All Dogs go to... oops

I really don't know how to say this so I'm just going to admit my guilt here and let things fall as they may.

Pretty much every anthology series that I see posting for submission has one thing in common in their things they do not want and that is violence against children and/or animals.

Um, at this point I'm guilty of both quite a few children in these Tales and there has been a healthy toll taken on the imaginary animal kingdom as well. All such victims in these Tales are of story necessity and none lingering of glory. I mean, if the story is about a boy running from bullies into a place he shouldn't have or a tragic accident at a church camp outing, that is what the story is about. Same as goes for animals in these stories. A gopher hole will do wonders on a horse's leg and what the heck do you think is going to happen to a mule tethered to a tree and forgotten? Hey, it's not like I write this... oh wait, I do.

Well, it is only in the service of the Tale and werewolves don't tiptoe quietly past nurseries nor do monsters under the bed exist only to tickle toes.

Then one day that December of 2018 I saw a call from a publisher I had worked with before under the theme "Creatures" and I got really messed up there for about a day. See, it became imperative that this was the next story to write and it wanted hard to be written. The problem was is, I was having serious trouble of interpreting the role of the "creature" in question.

Now I realize looking back on it that the decision should have been an obvious one with the answer being some sort of creature that does horrible things. There were a couple of problems with this though. I was at this point 34 stories into these collected Tales. and while there were creatures of import showing up, to this point, there were no horrific, monstrous creatures of a beastly as opposed to undead quality known to be running around the Bajazid. Thus there was this absence leaving me in a quandary... the notion that the concept of a creature should be significant as well as unique.

On the other hand, I could not get the idea of the story being about a creature.. and that is where I contemplated first my crime. See, if I were writing in any of the multiple genres which could allow a learning experience or a happy moment to finish a story, then no doubt the idea of the primary character being that creature sought, an innocent animal of no special merit, is a damn good one. Thing is, I write Weird with, yes, a pretty heavy emphasis on the old Horror... which is not a very good starting point to come from when considering a faithful companion, a beloved friend, a dear doggie of everyday means and endless capacity for love. The possibility of such a joyous, or even slightly sad outcome registers as a big, huge NOPE.

Yeah, uh, what the heck was I going to do? Now I must give credit here for though I remember not the details, I know that at the end of the exchange I knew who that "creature" was and what those "creatures" were. I've mentioned before a wonderful woman who has put up with my stream of consciousness constant recitation of these details working themselves out. Serious trooper on that! Again, I don't remember exactly how it washed out, but I knew I'd met that dog that had been chasing its tail in the dim light of my early confusion and it was true. By the end of that conversation, I realized I'd seen those birds before too... only they were looking a bit more ragged than last time I saw them. That injustice was twisted with her help.

One of the Sultans appearing briefly, a Mr. Sam Arn, had a dog and that dog is mentioned, not by name, but just as existing in "The Woman in the Tree". The submission call which I was obsessing over was from the same press who published that story earlier in the year. It kinda all seemed to fit together there all of a sudden and before I knew it, "What it Feels Like to be Hunted" was off in the email where those little electronic mailmen (and mailwomen) work through sleet and snow and poor connections and trolls (I am getting this right, yes?) to ensure safe delivery.

Yes, the 7th story I sold was one which featured a dog being hunted, from the dog's point of view, by things that shouldn't be able to hunt and it is not a happy story, which makes me all the more proud of it. Seriously, this was a fun write as soon as I found the voice. It was almost as if I was playing fetch with ideas and suddenly Punch leapt up and grabbed it, and even though he had to spit it out again, that brief taste got me going. In a matter of just a few frantic days, it was the holiday week, I was able to chew out 3,472 words bringing me to 16 Tales finished so for the year, four above my goal with three so far finished that month.

This press closed and while I have a copy of the very beautifully done book, as do other contributors, these are all that exist. I do not know where this story will show up next, but it is theme linked. It is part of, due to the origins of this little love story to our four-legged friends, the events that took place on Christmas Eve 1871. This is a pleasant little side adventure off of that fortuitous night, a reminder that up here on the Bajazid, it is not just the end that matters, but all the small bites that get you there.

Preparation is Essential

 "For the Dolls Had Eyes" instantly became a sensation with those haunts crowding for my attention the moment the last words were typed out. Dawn, well, shy as she is, stepped back into those shadows she is most comfortable in. All the other haunts demanded another of the same and I was game. They were screaming for her to speak up, tell us some detail, something she remembered in that strange life she led. No, she would not respond, locking herself tight in her hovel and hearing none of it.

There was one who was hearing it; Jonathon Kearns. When it became obvious she had nothing more to say, his lanky form shoved its way to the fore and demanded all be quiet. When the ruckus of insults hurled died down, he declared... he always declared, never just said... that he would be willing to share such a story of her which he remembered well. It was of a night shortly before that one which saw his flock migrate through the mountain to his fortress in the wilderness. It was the night in which he made the "Necessary Arrangements" needed for his exodus.

"Necessary Arrangements" followed fast "For the Dolls Had Eyes" becoming the second story finished for December and the month was yet halfway through. Being that this was my third story past my goal was an added bonus. I was on a roll and this story came out as if the Patriarch were speaking as I typed. This Tale did flesh the old bastard out some... and yes, that is a dinner joke well unrelated. It was my first actual foray in this character I initially thought I was going to have serious trouble dealing with direct. It turns out, I'm gonna be having some fun in the future.

