that final dinner in "Sestina of the Sultans". I had at that time four of the cast solid, one pretty much available and one with a generic place-holder name. With "A Memory of Flame", that place-holder name became a Mr. Charles Chesterfield. I learned this because his grandson... Chesterfield was into his forties before siring any children and his son kept collecting daughters until his own son showed up late... made a prominent appearance here. It was this namesake, the third so christened, who brought the rest together and funded the hunting trip that this story is. Lot of deer up in those mountains.

This is a hard story, a harsh story. That I'll admit. It isn't for the faint of heart and quite possibly for the beating of heart. It is hard yet, I still can't seem to delve into the sub-genre "splatter punk" nor write with a focus on gore. When what happens must be though, what happens must be. Inevitable ends follow conditions that arise.

It was a month between "Kachina" and "A Memory of Flame" and I was on track to meet that foolish goal I had set and a brand new idea was crawling around in my mind, one whose importance to these Tales cannot be overstated.

Three Rabbits, All Yellow

In the story "I'll Always Be With You, Boys", I seeded it with all sorts of things which I have returned to over and again. One of those early hints was concerning the day the Mortenson Party arrived on that creek and their Navajo guide fled upon recognition of where he was. As he ran, Jonathon S. Mortenson, the financier and lead of that expedition, called him a "yeller rabbit" as he disappeared in the brush. As the story took several months, by the time I neared the end and our story Hero neared the nicer of the two remaining saloons in that town gone to rot, one founded long before by another Sultan long dead (still don't know his story though he's appeared in the background of other Tales... this is how it works). I needed a name for that saloon and I was reminded that it was known as the Yellow Rabbit for reasons only a few remaining might recall. Even our Hero in that story, Mr. Alexander Gitney, needed this reminder for twenty hard years is a long time for trifles to be forgot.

I now had two rabbits.

Now this story I began with knowledge of what was in that cave. What I needed to do was get what was needed into that cave. Thus I needed four Kachina. At least half of my life has been spent in the northern parts of Arizona which is not the same as the southern part insofar as ethnic populations. I live in Yavapai County, named for the Yavapai people. As well, the Diné have a heavy presence here, both Apache as well as Navajo from just to the north. Some of the oldest Nations to exist here, the longest ethnic footprint in this region, are the Pueblo tribes such as the Hopi in Arizona or the Zuni in New Mexico. In fact, the oldest continually inhabited settlement in North America is the Hopi community of Oraibi. It is the Pueblo, the Hopi and Zuni, to whom the world owes the beauty found in the craftsmanship of Kachina, in my humble opinion, some of the most beautiful religious art ever... but I'm biased. I've lived with Kachina art about me my whole life.

Thing is, um, I took it for granted. I knew little beyond what I remembered from school field trips to archeology museums and the constant soaking up of anything of historical reading merit. It wasn't much and I only knew, I confess, for sure the aspects of two Kachina at the start of this adventure. That research I've mentioned? I am no expert in any way on Kachina art, the craft, the beliefs and faith behind, but I know more than I did when I started this story.

I also learned quite a bit about the Hopi during this adventure, such as their reputation for distance running. This, something more prized than the skills of a warrior in a peaceful community, allowed me to justify my geographic position with this story. Of course, I had to figure in the physical distance needed to travel and just how fast some mangy scum could get on an old horse with a mule tied behind bearing four stolen artifacts before those tireless on foot could justifiably reach him. My math is probably suspect, but who's going to run that distance and call me out. It got me to the valley I needed to be and the one those six Hopi in chase recognized from legend.

Of those six, I needed names for only three. After following many links to abandoned hopes, I came at last up a good resource of Hopi names and their meanings. As I was scrolling through them, reading those meanings in contemplative interest, one lit in gold as my eye passed over it. The meaning of the name was "Yellow Rabbit". This was one of those moments when no one is around and you stand in your chair with your hand to your mouth as possibilities flood through your mind in crashing waves of epiphany. The opening was set!

My Hopi do not appear beyond that admittedly violent opening. I mean, goodness, I see all sorts of disclaimers in submission calls saying "no animal cruelty" but gosh, things of natural course happen and I sold my first story with a hoof in a gopher hole while racing across a broad meadow ringed by pine and oak with a cottonwood lined beck bisecting it. Ah yes, this meadow so beloved here offered me a blank canvas in which to paint a tragedy. Hototo I somewhat feel bad about, but Sikyatavo, "Yellow Rabbit"? He was brash, that he was.