I also got a good look at the Patchwork Witch, something that is sure to amuse. In fact, just go to HellBound Books and pick up a copy of Shopping List 4. I'm the first story in there which is kind of neat 'cause it's the first story anyone is most likely to read just picking the book up. Besides, it will come in handy. You're gonna want to trust me on this.

"Necessary Arrangements" was born of a line tossed in amongst that mix of hinted history throughout "For the Dolls Had Eyes". The idea for such a night and an abandonment of the moon just when I needed it came together for an evening's entertainment of 4,503 words of escalating uncertainty (mainly because I'm uncertain how much more I should say). I will say that the dynamic established between these two, the Patriarch and the Patchwork Witch, is one I like. That they are what they are, including consideration of the changes life brings about, makes it all the more interesting to look deeper into some of those rumors I've heard mention of since "Necessary Arrangements" was written.

The Patchwork Witch

 There are some stories that begin and just develop a life of their own. This is one of them.

Now, I had the idea of the Patchwork Witch at this point already, a consideration at the time for a story "Outside the Circle of Midnight Black". False starts and bad ideas left this as nothing more than one of the vague haunts barely seen amongst the host that crowded for attention. There was still something missing to realize this particular individual.

One element I think I should set forth here, something which connected as I was wondering aloud (to the annoyance of those around me) about this uncertain personage. That was a hint dropped in "The Witch of Pitt's Junction" about the tragedy the Kearns Family left behind in Baird's Holler the night they fled through the ore tunnel to Pitt's Junction. All I knew for sure, drawing on this and what little existed at this point on Jonathon Kearns, was that after he left Baird's Holler, Delores Jackson and her boarders were no more.

I had not aligned this incident in any considerations at this point to that haunt eluding me. She remained without any anchor, anything to connect her soul to so that I may learn who she was. She was just an empty skin until that inspiration filled her full and complete. Fresh off the completion of "Tears in Green Satin", I was yet miffed at the attempt that had been made at my daughter and her mother. The filling of that flesh was immediate and I knew who was waiting to have their story told.

I gotta confess, the name hearkens back to a story I wrote in college, a short little tale of a young man trying to build up the courage to ask a girl to the prom as his buddies urge/egg him on. There was a line which existed in that, with the girl's name being Dawn, wherein I described her coming into the room in a manner exhibited by a rising sun. Well, as this Tale I was now embarking on, that name, that line sparked in my head at the appropriate time.

Now, I'd relied on almanacs before, mostly checking to see when there were full moons. Hunting up lunar eclipses was a little deeper down that rabbit hole. I swear, I don't know what it is, but I've gotten into some really lucky situations here. To make her the right age, to tie significant events to her life to, to even attach by luck a lunar eclipse to the year the widows in Mrs. Jackson's house burned, I just kept getting lucky. I couldn't bring myself to just call them lunar eclipses though. That's just kinda boring. Oh, you can check these too. I don't want any astronomers pissed at me for screwing something like this up.

This really did help expand and explain what has been going on at Mrs. Jackson's better than any story yet. While Dr. Raymond Paulk and Col. William Nesmith both have stories they've hinted at, and so has Percy Clark insofar as Delores' character, "For the Dolls Had Eyes" was the closest I've peeked yet through those drawn, lace curtains into what is going on in that house. Trust me, I am still very interested and even now, over two years from the finishing of this Tale, I have only been given glimpses through those curtains laced with the stain of animosity.

As I've mentioned, this Tale, "For the Dolls Had Eyes", once I found the voice and knew what was whispered at her birth, the story just poured out. My research was intense, mostly though in chasing moons and looking at google earth images of the Green Mountains in Vermont so as to make sure no one there would get pissed reading this. Got lucky here as well.

"For the Dolls Had Eyes" established what has become to this date one of my most visible characters, even though that thought would not sit well with her. This Tale, at 4,652 words, was finished in the first half of December, 2018, bringing me now to 14 stories completed. With this Tale, I was able to establish a timeline within the town's history, as well as connections which would come back immediately to haunt me. Ultimately, the importance of this Tale, both in the threads which connect it to some of the more important events in the history of this town, has grown significantly. It has established a pattern and timeline for the filling of the Widow's House as well as the seeds of its destruction. It has given me a magnificent character, one whose fate extends into a potential that only tempts. Seriously, what can a sawbuck get you on a good day when luck is high?

"For the Dolls Had Eyes" was published by Madness Heart Press in their Trigger Warning : Body Horror anthology. This was my 6th acceptance and trust me, I was beyond excited. Having come to know this publishing company and those behind it, I am now pleased as punch to be in such company. Again, luck keeps playing out for me in these little Tales of mine... Someday soon I'm going to tell you a (mostly) true story about a man who hitchhiked with his two young children during the Great Depression all the way from Florida to Arizona.

I just needed to make some Necessary Arrangements to get things right though...

Life Hack : Never Piss Off An Author

 I could not sit still. My goals were reached, my time well earned at hand, but I could not sit still. There was something that was on my mind which had been festering since early August that at this point had risen to where I could not ignore it. I got sucked into a pointless drama by the mother of my daughter through a phone call one evening from someone I did not know demanding personal information on my then14 year old daughter claiming that I would be in serious legal jeopardy if I did not comply. I think my reply singed her ears and my return call was to ensure I had it on record that she was not to bother me or my daughter in any way, shape or form.

See, and this is the part that I did not want to know but got sucked in to, my daughter's mother is an easy mark. She suffered a traumatic brain injury in the accident that brought my daughter to my house. That year was really rough for her as about 4 months after her accident, her brother passed. Then, late January, her 20 year old cat passed and I had to bury it. A month and a half later, just as I was getting ready to drive back up to Prescott, we get news of her father passing and that led to a few years of me taking care of his properties and helping to sort 4 generations of stuff out... 'cause she can't. Then, well, mid-April, her dog dies. Yup, it was a rather rough year.

The next year saw a frozen pipe flood her father's house and she was taken advantage of quite quickly by a "contractor", her critical thinking skills and her emotional state being very weak still. I have a photo of him as he was walked in cuffs from that house explaining the pants he was wearing were not his but he found them at the job site the night before and he has no idea why there was that meth in the pocket... or why he had taken to living in this house and selling the property of this disabled woman. When I drove down from Prescott the night before to check on her concerns and found his sleeping nest and what he was doing, I set the place up as a trap and the next morning sent him to jail.

I speak this not to disparage her, but to note that this is an ongoing issue, one which, as she is the mother of my beloved daughter, I am bound to forever be on guard for. She suffered a loss in her accident, one which she tries to push past but she falls easy to the kind words of those who would take advantage of her. She is an easy mark and up to this point, I had saved her property, both the house she had owned for 20 years as well as her father's property, from attempts to scam them out from under her. It was about to happen again only with a concerted effort from a pair who I would discover had a long history of litigation over properties, including between each other.

I am not certain if it was set up this way or if this guy was really just this low, but his guy meets my ex through a dating site and hounds her... good looking guy with flashy car and owns a couple houses. After seeing him about a month, a woman calls her and tells her to back off and that he's her fiance. This has my ex baffled and lost as this guy keeps pursuing her and this woman keeps threatening her. I am uncertain whether this was their game or this was their relationship, but the next thing I know, I'm getting this strange call one evening demanding I relate ever instance my daughter has been at her mother's over the last year, to start. That was when I asked what was going on.

It turns out this couple were filing suits against my daughter's mother with an aim on acquiring her properties. The claims of damages were outlandish with one such being that this woman, who fancies herself a Romance Novelist, lost out on a million dollar book deal because of harassing non-stop phone calls she claimed were coming in during her meeting. Um, a million dollar book deal for an unpublished author? She claimed she lost her job and that her 20something son spends his nights in fear of this disabled woman who doesn't drive and can barely walk. I drove her to her legal counsel. The suits were dismissed with damages. My daughter's mother and her property were safe once again and hopefully my karma pool... 

Fuck it! I was pissed! The scam they were playing was one thing and I am glad I was able to intervene. As soon as I was told the details, things got set to rights. I'm not claiming all credit here, it's just that she was floundering alone until I helped point her and, well, keep her calm. That feeling of good though was not in any way satisfying after receiving a call such as I did. I'm sorry, but hearing someone claiming they are representing themselves in a court case and threatening you with legal action if you don't divulge personal information about your minor child is just not something that was going away easy. It ate at me. It really did.

Okay, I saw a shirt once as I was seeking a seat at my preferred local Starbucks. Occasionally amongst those who would sit with their computers doing either work-work or school-work or just screwing around, there would be one that it was easy to identify as a writer working on his stories... aside from me, that is. See, I have a cap, not a baseball style, but think of Samuel L. Jackson only without the limitless cool. This guy had a fedora... big give-away! The other big give-away is the t-shirt I usually see him in with a legend on it reading "Don't piss me off - I'll write you into one of my stories". Going on that, I figure he's doing what I'm doing only less subtly. That shirt though, that sentiment...

I traded in some of those karma points.

I had, after that call, become familiar with who was behind it. The claim of losing a million dollar sale for a first time romance novel got me to take a look at this work to see just what a million dollar first time sale of a ... misspelled title and a synopsis? Oh, look, of course that name is spelled that way...

"Tears in Green Satin" is not what you just pronounced in your head while reading. It is not "tears", but "tears". Got it? Good... that's all the explanation that needs 'cause one makes sense and one just doesn't regardless of how neat it sounds. You can still play the Moody Blues in your head while reading, though I'd recommend some Procol Harum with maybe a dash of Iron Maiden as well, you know, in keeping with the theme.

This was a cathartic rush to write and it did exceed the 5,000 word limit by 507 words. I tried to whittle it down further, but couldn't squeeze it any tighter. It works though and I decided right away I wasn't going to beat myself up over a mere 507 words. Besides, it was November and during my two months of slack, I found myself failing in the simple fact that this story appeared. I mean, I was at 13 for the year and standing strong in strange new territory. I'll take that little victory over a paltry handful of words any day.

I found a terrible person and terrible people make good templates, especially in Tales designed without the hope of a happy ending. I excised the boil that had been festering in my mind since that night, allowing a release without repercussions. I take it this is one of the unspoken advantages that comes with being a writer of weird fiction, that grievances can be turned into something positive by simply, well, following inspirations. In this case, I got a nice little character study into greed and pride as well as a spot in What Monsters Do For Love Part II by Soteira Press, 

One fun little thing, this character existed before this drama came into my life. In "The Fairies of Esmy" appearing in The Monsters We Forget Part II by Soteira Press, there are some glimpses seen such as the woman in the green dress. "The Fairies of Esmy" was written six months before "Tears in Green Satin". All throughout these stories are such hints dropped and with each story written, more things are left lying about. It is through picking up these lost things that I believe this valley of mine shall ever be rich for that which I mine. This is how this is working... these hints just need the right nudge to blossom full.