Oh, I think I should dispel something here real quick. In this culture that allows me the freedom to write such Tales, colors are all imbued with meanings, often multiple. We can be blue as well as true blue, just for a simple example. Yellow is often associated with cowardice and this we can all remember as Bluto swam a yellow streak furiously away from Popeye. Yellow does not mean cowardice in every culture. There are those that associate it with bravery. As I learned this, well, the irony of Mortenson's comment twenty-nine years later has relevance.

I had my Rabbit and I had my reason. Horatio Parsons and his mule were free to seek their safety, a place to rest from his fall and wait out his pursuers. I'm just going to say, it was lucky he found that cave, or at least he thought so. I knew I was lucky for I now had all the elements gathered, including what yet waited... and what would from there inspire roughly 13,000 years back story. 

There is much more in this Tale which I could speak on and am so tempted to, but I shouldn't, not now. I figure that those things I want to mention will probably come out elsewhere as I discuss other things though I probably won't state much direct. More of a reference and a wink and a nod to specific details that would reveal the game or the story to those who have yet to read. This is my stew and while I might list some of the ingredients and how they were gathered and maybe even prepared, the secret sauces are just that. That's for you to discover and judge.

"Kachina" was accepted in early 2018 in Weirdbook #38 and published shortly thereafter. I carried my contributor copy around with me until I had read every story in it, delighting at the talent that I shared this space with. This is how it came to be known outside of those few that I was engaged in something so untoward as penning astounding tales of nightmare and woe while pretending to earn an honest paycheck. It answered a lot of questions for my fellow employees and now at least they have a reason for some of the ways I express things.

To Mr. Doug Draa, the editor of Weirdbook, I will ever be thankful. Holding this book in my hands, seeing my name in the contents and my work made real that first time is one of those highs in my life that I'll always remember. For those two or three people who discover this blog penned late at night in an old, mountain ghost town, please, do yourself a solid and read Weirdbook. I can't say it enough so I'll probably say it an awful lot. I am just flat out honored to be amongst such talent and yes, this is where the talent is found, in the labor of love that goes into such publications offering a place for dreamers to share their most beautiful nightmares.

Kachina

 One of my favorite stories of all time is "Pigeons From Hell" by Robert E. Howard. This is not one of his Conan stories so you few who know his work, look deeper... and those who don't know the power of his pen (or rather his Underwood #5), you will be pleasantly surprised. If you're lazy, go on YouTube and look up the old Thriller episode hosted by Boris Karloff (that's Frankenstein for you kids) from 1961. It's not a bad adaptation considering how bad adaptations usually are. It's a damn good story any way you look at it and within it you will find something called a Zuvembie, a creation of Two-Gun Bob's that really is a delightful addition to the Undead. I mention all this because it's a damn good story and ya'll would be better off in this life if the details of it haunted your sleeping thoughts from this day forth.

I wrote a story titled "Kachina", finishing it in mid-June, 2017. This is a watershed story for me, one that will forever remain special and dear in my heart. Why? I believe it marked itself insofar as the research put into it, something that has become a discovery and now nearly with each story written pursued. As well, certain elements within this Tale have come to connect a thread, one quite deceptive, throughout the whole narrative defined in this history, one which weaves behind all and is not at the same time. While it is definitely not anything more than the story that it is with the admitted understanding of a cave, those elements in "The Witch of Pitt's Junction" that seem of casual connection, were conceived and written before "Kachina" took shape. It was from the pond "Kachina" was drawn. That is how blind the Witch was in conception and how I began to harvest the splinters such stories leave. "Kachina" also was the first of these Tales of the Bajazid to be accepted for and see print.

The first known expansion of Europeans through the land now known for a description of a little creek in the southern part of the territory not associated with the Spanish depredations beginning a few centuries before, the first "American" was a mountain-man. For those of exclusively urban understandings or those not familiar with the history of the American West, "mountain men" were basically trappers, hunters, explorers... some of horrific repute and some living amongst the rightful heirs of that land as humans are want to do. More followed and behind them a destiny that is indeed manifesting.

 The first "Americans", people from the United States, to enter Arizona, was in 1825. That did not suit my ends though because, well, there was nothing for me there. See, I spent four very formative years of my life in the town named for one of these Mountain Men. He was not the first but one of the earliest being that there was not much traffic between then and when Old Bill Williams arrived, a man known throughout the First Nations as "Lone Elk". Do look this man up and keep him alive in the memory of Man. He was a good man. The year of his arrival, or at least as memory served when I first put pen to paper, was 1837. I'd look mighty presumptuous preempting that date, now wouldn't I? That, along with a thought the witch stirred, the year 1838 seemed to fit quite well.