The Value of Damnation

 This might be a good time to talk about that silly idea I had the year before of expanding the ending of the town through a five day nightmare as told between a single novel whose chapters are interspersed with short stories relating other related or non-related events taking place in that town through that difficult time. Yeah, that silly idea.

Well, roughly about midway through summer, I burned out about 9,000 more words following directly from where Chapter 1, "Thomas Lundmeir's Splitting Headache", had left off. While the total combined was together over 16,000, I realized that this was not sustainable in that said chapters, if at that length, would just be nightmarishly huge if unchecked. Being these 9,000 words begin a distinct change in the direction of the production of the day, it made sense to ensure that this was so. Thus the work done during the Summer of 2018 on "Circle of Midnight Black" earned its own distinction as Chapter 2, "The Value of Damnation".

This takes Thomas Lundmeir to a decision beyond his control, one which serves to determine the future of Baird's Holler as well as sets up the events for "All Dreams Must Conclude".

This post is really just a progress report, you know, a catching up now that the goals of the year were set with two months of time to waste before thoughts of even starting a new story should even begin to appear. Yup, 2017 had shown me well... hit your goal and then sit back and piss away your momentum. At least I have this slowly evolving thing in the background to prattle on about...

Butterflies and Moonbeams

 This story for me is big. It defined, at least in one of two primary trajectories, the 20th Century history of the Bajazid Valley. It also introduced to me, or discovered amongst my supporting casts, a new star to illuminate the nightmare skies with. It gave me the Butterfly Man.

I had at this point, October of 2018, 29 stories under my belt with a decent portion taking place within the 20th Century and later. Those Tales, while each in some way called out to other stories, had not formed into any specific narrative or character arc of their own. There were plans, but those mostly involved revisiting those who witnessed what happened to Timmy Carmichael. With that being the 1990s and beyond, the 20th was turning out to be just hints of a mine in the 20s, a small community called Jasper as well, the continuation of the community of Bezer and hints that there was an interesting old man up there who promised to tell me his story but has been hiding out and it's starting to get me annoyed 'cause that was gonna really load up post-1960. Other than that, just stories of why this valley isn't the best place to pitch a tent.

At this point I was at a loss on how to approach the Kearns family living in Bezer. "The Fairies of Esmy" had left a very dark future promised and while there were story ingredients in place, none were ready to pop in the oven. This has become, through a cast member from that story, one of the primary 20th Century story arcs that have now developed and Millicent Flores Kearns is just... I just know that there are people like her even without the influence that plays in her life. I have a real monster on my hands here, but these horrors are for elsewhere. There is another cast member elevated that needs to be discussed.

If you travel back in time a few decades, there was this truck-stop diner just outside of Ashfork Arizona on Route 66 before Interstate 40 roared past and rendered it the relic it is now. I remember eating there as a child and I have a really nice photo of its ruins from a visit through a few years past. Seriously, a visit through is the deal here. It was in the ruins of this place, operating as it had before forgotten, that I heard in my musing while strolling in the creek a tale from an old man a few stools down. The more I listened each night as I burned a cigarette beneath the stars, the more I learned who this guy was. The exploits he mentioned, those whom he had brought up to this valley over the years, indicated that he was well known to the place. Squinting in that waking dream that is the creative space in action, I recognized this old biker speaking to me from that diner in the mid-1980s and dared he prove me wrong.

It was he, all right. Frankie Stenoyer, the lead bully of those three that chased poor Eugie Parker home from school forcing him to seek "A Safe Place to Hide". I started doing the math and sure enough, that was Frankie all right. I honestly hadn't expected to see him again as the primary trails leading from that Tale hinted at Eugies' uncle, Eric Parker. I was surprised and asked him what he'd been doing all those years and he called me an idiot... worse actually, but that type of language is just wrong when used out of context and he abandoned all such pretense at that within two words. He had to use quite a few in fact to just simply let me know that was what he had been trying to do this whole time. I replied that I was pretty sure he was just trying to pick up the waitress forcing an admission of such as well.

See, these ideas Frankie had been putting in my head were of this fellow who brought folk up to the Bajazid where...

Nah, you'll like this one and I'm just gonna say that "Butterflies and Moonbeams", in at 5,003 words (a later edit edged it just slightly), establishes the basis now for the 2nd primary 20th Century story arc, one which, like Millie's, spans most that time and allows for nearly limitless possibilities. This story, "Butterflies and Moonbeams" is responsible now for three others directly reflective in title with an absolute logjam of potential Tales waiting impatiently their turn.

As for this story, it was fun to write and I hope it is fun to read. It will be available in an upcoming issue of Weirdbook. I do hope you enjoy the soundtrack that hopefully will sneak into your subconscious while reading this, and yes, you'll be saying that phrase for just long enough to annoy those who remember it. I'm sorry about that, but it's gonna happen. Just really enjoy this story and keep your Weirdbook subscription going. You'll like the loop.

Also, I want to apologize to the grand and magnificent City of Ashfork, Arizona. Please consider the, er, considerations therein as creative license for the edification of this story. Or please, consider it enough that you do not put up a poster of me with reward offered. I occasionally drive up to Williams and really don't want to have to take the Sedona-Flagstaff extra-long way.

One last note... "Butterflies and Moonbeams" marked the completion of my goal of 12 stories for the year and that Tale was completed towards the end of October leaving me, like the year before, with two months of nothing to do. You know, free time in which to gather my thoughts and waste time. I was prepared to do my best...