I am an Arizona boy, born and bred, and one thing I love is the history of this land. It matters not which wave of immigrants from which corner of this land arrives, the history of this land back unto the days when  distinctly fluted flints pierced flesh no longer found the world over. Growing up in a land so rich in layers has been a blessing. Those whose land this was before the world changed forever I hold a deep love for. Mind you, I am provincial so this fealty extends direct to those of this land. There is a hint in "Where Lies Hope", as well as one in "I"ll Always Be With You, Boys", as to why I do not have the People of this land represented in these Tales more than I do. That appears in "Kachina" as well.

To simplify to a degree slightly aside from those hints, I am very equal to all in my stories. All of humanity has good in them. All has evil as well. Generosity knows no bounds, nor does cupidity. I write my characters as humans first and only apply as needed for specific identity based upon ethnic necessities a shade to the skin. Apparently, some of my favorite victims have turned out to be slavers. Can't seem to get enough of them for some reason. But to brush aside this aside, there is one collection of local ethnicity whom I wanted it known were not to be of causal play and Hototo's reaction exemplifies this. I wanted a place that would be forbidden, taboo.

In the months right before I wrote "Where Lies Hope", I visited a local bookstore where occasionally they held open mics. Just to be straight up, I'm a very shy little boy and it was standing up at these mics, forcing myself with shaking legs and frozen voice, that helped me pretty much, well... That friend I met who introduced me to Lovecraft? I met him late one Friday night as I wandered around downtown Prescott looking for something to do. As I passed a restaurant/bar located off the Whiskey Row crowd, I heard some lunatic shouting "The Charge of the Light Brigade" off the rooftop. That led me into the building and up to the rooftop bar to find out who this was. Over the next year or two, we would occasionally take to the stage unannounced... and there was no mic. I ain't that shy no more, and yes, I have a ridiculous amount of poetry I've memorized for no reason of rational ends.

Well, that day I went to the Peregrine Bookstore to pretend I had a life (this was before my daughter came to be with me), Baird's Holler had just begun to stew as a concept in my head but I had no words for what was to be the name of this place. There was this lady there who at the mic recited jokes and I am pretty sure that they were funny as hell because those who got them laughed heartily. I suspect they were rather ribald but have no proof as I do not speak any of the Diné languages (or anything actually beyond these grunts here expressed). I had to ask and as the open-mic broke up, plead she tell me what a certain concept would translate as in Navajo. I explained my idea and she wrote four words in my notebook. Living where I do, I was able to quite quickly confirm, always with interpretations slightly different for that word translated, that the concept remains.

I had the name of my creek and do not bother looking up that word used. It will reveal nothing. I just needed at this point a yellow rabbit.

By the way, have I mentioned that I have an Underwood #5? Yeah, gonna clean it up someday (you know what day that is) and perhaps make a font based off the keys of this machine. I do use such a font when writing. It's called MyUnderwood and you'll have to look it up. I like it because, well, I fancy myself in my most secret fantasies as a pulp fiction writer typing furiously away into the dead of night, unhealthy habits spread about in disorganized fashion. Now, look at the fonts that you use when you write. Is there any romance there? It's the same with, say, a pistol. There are these functional yet bland and generic black boxes or there are flavored bits of beauty and design such as the Nagant or a Lightning, a Luger or the clean lines of a 1911. This is what I'm talking about... an aesthetic particular.

For me, the Underwood based font I use holds the same flavor for me. Times New Roman is busy and without feel. Courier and Ariel and Georgia or any of the other function scripts are as well without soul. No one in their right mind or out of it would drop to a tight script or debase themself in some comic conspiracy sans merit and while I have been accused of both being in and out of mind, not in that way. Finding this font for me, roughly around this time, fed without hold that fantasy I held. I mean, when the words appearing on your screen before you look pulled from an old typewriter like the one pounded to the adventures of barbarian kings, and with Basil Poledouris' soundtrack from 1982's "Conan the Barbarian" echoing off those empty spaces I keep polished in my skull for just that right acoustic effect, it's like Live Action Role Playing for writers!