In the Traditions of Great Scientific Progress...

 Playing in the realm of Horror, in the speculative spaces of the Weird, one is always tempted to try their hand at those grand standards of the classic Universal stable. Dracula, the Mummy, the Wolfman, Creature of the Black Lagoon... the reanimated body, Dr. Victor Frankenstein's monster. This is very dangerous territory to be tempted into, one which, well, it is just too damned tempting!

I have sought to resist this urge as best I can. For example, zombies are an ever-present... and changing... creature to feature. Their aspect of late seems not to do with the outre, supernatural curses and invocations, but generally some virus, either created in a lab, a mutation of nature, or the fallback standard of some space spore arrived somehow. They tend to prefer a specific palette for reasons that really make no gastronomical sense. They are also extremely limber, able to ward off the effects of stiffening cells with unending endurance.

You don't find these up on the Bajazid.

Vampires are today another tough one to touch, outside the fact that they are ticklish and prefer not to be touched. With the profusion of different fanged undead inhabiting creased pages or electronic color palettes (only memories it seems remain of those shadows on silver screens in these days of distancing), what is left? As of yet, I know of no such seeker of simply blood up on the Bajazid, though I fear it would not go well for such happening to arrive from outside. That Which Damned has tricked Gods before... and as you can see, there are things I've been hearing, whispers from those visitors at my bedside.

Oh, the lycanthropes! Don't we all just want to play with, or gosh and golly, be a furry half-person prancing around in our furry skin and howling at the moon... or maybe curling up to purr... after ripping a complete stranger apart and feasting on their flesh? Or maybe, you know, just write about a shape-shifter? Yeah, thing is, tricky road there. For one, if you try, as I was tempted to look at due to local geography, the concept of the "skin walker", a Navajo legend, then you're looking to fail conceptually. It did not take much research to realize this is one that does not belong in the realm of lycanthropy nor under any pen not touching carefully. As for the classic werewolf and attendant were-creatures, it seems a tricky venture always because of, like the vampire and zombie, such depth of interpretation that finding a comfortable or original (either would work) concept beyond cliche is a tough nut I've yet to crack. I have no doubt that perhaps such may be on the Bajazid, either originated there unique or having wandered in, but I have heard no rumors as of yet.

There is no sea or natural body of water that would offer harbor for any creatures of aquatic means. I mean, this is on a mountaintop at the edge of one of the great deserts of the world. This as well prevents me from even daring to play with Lovecraft's dear delight so beloved of pastiche. Hell, I dare Cthulhu to try to reign here... I'm sure the coyotes would enjoy some stale seafood before the desert sands render it but a cosmic memory. The Bajazid is a place unique and thus any introductions from beyond, such as wandering wolfmen or children of the night, let alone wayward elder things, would be here the victims.

Now, I have played with zombies and other diverse undead. Mummies are really quite common and basically, just very stale zombies. The Strawman does qualify as such in his own unique way. I have discovered that one of my favorite characters is basically a Wendigo, that discovery made after his introduction... and after That Which Damned determined his distinct course (that's all three, by the way). Mama Death, a zuvembie, that most wonderful addition to the world of the undead by Robert E. Howard, is a very well known inhabitant of these valleys as well. I even know where there is an unborn female child, stilled and buried in the womb... These are all minor players on the edges of Horror, generally comfortable that the others are getting the limelight and thus they get to retain their mystery.

I have no idea what to do with wolfmen and vampires on the Bajazid though and really have kept my thoughts from such as much as possible (writing up above was distracting enough).

What is the other big one from the prime Universal trilogy? Ah yes, Frankenstein's monster! Or, if we look at the nature and genre specific which that story spawned, the mad scientist and his perverse creation. Well, I at first saw no possible application for such here on the Bajazid, no possible means for such to occur for the stretch of the town was between 1867 and 1990... in a frontier mining town. Knowing that there were no more modern establishments in that valley beyond the 1930s, and those being rudimentary structures and one company mine with a seriously hard labor relations issue, there just wasn't any logical place for a mad scientist's lab or an ancient castle. It seemed this tree was dead, knocked over, half-rotten and definitely not one worth barking over.

Sigh...

Now, back when I was just a wee little kid in the early 1970s, every Saturday morning, after the cartoons turned crappy, came the local channel's movie line-up. You know, Action Theater and Adventure Theater and just lots of action and adventure theater. My favorite was called World Beyond and they hosted mostly 1950s schlock horror films, which was perfect for a child to absorb... like that one with all the arms and legs on the walls that haunted me for years. As I grew older, well, I was never one for the 80s slasher fads, be it killers in masks or puppets on a rampage though the cultural absorption of the reanimation of the dead was long seared into my cells. It wasn't until I met my wine-selling Lovecraft-pusher friend that the story of Herbert West joined direct into my understandings in association with Victor Frankenstein insofar as importance to this legacy. These two fellows are just tops!

Um, as these stories progressed, I became more familiar with how the town rose, how quick and violent. Knowing the possibilities of what was available even in such frontier places... Tombstone had fresh seafood shipped from the Sea of Cortez!... opportunities began appearing. See, in my very first story, "Where Lies Hope", I made mention of a few in the background. Two of those mentioned, not by name, were the two doctors attending this family in their crisis. One was a private physician and the other, the company doctor. Within the year of the first tragedy to hit the Goff household, the company doctor was alone in his puzzlement as to what had returned. This doctor was mentioned as well in "I'll Always be With You, Boys", a passing comment that cemented the identity of this company doctor. He never left my mind.

In September of 2018, as I was struggling with restoring life to a Tale born dead, that doctor came knocking, asking if he could help in this process. I chastised him saying that considering his magnificent, well, after what he did, I would do this myself. Seriously, the guy could set a bone... or saw through one... as good as any, er, sawbones with battlefield experience and a curious mind. I just, well, Mengyao's journey was his and Raymond Paulk, he had his own journey, one which he all of a sudden just started pouring out. Seriously, the guy was non-stop. I was trying hard, real hard to bring "All Dreams Must Conclude" to where it is now, but all the while I was doing this, Dr. Paulk just wouldn't stop telling me what he discovered in the notes left him by the other physician, a rather flamboyant individual who has yet to reveal himself beyond what is seen in the result of Paulk's constant badgering though there is historical precedent at that time in Arizona for someone of such eccentricity and disposable wealth... a template who gave name to the Phoenix risen in the desert below.

 "The Obsession of Doctor Paulk" is the narrative badgered to me as I was trying to do respectable work. I honestly cannot fault the good doctor for his insistence as it has given me this most delightful story. A great history of the town is revealed here as well as a host of characters known elsewhere making sure Paulk's story is rich and well expanded. This allowed me, beyond the horrors of the plague that swept through the year following the discovery of the fungus that took Hugh Goff and his family, a wide range of influences to add to this Tale. The Widow Jackson, last seen in "Twelve-Thirtyfour" strengthens her legacy and good old Percy and Marcus stop by as well, or are visited in truth. Others, not named (but with known numbers, according to Percy) are seen as well, including some of the vaunted Sultans. Indeed, Paulk's social and professional routines made him a rather well known individual, enough to belay any considerations beyond those known.

He just didn't pay attention to one thing...

"The Obsession of Doctor Paulk" will be released in the upcoming anthology Lovecraft in a Time of Madness by Sentinel Creatives. The production for this release looks amazing and I am truly excited for what is coming.

Oh, this Tale ended in a funny way which I did not plan. When I was satisfied with my edits, I looked to my word count to see where I was and what I needed to do to get to the limit I had set for myself and realized I was at 5,000 words exactly. "Waiting For Ants" as well ended on this number and with that as well, I was not trimming but looked up and said "Oh!" (I might have added a little to that knowing my inner vocabulary). This challenge I had given myself to write within that limit was proving itself as these Tales were basically appearing right where they needed to be. To this point, 11 stories into my goal of 12, not one had exceeded that limit. I guess practice and setting goals do have some merit. I mean, seriously, who would have guessed?

The Story of an Opium Dream

 "The Story of an Opium Dream" exists now only as a single file hidden away somewhere dark that no one will ever find. It does exist but none shall ever see it as long as I live. Why? Because it sucked and it sucked root. It didn't just suck, it did so in a way that made my initial rereading of it want me to abandon all reading forever. I was dumbstruck with how dry and dull and just without any pretense of soul this story had. But, and there is always that but, I had written it and could not abandon it, especially since what occurs within had already been hinted at elsewhere. As well, the established time for this event to occur would place it roughly at the end of the 2nd chapter of "Circle of Midnight Black". So, while having invested an awful lot of time and an awful lot of research into this Tale begun late August, 2018, I was left with a soulless and clunky piece that I felt very poorly about. What was I to do?

Well, first of all, another idea sparked as I was finishing this abomination and this was a damn exciting idea that came along. So, not wanting to mope over something that seemed at a loss, I jumped right into "The Obsession of Doctor Paulk", a delightful and fun story which occupied the active spaces of my creativity for the remainder of September. Thing is, regardless how much fun I was having stitching Dr. Paulk's little obsession together, I could not get Xue Mengyao out of my mind. The damn lazy bastard, and yes, this is an accurate description of him, was actively haunting me. This meant that for the remainder of that month, my mind was split between sawing bones and rewriting life into a Tale too dull.

Um, I'm going to say this worked as like "Twelve-Thirtyfour", this received the same conditioned acceptance. With "All Dreams Must Conclude" occurring as well "Outside the Circle of Midnight Black" and my plans for such beginning to spread, these two Tales I held in reserve. That acknowledgement though assures me that where Dr. Paulk only met a middling amount of what might be called success, my experiment here to revive a Tale pronounced dead at completion worked. Each time I travel these tunnels now with Mengyao, something I actually do quite a bit for within this story are clues needed for, well, those who might want to go looking.

I went line by line through "The Story of an Opium Dream" and rewrote the entire story. While there are lines inspired which remain, the overall effect is a near complete rewrite, the first that I have done. I had been horribly unsatisfied with what was and when I look at the passages now and how they read, life is exactly what was brought in. Where that first telling almost reads as chunks of dull exposition meant to pile in information, "All Dreams Must Conclude" brinks Mengyao to life and tells his story, his desperation.

"All Dreams Must Conclude" has become a story far more important than it originally was meant to be. This character, he was not also unique to this Tale when it appeared in either form. Indeed, he had been met before, the Fairy King himself. It was to that end which I was writing in the first place, knowing that this truth must be satisfied. That this would extend beyond has surprised me. In fact, it is this story that I am using right now, along with "Child of the Earth", to dictate where my dear friends Ferris White and Hernán Rios are as they travel deeper down those tunnels in the project that I am working on right now (and where I freely admit I blew my January deadline).