It All Began With Shit (you'll get the joke someday)

I left a witch in a cave. I left her in a highly compromised position in a moment of darkness severe. I left in that cave a monster and more, but what I found in that cave has become one of the primary threads that flow through these stories, all the way back to the beginning, or at least near enough so. I say this because I have a story now, written July 4 2019 that confirms this. Oh yes, I do! By near enough, a delicious hint that has since rattled around in my mind will appear August 1st, 2018... and yes, this is as near linear as my thinking gets here. It's all focused on that cave though, at least the discovery I made there, and its first appearance was shit... literally. Trust me on this.

Also, this isn't about that. I mean, what is important here isn't just shit, but something ever so much more that when that witch took to the safety of that cave, I had no idea what would await her nor the ramifications that would mean insofar as the world I had to explore. When I speak of these Tales of the Bajazid as a history, that is exactly what it is. It is the history of this valley from its first taste of Man to now. As with a span so grand, a stage with so many sets, there are histories within histories waiting to be discovered. I know hints and hints only of this history beyond the earliest of these Tales yet to appear, and when I wrote about that witch, I knew nothing at all.

In late May and Early June of 2017, I was on fire. I had just finished five Tales and was on track for my goal. As well, I could feel the changes appearing in my work, in my thinking. It is true... the more you do something, more confident you get. With this pace increasing and seeing my stories now stacked proudly before me, 11 clasp-lock clear-front black document holders with something real culled from the abyss of my captured moments. My determination to continue was not wholly a willful consideration. At this point, a momentum had begun to develop and all who knew me wondered.

Seriously... I still hold that job I got the day I started my 3rd tale but I work distant from everyone else. I have learned that those within the business proper hold me in different considerations. One of those few within who I do speak with... and this is not for any distance but physical myself... one who gives me breaks often, has said I am considered "eccentric", which is nice. When I work the early, early mornings and the world is dark about upon arrival, some of the women I work with usually wait until a male employee shows up for safety in the darkened parking lot. I've heard it described to me that one woman always waits for the "crazy fuel guy" to show up before she feels safe. Hey, that's kinda a compliment...

I don't mind this. It's been this way my whole life. I get excited about that which excites me... the true definition of a Geek. What excites me are the dead people that populate my conversations every day... but that I did not talk about at first. It wasn't until the next January that the store as a whole knew there was something happening out in that little box outside. Before that, only those two I daily worked with and one young lady, an avid reader who has become my primary emotive content Reader. Her reactions the mornings after she's read my roughs gives me a good focus on what is working. As for the rest of the store, I was just the weird guy from fuel who used the same words as everyone else, but not always in the same order and whose perspective always seemed kitty-corner from right angles to what they saw. I'm used to it.

Oh, the reason why the store learned of what I was doing was because of what I finished that June. While that revelation was over half a year away, when it arrived, there was no disguising from my physical appearance that something significant had happened in my life. I was at work when the email came and, well, some of my customers were concerned at first for I was ever so pale, ever so flush at the same moment and yes, there is, I'm sure, surveillance video of me dancing a maddened jig. It could not be helped and any who have had this singular moment, their first acceptance and to a paying market, you will understand.

Everything became real the moment Weirdbook published "Kachina" in their issue #38. I was now a writer, an author. I had tasted something, a success personal and an acknowledgement of existence beyond all I'd known. Yes, it was that transformative to receive that first notification... and to think it was all because of what I found in that cave.

Looking for a safe place

 There are some things I want to talk about, need to talk about, but I also need to continue this year for the things I need and want to talk about were only just starting to be realized. The understandings were yet to come and the elements were building during this time. Things such as structures developing or the consistent flow of time and the interaction of people, things and themes through such. Artifacts had come into play, things dropped in certain stories and left to be found in others. A couple of characters were taking shape beyond the initial story where they appeared or were mentioned. These things are what I need and want to talk about, but I feel I need to get through just a couple of more to when I reach a critical point in the determination of the town.

I was making, and still do due to the goals which I have now become insistent on applying to myself, an effort to begin the next story as soon as I finished one. As soon as "Mercy Holds No Measure" was written, a story culminating in 1872, I turned my eyes to a time that yet hadn't been touched. While I had established the ages past and the town that stood, and I had journeyed to the late 20th Century and 14 years into the next, all the time between was an empty, blank slate.