Like with "Kachina" and "Beesh Gah Beesh", "Shanga-ree" and all those Tales which employ words beyond the general usage in American popular culture, I had do to a lot of research in the opening production. I needed to know where Mengyao came from, which provinces in China were experiencing what social and environmental upheavals and even the distinctions of pipes used in diverse regions. Here I learned about the history of the Credit Ticket system and how it was ruled as slavery in 1878. I learned that Prescott was the center of the Arizona Territory opium trade. Hell, I learned an absolute shitload preparing for this story. That I honestly think is the reason the first draft was so dull... I was transcribing rather than telling.

Some of the information that went into this, stuff I learned or was reinforced in memory...

There were a few horrible internal wars going on in China at that time. With the Taiping Rebellion winding down in the years of Mengyao's birth, the Dungan Rebellion and at least two others made sure that the bodies on the ground were always fresh and that childhood play was always at risk of interruption.

The province from which Mengyao comes from allowed me my greatest flexibility both in regionally acceptable names as well as being subject to the greatest external insults.

The massive famine that occurred in China during the late 1870s, the result of a rather strong El Niño effect, would not only have added to Mengyao's potential woes but gives plausible reason for the existence of the blizzard which covered my little valley in the last days of 1877 and through the first months of 1878. This is one of my biggest lucky moments of all the happy accidents which have chased me through these Tales... that my blizzard would/could have been and some meteorologist somewhere reading one of these stories won't dismiss it out of hand. That has seriously been one of my concerns.

Yeah, the whole Credit Ticket bit is a blight on this Nation. Now, add that system to the corruptions of the Bajazid Valley and, well, coerced labor is still slavery.

Did you know that different regions of China preferred different styles of opium pipes? You would be amazed at the number of images of such I downloaded in order to study for this story. Hell, the number of accounts I read from opium users was near overwhelming. Mind you, this was not something I was going to try for research purposes and thus that research. I'm a stoner. I don't do drugs.

I do have to say that while I am portraying a Chinese man in 1890 as an opium addict, this is not for superficial reasons. There is historical basis for this as well as the elements in his story to establish his behavior and reasons. He seriously is on the wrong end of the old luck stick his life through and this is his only escape... maybe. In no way am I portraying anyone beyond this singular individual within the circumstances he finds himself.

As for the influence of Chinese immigrants to this nation, we would be so much poorer without. In truth, and this is evidenced by the series Warrior on Showtime, there is a rich history all throughout the United States of Chinese influence, and not just working the mines and the railroads. This is something that this nation would be wise to illuminate because it just adds to the tapestry of this nation, one so often seen only in monochromatic schemes.

I finished "All Dreams Must Conclude" at the end of September, 2018. It ran 4,902 words, roughly 700 less than the original draft had crammed into it. I finished it the same day I did "The Obsession of Doctor Paulk", the lively and fun Tale I was rattling off as I was making my surgical cuts to bring this to life. This meant that at this point I was, with the completion of these two tales, now but one month away from my goal of 12 Tales complete and I had still three months to go. As "All Dreams Must Conclude" was begun first, this is labeled in my lists as the 28th Tale of the Bajazid while Doctor Paulk's little obsession is the 29th.

MCCXXXIV

 In the very first Tale which I took to pen, "Where Lies Hope", there was within that a fungus of desperate degrees. It has appeared, only hinted at so far, in other tales, specifically in "I'll Always be With You, Boys". This fungus leads to a determinitive and important event in the history of Baird's Holler, particularly the trials that were suffered in the winter of 1875 through '76. It was during these months, from November through to the following April, that the fungus found in Hugh Goff's house spread throughout that booming community with horrific effects. "Twelve-Thirtyfour" will be my first foray into discussing what the citizens of Baird's Holler would come to refer to as the Black Throat. While this plague does not encompass the story, it is inspiritive of its genesis. The ramifications of that plague and the necessities it established do make possible this Tale as the existence of such labor needed would have required such a winter even in such unforgiving land.

Death was ever-present in the mining towns that dotted the American West during the later 1800s. Most, even those vanished beyond trace, hold graves if not actual cemeteries. When the land reclaims from men their buildings and their bones, not always do there remain even hints that man once bent their bones to build on that land. For example, the city of Howells Arizona, where this author pens his Tales, holds now just the last crumbled remains of the smelter that once was its glory and a few small flat spots where buildings once stood. While this author is confident that he has located at least one grave on that hillside, no cemetery complete remains (though I do know where one is not too distant, one only marked by a strand of rusted wire and five clusters of sunken stone... my family hides all the shovels from me).

On a scale writ larger, such as the copper mining town of Jerome clinging desperately to the side of Cleopatra Hill against the Mingus Mountains in Arizona, the scale of death attendant to the population exceeded the value of available real estate. While there does remain a graveyard, only a paltry number of the 400+ graves remain, the rest buried too shallow and suffering the erosions of time and the depredations of hungry scavengers. With a population that ran as high as 15,000 at any given time, with those numbers constantly sheered by the violence in this "wickedest town in America" (as one New York paper termed it in the early 1900s) and the attendant loss of life due to mining accidents and diseases associated with that profession, that wee little number of graves is on its face too few to account for what passed through this town.

What then became of those dead, the thousands who perished in this single, small city built haphazardly on the side of a mountain hollowed out beneath? They became part of the city itself, their ashes contributing to the very concrete now trod upon by tourists hoping beyond hope their fantasies of seeing a real ghost will prove the price of their trip. Thankfully the eternal gullibility of those pretending at spirits generally satisfies as there are more than enough crumbled buildings and their colorful histories to inspire any number of "sightings"... that with the wine kicker from those sellers who've taken up residence there ensures always a pleasant trip. But those dead, yes, they do remain and while the idea of actual ghosts to this writer of ghost stories seems as silly as ever, to know that the Dead never leave Jerome is kind of nice.

What happened to them, those thousands of Dead? Well, um, the blast furnace. Yup, that's where you put dead folk when you do not have either enough real estate to bury them or, like the vanishing graveyard in Jerome, the ground just doesn't want them. Such was the situation that developed during those cold, hard months through the winter of 1875-76 in Baird's Holler. With the land there uncompromisingly tough, rife with gullies and washes with rarely a spot of level ground not claimed by some type of structure either being built or already standing, the small graveyard the town does boast was incapable of use during cold months overrun by a wasting disease. "Twelve-Thirtyfour" is the story of the furnace feeding the smelter at the Mortenson Mine in Baird's Holler, and how this new purpose became as important to the community as a whole as its stated purpose was to the mine itself.

"Twelve-Thirtyfour" is also the story of one Percival Clark, the scion of an antebellum family ruined in the wake of the American Civil War and the humbling of pride that comes with the accident of privileged birth. Its 4,974 words are dedicated to the telling of this man's life from his arrogant departure to win the world, his humbling and his acceptance through unlikely friendships his place. The story does well to help people the town of Baird's Holler, offering me at last a first real glimpse of Delores Jackson, the widow of Buchanan "Buck" Jackson, the only African-American member of the Mortenson Expedition and the beneficiary of his loss. Here is where I first get to mention with solid foundation the home built for her after Buck's untimely death, one which I now know to have been the evening of December 24, 1871.

Established as well in "Twelve-Thirtyfour" (and it is that, not "1234") are the protocols of the furnace, ones which were immediately utilized in the story which followed two Tales hence. These usages allowed and taken advantage of allow me at this point a connective thread throughout any Tale requiring the disposal of bodies thus allowing Percy and Marcus many opportunities to poke their heads into other Tales. This story is also a part of "Outside the Circle of Midnight Black", its conclusion occurring the second night (a Tuesday) of that overall series concerning the last five days of Baird's Holler.

"Twelve-Thirtyfour" was one of those Tales that wrote itself. It came out without delay allowing me to finish the month of August that year (2018) with two Tales complete, putting me just slightly ahead of my goal. Oddly, as I consider it one of my cleanest written stories, it is one which I have only submitted once and while that publisher granted that allowance for ten such Tales, he only had room for four with the cuts to be made by me. With the four I chose being important in the establishment of particular threads, concepts or themes, I opted not for this one. Time to change that.

I listen to a lot of Pink Floyd

 I mean, just an awful lot of Pink Floyd plays in my ears, especially when I'm writing. My personal preference for just disappearing, especially since it worked perfectly for one of my regular writing breaks, is the "Atom Heart Mother Suite". You do have to be careful though if you let that album play through 'cause if it gets to "Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast" and you haven't had breakfast yet, you're in trouble. I, as a bachelor without cooking talents or even the pretense of rudimentary skills, have failed to learn that lesson now for decades.

Every now and then a song will get in my head. This is not exclusive to just Pink Floyd, but their influence is now about to undergo its first real scrutiny. See, I was writing along, sparking on a brand new Tale with a hot idea. I just needed a name. Not that not having a name was holding me up, it's just that I was using a "John Doe" type place-holder name hoping something sparked. It was as I was beginning to wonder where this guy was from that the name came upon me. I remember thinking that I'd like a name somewhere originating from say the Czech Republic so I did what I often did... I searched for surnames common to that region. Well, the search did reveal a bunch of links but I followed only one, that to an article that caught my eye on certain British names that were about to go extinct. I never did look at any other list.

This is one of those weird things that have happened. I was listening to A Saucer Full of Secrets, just grooving along as I started this article. "Set the Controls For the Heart of the Sun" was winding down as I read the intro. It was as I hit that first name, one with a letter "C", that, well, the next song came on and I had the guy's surname. I mean, it was there, all complete. He had his injured leg, he had his rank fit to the times, he had pretty much all he needed to get up and going but his first name. It's probably easy to guess what lane my mind wandered down next. I mean, I really dig their early stuff.

"Arnold Clegg, Who is in Your Head?" might not be the most reasonable title in the world. It doesn't need to be. It pretty much asks the right question, one which I have only heard hints about as I press those ghouls who sit at my beside for more Tales to tell. See, there have been hints that things go back much further than I've suspected at this point in these Tales, but I've never known exactly when That Which Damned first tasted Man. In the Tales that have shown themselves in the time that followed, there have been hints, and once I eve caught a tiny glimpse, but I have yet to discover that singular soul, at least beyond the depths of Arnold Clegg... and that as well leaves an interesting dilemma which has haunted me since.

This is a short Tale, coming in at 2,560 words. It was a fun one to write though. It came off quick and clean, giving me a few more folk to people Baird's Holler with, faces familiar seen in supporting roles such as the many who stepped in from other Tales to help fill the cast so Arnold Clegg could get the story he deserves. This is how it is done here on the Bajazid.

How to get unstuck if you find things a bit muddy

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

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

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

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

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