Have I mentioned that I live in a ghost town and that my grandmother was raised in one. Her history, the photographs that fill albums, and a lifetime of living in those very places has given me some perspective on a lost chapter in American history. While the Roaring 20's and the years before are generally recalled through the lenses of artists experimenting, these depictions and the histories that come through leave an empty hole where lived those still at the crossroads of centuries.

There are little towns all over Arizona, as well as the Western States, tiny places without memories remaining that rose and perished long after men took at last to the skies. Towns like Copperopolis, McCabe, Gilbert (there are two in Arizona, one a bland suburb of Phoenix and the other a memory lost), and ever so many others dot the Bradshaws, sharing those mountains with the remains of the romanticized days before. There is very little romance to be found in these ruins, nothing to hint of dramatic days in a wilderness untamed. Instead, sad little places where desperate people set out with high hopes in what is now known as the Great Automobile Gold Rush... something so great that nobody seems keen on remembering it.

Being my great-grandfather was emblematic of that time, family lore and photographs keep it ever important to me. With this in mind, I started looking hard at that valley I was coming to know better and better with each moment I drifted off waiting for customers. It was during this investigation of the creek that I pondered an old cabin that rests upon the family property. It is an old stone house which once had a wooden structure, the barracks, attached to the back and larger than the primary structure. I do not recall the barracks, but I do have a memory of the building itself beyond the photos and sketches in our possession. The fact that I have this memory is odd because, like the new road which I remember seeing being built, that stone house was taken down by my father that year as now there were little children about. I was 2 years old.

Now, about this house, I've come to learn a bit or two about it. I know who lived here 110 years ago, his name and his odd collection of pets. These details are in a history published by a then summer resident whose family, at this point, boasts presence in this valley longer than any other than my own. Her history, "The Many Lives of the Lynx", names the owner of that house and supplies confirmation to what my grandmother would tell us... that the gentleman there kept the local skunks as pets, feeding them and caring for them. The book does not speak of him getting drunk and trying to shoot the doorknob off with his revolver. There are a lot of stories that are missing from that history, including most mention of my great-grandfather. He haunts the background of that community which had taken in a few seeking summer cabins, but apparently was not one invited to the house parties. His herd of boys though were mentioned, particularly as the primary reason for the existence of a school up there.

I've always liked having that old stone house, that collapsed pile of stones in rough order, around. I never really played in it as a kid, keeping from the piled stones but playing on the outskirts. There were admonitions always against exploring in a ruin because, well, at the very least, best damn place you can find for a hundred year old rusty nail. Besides, the following list is ever around: spiders (nasty ones), desert centipedes (really nasty), bark scorpions (okay, we're just gonna slowly back away) and a nice collection of rattlesnakes of diverse species (yup, just not gonna do it). I did not go into old ruins as a child.

Eugene Parker was so admonished, his uncle ever so insistent any old structures found must never be approached. Problem was, Eugene lived in Jasper, a small mining community that had sprung up on the lower Bajazid where chaparral dominated before the pines took hold. It was a small place, only a couple dozen structures spread out without any common center or community focus, the type of place inhabited by those staking their lives and their meager fortunes on the possibility that the prospectors of days gone by missed something significant. Jasper was just such a place, too small to matter and not big enough to be cared about.

Still, life goes on and children must learn. Still, the truths that repeat always do and the sins of the fathers influence pass on. Frankie Stenoyer had learned his father's lessons well and considered Eugene, frail behind his spectacles, practice. Eugene just needed a safe place to hide.

There are still skunks up here where I live and I often wonder if some of my well-dressed neighbors descend from those semi-tame animals of a century before. None of them have ever confirmed it and usually when we meet while I'm out walking, they skirt me warily while doing some interesting balancing acts. A detente would best describe the relationship I have with these guys.

Eugene's uncle, one Eric Parker, impressed me in this Tale. He really stood up and made himself known. I've since learned that his grandfather was the oldest member of the Mortenson Party and it was some while before I learned more about old Simon and why his children never inherited. It's selfish and tragic and someday I'll tell that tale, but Eric, well, there is more to his story. He is one of the six hobos who I am now listening to for the rather novel piece I'm working on.

As for what came of those studies that May of 2017, it has been accepted by Weirdbook and will see publication before long. No dates yet on when this one will be available, that publication smartly preparing ahead, but I can assure you that a subscription to that anthology will ensure that you learn what happens in "A Safe Place to Hide" (6,983 words). The ramifications of this particular Tale not only touch upon my current work, but has opened up for me one of my favorite characters, the Butterfly Man... someone who now dominates the stories of this century.